Apparently Clint's idea of a romantic surprise was a black light mini golf.
Which, as Peggy's fingers trail along the back of his hair, and she kisses at the back of his jaw… Maybe he wasn't too far off. Clint and Laura were one hole ahead of them, and they were giggling like idiots as Laura hit her ball into the fake pond again while Clint had yet to not get at least one under par.
"I was skeptical." Peggy whispers softly, "but I've been converted. This is fun."
He laughs, "It is, isn't it?" They move forward and start on the next hole. Steve's ends up in the pond as well, and Peggy laughs behind her hand. "You make fun of me all you want, we will play chess later and see who is laughing then!" He says with a frown.
She scoffs at him and swats his shoulder, before leaning down and pulling him in for a kiss, "I love when you threaten me with a good time."
And Steve just smiles at that.
—-
Afterwards, they go to a small diner, that Clint swears has the best strawberry waffles, and they sit and eat, laughing and talking about their scores from the game.
Steve feels his body getting tired. He hasn't been out this late in a while, and he's starting to lag.
Soft fingers in his squeeze gently and he looks up to see Peggy looking at him knowingly.
"I should head home." She says, thanking the waitress who takes her plate, "I have to catch the earliest train."
"Me too." Laura agrees, "but thank you Clint, this was so much fun."
"Yeah." Clint grins, leaning back against the booth, "I'm glad."
—-
They're saying goodbye at the train station and Steve thinks Peggy is reaching down to grab his hand, when it diverts to his t-shirt. Her fingers gently lift up the side and he looks up in surprise as her palm rests on the scar left from the bullet. It's mostly healed, and doesn't bother him too much, but bending certain ways can be painful.
"Peggy—"
"Steve." She says, her throat getting tight. "I thought I might lose you. And I thought—" her fingers clench at his bare skin and she rests her forehead against his. She's a bit taller than he is but she doesn't seem to mind. "I need you to promise me you'll take care of yourself. That you actually will run from danger next time."
And Steve feels his throat catch, and he can't respond.
Because that's just not him.
The last time he "ran" from danger was when he stopped trying to call CPS on Mrs. Schmidt. And that was to save the other kids. And he hated every second of letting her lord over them.
"I'll be careful." He says instead.
She opens her eyes and looks at him meaningfully. "You have something against running away?"
He grins, "you know I do."
She kisses him deeply and then hugs him again. "I know. And I love you all the more for it. But do be safe won't you? I'll not have any more terrifying voicemails."
Steve nods, "I promise to not go looking for trouble."
She laughs, as this is a common joke between Steve and everyone else. "It finds you my darling." Peggy sighs, twining their fingers together. Her train starts to approach the station and she looks at him, "I'll see you at the beginning of April."
"I'll be the one on the tuxedo." Steve quips, kissing her fingers.
"And I'll be the one in the dress."
She kisses him once more before grabbing her bag and stepping onto the train.
He smiles and waves as she leaves but he doesn't miss the fact that her eyes get worried as the train disappears.
—
Natasha yawns as she unwraps her ribbons and puts them in her bag. Her phone buzzes but she doesn't check it right away. She's sure it's Bucky texting her their itinerary for the weekend. He and Tony (with help from Howard) had surprised herself, Steve, and Clint with tickets to Boston to come visit and that were just two days away. It would be a fast trip, but she was excited for the change in scenery and to see Bucky again.
Her room is empty when she gets there and she begins sorting through what she'll need for the trip. It's mid March so they told her to come with sweaters and a bit warmer clothes. She smiles as she remembers Tony's strict instructions that Steve bring a beanie or five to keep his head warm.
Steve had sent a thumbs up. Only the next day to send an irate audio message saying: "stop texting Sam to make sure I bring warm hats! I'm not a toddler, I can pack by myself Anthony!"
Tony had sent a frowny face and Natasha couldn't help but roll her eyes.
—
Clint's walking down to the lab to ask Howard something when he hears a conversation. First he thinks Howard must be on the phone, but then he hears Steve's voice.
His brows furrow as it's not the right day for Steve's bi-weekly check-up. Clint walks to the door, scanning his thumb and entering. He stops right inside the doorway, Howard's too focused on something to hear his entry, and so Clint stays quiet for a moment, wondering what he's doing. A projection flickers, catching his eyes, and Clint realizes he's engrossed in some video that he's watching.
He's about to ask what when he hears Steve's voice again.
"No I didn't. It's just my watch."
It doesn't sink in what's happening, what Howard is watching, until Howard clicks a button and the angle of the camera changes.
Showing Steve. Standing in the school's office. At gunpoint.
His chest gets tight, but he doesn't speak up, eyes frozen as the conversation continues. The security cameras… He hadn't even known Howard got ahold of this.
And every few minutes, Howard will pause it, write something down, or make an audio note on the computer in front of him, and switch angles. Then he always takes a deep breath and presses play again.
And Clint stays. He stays and he watches with one hand on the glass door behind him.
"They'll call me crazy and lock me up forever. I'm not crazy. I won't be locked up."
Clint hears Howard sigh heavily as both Steve and Emil go rigid, and their heads swing upwards, in unison, towards the ceiling.
"they're coming for me." Clint hears Emil say, his voice now sounding completely crazed.
"Just let me go." Steve's voice cuts through, sounding scared, "we'll go out together, we can work this out—"
The sound of the gun going off makes Clint's blood run cold.
"don't you come after me! You deserve this, you liar!" Emil is shouting as he backs out of the room.
Clint's not sure what he expects, but it definitely isn't Howard rewinding the video.
They'll call me crazy and lock me up forever. I'm not crazy. I won't be locked up."
Emil repeats, and Clint watches in confusion as Howard watches until they swing their heads up to the ceiling. Then he clicks pause.
And Howard's voice is tired when he makes this audio note. "In agreement with the police report. Clint Barton entered the building on the second floor right above the office, the sound agitated the assailant—"
He presses play again, but Clint's heart is being squeezed, chest hollow and cracking as the words float through the lab and through him and out again, over and over.
"the sound agitated the assailant—"
The gun shot sounds again and this time Clint startles, stepping back and clunking against the glass door. Howard whips around, and his eyes catch on Clint, widening so far Clint's fuzzy brain worries his eyeballs will fall out of his sockets.
"Clint!" Howard snaps, "what are you doing down here!?"
But the video is still playing in the background.
Steve's sinking the floor, hands trembling and covered in blood as he goes down, knees hitting the carpet, then falling face first.
Howard's hand slams down on something and the video stops. But Clint can't take his eyes off the video.
"Clint—" Howard starts, somehow appearing right in front of him, "Clint, can you hear me? Clint, come back, come back, it's okay—"
"I—" Clint starts, then his voice cuts off.
"It's all fine Clint, everything's fine, take a deep breath, come on, breath with me now, your lips are turning blue, breathe—"
Clint sucks in a gasping breath but then he's choking on the realization, "my fault—" he gasps out, "it was my fault—"
"No!" Howard shouts, "no." He shakes Clint's shoulders, "no way. That kid was unhinged and on the warpath anyways—"
And Steve's words echo loudly, "—I promise it would have happened anyway—"
He had thought Clint already knew.
The phone. Bucky and Peggy reaching for the phone. They knew it was his fault.
He rocks forward, hands wrapping around his chest as he struggles to come to terms with this information. "I got him shot—"
"Clint, it is not your fault—"
"You just said!." He rasps out, anger and guilt rolling through him in equal measure, "you just said that you agree with the police! That he maybe wouldn't have shot him if hearing me come into the building hadn't freaked him out—" Howard winces, just realizing how much Clint had heard.
"Clint, this is not a line of thought you should be entertaining—"
"Steve could have died—"
"But he didn't." Howard says sharply, "and there's nothing we can do to change how it went, but there's no sense putting blame on yourself when it's not your fault and you couldn't have known! Emil is mentally unwell! You can't know what he would have done— "
"I should have stayed." Clint whispers, nose pressed between his knees, "I should have obeyed the cops."
"Clint, stop. You know Steve would be so upset if he knew you were beating yourself up like this."
His hands are trembling and he slams them against his eyes. He thought he'd saved Steve. Had been there to help drag him out of that building and situation, but… it was the opposite.
He shoves up and back away from Howard.
"Clint—"
But he doesn't listen, he bursts out the lab door and up the stairs leaving Howard calling after him.
—-
Steve looks down and sees a call from Howard.
"Hello?"
His hand clenches the phone as Howard speaks and he feels the way Peter's eyes go up to him. He must have started breathing too fast.
"It's fine—" Steve whispers out, "I'll find him."
Peter's reaching out, shoving his school books off his lap and coming towards Steve. Howard's half frantic voice is on the other side.
"No." Steve says quietly, "That's not necessary. I know where he'll go."
A question.
"Yeah." Steve says, ruffling Peter's hair and giving him a sad smile, "I do."
—
He looks up at the unfinished bell tower and sighs. This used to be a lot easier. Steve reaches up, his joints aching and chest protesting. But he doesn't stop. Climbing through the trellis and up teh route Clint had taught him. He hasn't climbed this in months. Basically since the beginning of last school year. And he grimaces at the way his body has changed since.
His breathing is heavy as he finally makes it to the top level, the metal and woods squeaking as it rocks gently with his weight and the wind. The cool stone of the tower greets him as he pulls himself over the ledge and he huffs and puffs for a second before standing up and walking across to where he can see just the touch of blonde hair.
Clint lays on the small jut of the roof. Way too dangerous and precarious of a position for anyone else, but Clint manages just fine. He has an arm thrown over his eyes and Steve's pretty sure he has headphones in.
He doesn't want to startle him and make him fall, so Steve climbs on to the bell tower's window ledge, a wide enough space that he'll be fine, and waits.
—-
—we go in guns blazing and we're more likely to get Steve killed than save him.
That's what that cop, Dugan, had said. Had warned him.
And he'd ignored it. Thought he was smarter.
What an absolute idiot he is.
Clint lays there for a long time. The music in his headphones playing just to keep his brain from falling over the edge. He had briefly thought about calling Laura but… He was so ashamed and he didn't want her to know.
Bucky and Peggy knew. Which means Natasha knew. And if Howard knew then Tony probably knew.
Everyone knew.
And they hadn't told him.
Trying to spare his feelings probably.
The thought makes him so furious he sits up and growls out in frustration.
"Sad boy hours, huh?"
The voice startles him, and he scatters a bit to the left, away from it.
He looks behind him to see Steve sitting there on the window ledge. Knees up to his chest and dressed warmly in a hoodie, color high on his cheeks.
"Steve—" Clint's voice leaves him, and the crushing weight returns.
"So it's your fault, huh?" Steve asks, eyeing the setting sun as it starts to glare across the skyline.
Clint's throat dries out, and he can't even look at him.
"Clint?" Steve asks, when he doesn't respond. "I hear you think it's your fault?"
"It is my fault."
"Okay." Steve says with a shrug. Then he eyes Clint with a raised brow, "And what does that mean to you?"
He pauses looking at Steve, "what do you mean?"
"Well, you're so dead set on putting the blame on yourself. So is anything I'm gonna say change your mind?"
"No—"
"Okay then." Steve snaps, then pauses, taking a deep breath, "I guess it doesn't matter that I have my own free will and choose to walk towards the gunfire I heard in the first place, but yeah, sure, let's say it's all your fault. What now?"
And he's stunned into silence, and Steve just looks at him expectantly.
When he doesn't give an answer, Steve sighs and throws up his hands, "What now, Clint? Are you to be drawn and quartered? Thrown in the dungeons? Turned over to the police?" He still can't respond and Steve points a boney finger at him, "are you going to stop being my friend?"
And that thought is worst of all. He doesn't want that. Steve's not just a friend, he's family, they all are, their whole group. He can't lose them.
But even now, with those thoughts, the shame of his actions rise up, and he doesn't feel he has the right to say he wants to stay part of the group.
And what he's thinking must be telegraphed across his face because Steve scoffs in frustration and leans forward, one of his tennis shoes dangling into the free air. "Listen here, Barton. If you're taking blame for that, then there's a whole lot of blame I gotta take for Mrs. Schmidt. You know she starved the kids when I called CPS? You know she hurt Peter when she was mad at me? That Wanda and Pietro and the rest were kept in the basement with no food after she found out I called CPS again?"
Steve's face is anguished as he remembers those moments. And Clint feels his chest constricting at the thought of all they went through.
"No." Steve finally says. The glow of the sunset making his hair gleam "No, those weren't my fault. That was her fault. She was in charge of her own actions. No matter what I did or said to "goad" her. She chose to hurt us and starve us and burn me." His eyes glow in the light too and they find Clint, "you are no more to blame for me being shot then I am. Yes, I walked towards the gunfire, and yes he got scared when he heard you come into the building. But the one pulling the trigger was him." Steve's head lifts up and Clint is mesmerized by the way Steve suddenly seems so grown up, and almost regal. The way his jaw is tight and eyes far off into the horizon. "I have lived through a lot of different things. And I know who I want by my side as I go through the rest of it." His head tilts to the side and he looks at Clint with such a compassionate face that it makes Clint's chest ache, "I've got some tough times coming up." Steve says softly, flexing his fingers and wincing at what must be a painful motion, "you gonna leave me alone to go through all that by myself?"
"Steve, I—"
"Steve, nothing. You don't owe me an apology. Like I said in the hospital, he probably would have found a way to shoot me anyways. And the way I see it, instead of shooting me and killing me, or hitting me multiple times, you did scare him away, giving me a chance to escape and live. Maybe if you hadn't spooked him it would have been a headshot or—"
"STOP." Clint pleads, "Stop, don't say that—"
And Steve sighs and leans out, his hands gripping the stone wall, "there's a lot of shoulda coulda wouldas Clint. Stop drowning yourself in the worst one." Clint is quiet. He doesn't speak and Steve kicks at the air, "you know… Howard and I had to have a similar conversation."
His head jerks up in surprise, "what?"
"Yeah," Steve nods, "he was blaming himself too. Since Emil used a Stark Industries gun. So he somehow decided that it was his fault I got shot. Do you think it was his fault?"
"No." Clint says easily.
"Good." Steve agrees, "me either. So now we're all on the same page. It's no one's fault but Emil's."
A bit of relief starts to loosen the ache in his chest. Steve pulls out his phone, swiping across the screen, "hello?"
A voice is speaking on the other side.
"Yeah, I found him."
Howard, probably.
"Just somewhere. We will be back soon."
Steve hangs up and slips the phone back into his pocket. "It's nice when he pretends he doesn't know where I am." He quips with an eyeroll.
"He doesn't actually track you that often." Clint manages out, "only in emergencies."
Steve laughs and rolls his neck, "I should probably head down before my joints get much stiffer. You coming with?"
And that's when it dawns on Clint that Steve had climbed the entire bell tower just to reach him.
To get to him.
"Steve—" Clint rasps out, "you shouldn't have—"
"Hey." Steve snaps at him, annoyance across his features. "Don't start. I climbed it just fine."
"Yeah, but Howard—"
"Worries about a lot that I can't change. You want me to stop climbing bell towers? Then stop having crises in bell towers!" The smile on Steve's lips lets him know he's teasing him.
"Wow." Clint admits, "you climbed the whole thing? And you feel okay?"
"Yeah, I was just a bit winded, but I did fine."
Clint smiles, "maybe you're getting better?"
Steve laughs, and nods, "yeah maybe I am." He's about to step over the ledge when Clint reaches out, grabbing his wrist and pulling him into a hug.
Steve huffs in surprise, and pauses. Clint has noticed this. Even with Peggy Steve doesn't initiate physical contact a lot. He usually receives and then reciprocates. They've had a small discussion on why that might be.
But Clint hugs him anyway, burying his head against Steve's significantly shorter shoulder and holding him tightly.
After a second Steve relaxes and winds his arms around him, "it's all good, Clint." He says softly.
"I am sorry Steve."
"If it makes you feel better then I forgive you. You don't need my forgiveness. But I give it freely anyway."
Clint pulls away and Steve eyes him curiously, "we should get you home."
Steve rolls his eyes, "don't talk about me like I'm some geriatric grandpa."
Clint huffs out a chuckle and shrugs, "okay then young whippersnapper, let's go to a party."
Steve frowns and lightly shoves Clint, "you're annoying." But he's smiling and they climb back down the scaffolding, dropping onto the cracked and beaten up cement.
"You okay?" Clint asks, when he sees Steve take a step and falter.
"I'm fine." Steve replies breathily, "just don't tell Howard about this, he'll be pissed."
"I won't." Clint assures, "but promise me you won't climb any more bell towers, and I promise not to hide in anymore."
Steve straightens and smiles, "deal."
—
Steve looks at the toothpaste in his hands. 4.5 oz.
"Crap." He says with a sigh. "Sam!"
"Yeah?" A voice calls up.
"Do you have travel size toothpaste?"
"Let me check."
A minute later.
"No…"
"I need to go grab some."
"I'm sure they have some you can use." Sam offers, the voice getting closer.
"Yeah," he admits, but then he wrinkles his nose, "but the flavors they always use are nasty."
Sam appears in the doorway, "you are particular about your toothpastes."
"Yeah, and then I can get a travel soap too, so I don't have to smell like whatever crazy soap Tony's currently using."
Sam laughs and nods, "you got cash?"
Steve nods, "I'll be back soon."
"Can I come?" Peter bounces on the bed and Steve laughs,
"Sure, Peter. Quick trip to the local mart sounds like an adventure?"
Peter nods and they get their shoes and head out.
—
Peter's eyeing the candy shelves and Steve's deciding between two soaps when he hears a voice.
"Well, speak of the devil twice."
Steve feels his spine straighten as he turns.
Brock Rumlow stands at the end of the aisle, looking genuinely surprised and eyeing him curiously. "What brings you to this fine establishment?"
"Just need soap." Steve says flatly. Maybe he'd say something another day. Maybe he'd let Brock Rumlow know just what he thinks of him.
But not today.
Not with Peter only a few feet to his right.
"Soap to clean off all those dirty orphan germs, huh?" He says haughtily as he saunters to stand right besides him.
Steve's hand closes tightly around the small plastic bottles. "Steve?" Peter asks, stepping up to his side quietly.
Brock notices his presence and leans down, "hey there, squirt. Who are you?"
Peter, who is smart and observant, takes in the tension Steve must be exuding.
"Who are you?" He asks back.
"I'm a pal here of Steve's." Brock says with a nasty grin. "He and I go way back."
Steve grabs Peter's hand and starts to lead him past Brock. "Bye."
Brock blocks the aisle. "Wow, where's the fire, huh?"
"We need to be getting home." Steve tries again to walk past him but Brock rests a hand on Peter's shoulder and stops them. Steve reacts without thinking, yanking Peter out of his grasp and shuffling him behind his own body. He can feel Peter's hands clutching at the back of his shirt, and he must be really unsure of what's going on because he's not fighting against Steve's overprotective reaction.
"Whoa there!" Brock says with a mean chuckle, "you're acting like something's got ya spooked."
He hasn't seen Brock Rumlow for years. And still just the sight of him brings everything back. They told him how Brock had orchestrated the whole thing. How he had sought out the brothers. Almost gotten Steve killed because he was mad about what, a softball game?
But even as Steve thinks that he knows that's not it. Somehow, someway, Steve had hurt Brock's pride. And that's an unforgivable action in Rumlow's eyes.
And Steve's terrified of him still trying to "right" the "wrong" that Steve put him through. Which is why Steve's hand winds back, blocking Peter further.
"What do you want, Brock." Steve asks sharply, hoping to get to the point so they can get out.
Brock steps forward, and it takes everything in Steve's willpower to not step back.
"I want to make sure we're all squared up." Brock says, while a slow smirk spreads across his face. "I just feel like we left things a bit open ended. You know. Where's the closure?"
"And what's left to be squared?" Steve asks, defiance and steel in his tone. Inside he feels his insides reacting, terror for his family and anger for himself in equal measure.
"You and me, Stevie." Brock responds, leaning down mockingly till they're even height. "I hear you've got the Starks wrapped around your finger. Must be nice having all that attention."
His mind whirls back to the lawyers and everything that was said about him in that courtroom.
His blood runs cold.
"What's your deal?" Steve snaps, "what did I really do to piss you off so much? You want an apology or something? What?"
Peter's fingers start clenching his shirt tighter and it reminds him to stay calm. He can't pick a fight or stand up to Rumlow, not with Peter here.
"I just want to make sure that you—" his eyes scan to Peter and then back to Steve, "and all your little friends know exactly where you belong. I don't like people who get too big for their britches, you know? People get to thinking too big about themselves. Forget their place in society—" he grins, "like take us for example. I belong in the line of power. I got what it takes to lead. You know? And you…" he takes a step back and gestures to Steve, "well, you belong in the dumpster." He holds up his hands in surrender, "I don't make the rules. I just make sure people don't forget them." Then he's at the end of the aisle and he looks back, "don't forget that, Stevie." And his eyes get narrow and any hint of joking or humor disappears from his face. "Don't you ever forget that."
As Steve hears the bell jingle, signaling Brock's exit, Peter's suddenly in front of him, "Steve? Steve? Who was that, who was that? Was that one of the brothers? Steve?"
His chest is so tight he can barely register enough air to answer. "No." He says hoarsely, "no, it's no one. Just a jerk from school."
Can't tell Peter who it was. He might accidentally say that name in front of Sam or Natasha.
"He's too old to be at your school." Peter says with a frown. And Steve remembers for the thousandth time how smart and observant Peter is.
"Not this year." Steve says again, "he's older than me."
"He said you belonged in a dumpster." Peter's face is a deep frown and sad eyes.
"Like I said, just a jerk from school." He tugs Peter's hand and they walk to the counter. And Steve keeps his head about him. Can't lose it here. Can't freak out here. He pays for the soap and the toothpaste and he talks as normally as he can with Peter on the way home. But Peter's sad and observant watchful eyes tell him he's not doing a great job.
"Go on in." Steve says to Peter as they reach the front steps. "I'll be right behind you."
Peter looks at him hesitantly, "you want me to get Sam?"
"No." Steve says quickly. Too quickly. "No, no it's fine, Peter. I promise. I'm going to go talk to Mrs. Barnes, okay? There was something she wanted me to bring to Bucky." He smiles and walks back down the steps, using the railing as his legs wobble. He can fee Peter's eyes on him, but he doesn't look back. The bag swinging, hanging from his wrist.
But he doesn't knock on the front door. He loops around the buildings and quietly enters their backyard through the gate. He replaces the key in its hidden location and barely thinks as he climbs up the fire escape and onto their roof.
And that's when sinks to his knees and clutches at his chest. Raking in ragged breaths of air and holding his trembling arms against his body tightly.
The panic overwhelms him for minutes, feeling the crushing weight surrounding him and he does everything he can to not suffocate in the anxiety.
Why couldn't Brock just leave him alone. Why does it always come back to that damn dumpster?
He crawls to one of the chairs still up here, curling up in it and shoving his face into his sweater.
—
"Steve, baby. Steve, you have to wake up."
He turns and squeezes his eyes, knowing he doesn't want to wake up to this world.
"Come on baby, they're here to pick you up." He feels smooth cool hands rest against his cheek and he blinks his eyes open. Soft brown eyes ringed by soft brown skin and curly hair look at him sadly. "I'm so sorry baby, but the service people are here."
She pulls him out from underneath the nurses station where he's been hiding/sleeping for the past few hours. Her strong arms hold him close and he wraps his legs around the nurse whose hip he's resting on.
A lady in a suit is standing right in front of the nurses station.
"Hello Steve, I'm Ms. Dawson. I'm here to take you to your new home."
Steve clutches the nurse he's holding. She's familiar. He's played and talked with her when waiting for his ma to get off shift, or when she came to visit their home. "I don't want to go." He says quietly. "I want to stay here."
The fingers clutch him tighter and the lady looks at him sadly, "oh baby, I wish you could, I'm so sorry, you have to go with this nice lady, she'll take good care of you and get you to a good home okay? And I'll come visit."
"Don't worry, Steve." Ms. Dawson says with a smile, "I've found a nice house that will take you in, and it's in Brooklyn still, won't that be nice? Be around home?"
He looks at the nurse, "where's my ma?"
"She's gone baby, remember? The people came and they took her body away. But remember, she'll be placed in that cemetery in your churchyard, okay? You can visit her all you want."
"I want to see her now." He whispers, digging his face against her neck, "I miss her." Even though she was quiet and stiff when he last saw her, he wants her now. He'd rather her than some strange home.
The lady who is holding him is crying now, "oh Steve, sweetheart, I'm so sorry, oh if there was something I could do, I would!" She kisses his forehead, "you're a strong boy and I know you'll be fine, but just remember that you're loved okay? Your mama loved you and we love you, come back and visit and us nurses will visit too, okay?"
Ms. Dawson holds out her arms and Steve cries, clinging to the nurses scrubs but eventually being transferred to this new strange woman.
"It's all going to be alright." She repeats over and over, "I promise."
They walk quietly to a car and she drives him to a home. They knock on the door and a surprised woman opens the door.
"Uh-oh." The woman says immediately.
Ms. Dawson tilts her head, "are you Mrs. Pearson?"
"I am, but I'm assuming you didn't get the call?"
"What call?"
"We had another placement just last minute." She looks at Steve sadly, "we're full here now, I'm so sorry."
Steve looks past her and sees kids playing on the floor of a living room. Ms. Dawson is digging her phone out of her pocket, "oh you're kidding?" She says softly looking at her screen, "hold on. Steve?" She crouches down looking at him softly, "stay right here okay? I need to make a phone call." He nods, eyes slowly going back to the kids playing.
The woman at the door looks at him, "I'm sorry about the mix-up, but I'm sure they'll find you a nice place to stay, okay?"
"I want to go home." He whispers, feeling tears start to come back.
The woman coos and hugs him and he cries again in this new stranger's arms.
"Okay—" Ms. Dawson says, "I've found a placement, there's been a shift in management so that's why there was the mix-up." She grabs Steve's hands. "It's just a few blocks from here."
They get back into her car and drive a few minutes, parking along a side street.
She helps him out of the car seat and she closes the door and starts to walk around to the front of the building. But Steve hears a giggle and it gets his attention. He turns and sees two kids, hair dark and skin tan and they're waving sticks at each other and the littler one, the girl, screams in glee and waves her arms wildly, "Bucky, come on!" She calls out, laughing
"Becca, hurry, mama's waiting!" The older boy calls and they move past, where Steve can no longer see them. And Steve thinks that maybe if he's allowed to play with them it won't be so bad.
"Steve!" He hears a voice call, and he's walking towards the front, his little feet scraping hesitantly along the asphalt. He sees a couple, tall and sort of commanding looking standing on the front stone steps.
Ms. Dawson smiles widely at him, "come over here Steve. Meet your new guardians. Mr. And Mrs. Schmidt!" She gestures to them and he swallows nervously. Ms. Dawson sets down the little duffel bag his ma had bought for him when she's talked about going to the beach that upcoming summer. Filled with clothes and shoes and his toothbrush.
She hands it to Mr. Schmidt who looks at him with an uninteresting gaze.
"Steve—" the woman says, and her voice makes his chest constrict. "Welcome—"
—
"Steve? Honey, Steve, wake up, you're scaring me, baby."
He feels hands again, but this time they're warm and a bit rough. He blinks awake to Mrs. Barnes' kind and worried eyes, "there you are, are you okay? What are you doing up here?"
He looks around blearily, the memory in his dream still clinging to the edges, "I—" he starts but his throat is dry and it cuts off. He swallows and clears his throat, "I'm sorry—" he says quietly, wiping at his eyes, "I shouldn't have come up here without asking."
He moves to stand but she pulls him into a hug. A hug so warm and soft and caring that he feels his eyes water immediately. The comfort emmanting from her embrace reminds him of that nurse and he can't keep it together, falling apart in her arms, letting her hold him and comfort him as he cries.
She soothes him by saying comforting things that he can't really process, and her hand rubs at his hair and back. Holding him tightly and not letting go until he finally pulls back.
"I'm so sorry—" he chokes out, "I didn't mean—"
"Hush now," she admonishes, "I need no apologies or explanations, but I'm here with a listening ear if you need me."
He looks at her, and he knows he must look a mess, but he just sighs and looks at his hands, "I miss my ma."
And when she doesn't respond, he looks up to see her shedding her own tears. She reaches out and holds his face in the palms of her hands, "oh my sweet boy, I miss her too." She pulls him forward and hugs him again, tucking his head under her chin and holding him tightly. "She was the best, and I'm ever so sorry I lost touch with her." She runs her fingers through his hair and sighs, "I'll never forgive myself for not searching for you harder. I should have—"
"No." He says softly, "no, it's okay."
"It's not okay." She says sharply. "I should have found you. I would have made sure you grew up safe." He can hear the anger in her voice and it's something somehow so comforting to know she would have protected him. He can't change the past, but it's enough just to know.
"Thanks." He says quietly, "I would have liked being in your home."
"You're part of this family." She says, tightening her grip, "don't you forget about that."
He nods, "I won't." He hears his phone rattle on the rooftop behind him.
"That's probably Sam." She says softly, "he called me worried."
"Shoot." He says, reaching for his phone, "sorry."
"You seemed pretty deeply asleep—" she starts, her tone concerned, "you feeling okay?"
He nods, seeing the few messages and calls from Sam. "Yeah, I—" he starts his usual routine. The 'I'm fine and everything's fine' speech. But then he pauses and he looks into her truly concerned eyes. Not pitying, not curious, just worried and he sighs, "honestly, I don't know. But I know I want to be."
She nods and strokes his cheek again, "that's all I can hope for. You let me know if there's something I can do to help."
He winces, "would you not mention this little meltdown to Bucky? I don't want to ruin the trip. And I promise…" he thinks of Brock and his threatening words, "I'll figure it out, I just don't want to see him worry the whole weekend we're there. And I'm fine physically. I mean—" he huffs, "as fine as I can be. It's just a little—" he points to his head and sighs, "I'm a little worn down." He smiles sadly at her, "that's allowed, right?"
She yanks him forward into another hug and squeezes him so tightly he thinks she could probably heal him if she held on long enough. "Of course." She says softly. "Of course. It's all going to be fine."
Maybe Ms. Dawson was right after all.
It's all going to be alright." She repeats over and over, "I promise."
Just took a bit longer than expected.
—