XVII
Transcript of Dr. Erskine's dictated notes, dated September 4th, 1942
"The subject has been selected. The results are as I hoped. Agent Carter agreed with my assessment."
[rustle of cloth, sound of papers shifting]
"Some of my research assistants have expressed concern that the subject is not strong enough to survive the metamorphosis, given his medical history and weakened immune system, low weight, and evidence of past malnutrition."
"I disagree. The transformation is not entirely dependent on physical strength. If it were so, another subject would have been selected. Strength of will is the more important quality. The subject possesses this determination and mental fortitude in spades."
[pauses, continues in a quieter voice]
"He will do well. The boy is kind."
[throat clears]
"The serum is almost ready. The General asks for updates daily, and is still irritated that I will not commit the chemical formula or synthesis protocol to paper. He does not understand – the implications of such a manual, if it were stolen by an enemy… It is safer in my mind. I fled one regime that would misuse my scientific breakthroughs for the purposes of death and destruction. This American military has not yet shown an inclination for such measures… but I fear that is only a matter of time.
I have learned mistrust. The colors of a flag may change, but the humans who serve under it are everywhere the same."
[footsteps echo off a hard surface, male voice speaks]
"Doc, your lab rats are tweaking my dials again. How many times do I gotta threaten to detonate their Oldsmobiles before they keep their mitts off?"
[audible sigh]
"Howard, I am busy. Could you not wait a moment?"
"This ain't no joke! They're in cahoots with the General. He's tryin' to get rid of me. I'll show them – if anyone's gonna bail outta sheer annoyance, it ain't gonna be me."
"Alright, alright. I will go speak with them."
[chair screeches along the floor]
"Loosen up a bit, Doc. You could stand ta take a break anyhow. The Chrysalis is nearly ready. We're gonna put on a real show next week. You'll see."
"I dearly hope you are right, Howard."
[click of a button, silence]
XVIII
Steve looks from the bowl, to Clint, to Natasha, and back to the bowl. "But… there's a salad in here. There's a salad in my soup."
Clint waves an oversized spoon at him. "It's not a salad. It's just some greens. They're supposed to be there. It's – it's – what is this, Nat?"
"Vietnamese," she answers, tossing the last of a spring roll in her mouth. Clint shoots her a look and she adds, "You wouldn't be able to pronounce the name of it anyway."
Her partner waves vaguely. "Yeah, yeah. Sure. It's Vietnamese. Eat it, Cap. I swear it's good. I always go to this place right before I leave on a mission."
Natasha raises a brow. "Aren't you going to Southeast Asia?"
"This is better. What? I never said it was completely authentic. Just better. Americanized ethnic food is the best. There, I said it. I'm from the Midwest, give me a break. We put ranch on everything."
Steve gives the broth swimming with leaves another dubious look, but relents. After chewing for an inordinately long time, just to make Clint huff and growl, he cocks his head in mock thoughtfulness. "Hmm. Pretty tasty, I guess."
"Told ya." Clint breaks out in a winning smile.
Natasha snorted. "Yeah, I bet. This coming from the guy who's probably used to military rations. What they'd give you to eat during the war? Cans of SPAM?"
Clint shoots him a quick glance from the corner of his eye. Most likely to check if he's offended, or upset, if the mention of the war ruffled all his feathers.
On the contrary, Steve's almost relieved. Since he woke up, everything's been about the war. S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits clumsily salute him, thanking him for his service with a handshake. The few people who either recognize him on sight, or have been introduced, all government employees or soldiers of some sort, stare and whisper and make pitying noises about what a trauma you must have had. He's been lauded for heroism and patriotism and goddamned martyrdom.
And the whole time, he wanted to scream at them all – "That's not why I did it! That's not what it was like! I'm not who you think I am!"
He didn't try so hard to enlist to become a hero or a martyr. It wasn't some holy higher calling to defend the principles of democracy. He just wanted to do the right thing. No one should be forced to live under a dictator. And yes, he felt had a duty to his country - but also to the men fighting for it. Men he knew. Men he'd grown up with, men who weren't quite men, but hadn't been boys since they were issued their uniforms. And to the women, to the nurses on the front and the workers and engineers in the factories at home.
It'd hit him hard, being declared unfit, over and over. Especially after Bucky had gotten shipped off the first time. Everyone else was doing their part and he just – hated – being useless. It burned in his gut, that helplessness, thinking of Bucky somewhere on the front lines while he reclined on the threadbare couch in their apartment. He'd jumped at the chance Dr. Erskine offered him. He was tired; he was bone-weary, of being a 4F, as he'd been for all his life, letting others pick up the slack for him. He'd tried to explain to Bucky once, during a quiet moment in the French countryside. Bucky'd only looked at him, brow furrowed with disappointment or confusion, and he hadn't had the heart to go on.
Here and now, they all wanted talk about the war and his part in the glorious victory. It's distant for them, a dusty history; his service and sacrifice has an odd sheen of hallowed reverence, like a well-preserved relic in a silent museum. But no one stops to listen to what he actually has to say about it. His words don't fit in their narrative.
Natasha's the only one who'll bring up the war and actually wanna know what he was thinking, what he was eating, for Pete's sake. She's asked about his team. What they did in the downtime between Commando missions. Never pressuring, just light and curious.
And it hurts, course it does, to think about 'em. But he's found he likes telling their stories. It's when he realizes he still remembers the mischievous tilt of Dernier's lips, Dum Dum's donkey laugh, Gabe's earnest voice. The precise shade of slate blue that colored Bucky's eyes. Peggy's brilliant smile. The ghost of their voices rings in his head, and even with the ache they drive deep into his chest, they're the most welcome sounds he's ever heard.
He meets her greenish eyes, then Clint's blue. And he sees people that wanna know him, not Captain America. They're eating strange Vietnamese food with Steve Rogers, not the dancing monkey.
His smile forms unbidden. "Hell, no, we didn't eat SPAM from a can. Worse than that. We were lucky to get K rations. I swear one time, in this ole bombed out apartment building in Austria, we were reduced to trapping rats with our hands just to get a scrap of meat."
Clint hoots and hollers his amusement. They while away the rest of the surprisingly filling meal with increasingly disgusting tales of things they've ingested. The waitress refills their water once and then gives them a wide berth. Steve chokes on his last slurp of broth.
"But they're all white and squirmy –"
"Maggots are a protein source, man," Clint says with a shrug.
His phone rings shrill and Steve fumbles with the sensitive screen in an attempt to answer it. The corner of the glass had cracked the other day when he'd forgotten his strength and the insubstantial weight of the device and tossed it, aiming for the couch cushions but overthrowing by a large margin and giving it a good smack on the corner of his coffee table.
"Steve Rogers speaking," he finally manages. He listens to Agent Coulson's blunt, to-the-point summary with a mounting horror. Natasha and Clint grow still across the table.
"I'll – I'll catch the next train down. Oh. Or… yes, sure, that's fine. I'll head there. Give me an hour." He hangs up and feels the urge to toss the phone again, preferably this time through a plate glass window.
"Steve? What is it?" Clint asks urgently.
Same as it always was. Nothing ever changes.
"Agent Coulson," he answers slowly. "Calling with some bad news. One of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doctors has been kidnapped." He forestalls Clint's open mouth by continuing. "One of the doctors who's familiar with the serum. My serum. They think someone's trying to recreate it."
"Who?" Natasha asks, her face settling into a composed, professional mask.
"Don't know. Never heard of them. Called Centipede. But I got the impression they ain't the type to publish their findings in a medical journal."
More people are going to die for the secret he carries in his blood. Dr. Erskine died for it. This doctor was kidnapped. Countless other people throughout the years chased the serum and were hurt for it, of that he has no doubt. Some days, it just doesn't seem worth it. He doesn't seem worth it.
"I'm sorry – I have to go. I have to get to D.C."
Clint shakes his head. "Naw, don't worry 'bout it. Go down there and bash some skulls. Find this doctor." Steve stands and Clint sticks out a hand in a most uncharacteristic farewell. He blinks and takes it.
"You got this, Cap. See ya when I get back." That's all he says, and oddly enough, Steve feels warmer for it. Simple, but he can tell Clint means it.
"I'll call in, talk to Coulson. See if there's anything we can do to help," Natasha offers. Steve gives her a grateful smile.
"And don't worry! This place is always my good luck charm before a mission!" Clint calls after him.
After stopping by his apartment and stuffing his uniform and clothes into a duffel, he jogs to the S.H.I.E.L.D. administrative building in Midtown. The high-rise has a helipad on the roof, and Agent Coulson has arranged a helo to come ferry him to D.C. The shield is slung over his back, sheathed in canvas, slapping at him with every stride. The agency keeps a few of his uniforms around their operation staging areas and the Helicarrier, but he always has one stashed in his closet just in case he needs it in a fix.
And he refuses to part with his shield. Most of the agency seem to think it needs to be placed on a marble pedestal surrounded by spotlights and a thick glass case. It's one of a kind, sure, but it's a tool. Meant to be used, not spit-shined. It'd stayed with him under the ice for seventy-five years, the shield could hack it underneath his bed gathering dust bunnies.
They might as well stuff him in a glass case too if they're gonna fuss about the shield.
Steve swings in through the front door, and hangs a left as he makes a beeline for the reception desk. He's not sure of the protocol – can he just walk up to the helipad? But he's in a big enough hurry that he just steps up and says, bold as brass, "Hello. I'm Captain America. Can I go up to your roof?"
The older woman behind the desk gives him a bland stare behind narrow bifocals. "Sure, hon. Go right ahead."
Steve nearly goes to thank her and step away before it dawns on him she's being sarcastic. The receptionist returns to her paperback, muttering, "Cause we just let any ole Tom Dick and Harry off the street who claim they're Captain America into our secure building. Yeah." She snorts and shakes her head.
"Um. But – I'm supposed to catch a rotor- I mean, a helicopter. They're sending one for me. I have to get to D.C." He knows he's not explaining this clearly, but he's not used to having to convince someone he's Captain America. It's thrown him off, and he's still buzzing with the urgency of Coulson's call and the thought of another enemy, of them hurting this doctor to get to him.
The woman doesn't look up. "There's a bus station down the street."
"No, really, I'm Captain America. Steve Rogers." He's fumbling. "Steven Grant Rogers."
She peers up at him. An idea dawns on him and he wants to give himself a good smack upside the head. He unstraps the canvas sheath from his back and pulls open the flap to reveal the characteristic colored bands of vibranium.
"I really do need to get up to your roof. Agent Coulson's sending a helo for me," Steve says politely.
The woman is suddenly flustered. "Oh – I – Captain, I'm sorry, we weren't told you were coming—"
"It's alright," he replies, because she's just doing her job. "It's all very last minute."
The receptionist dials someone up on her telephone – or at least, Steve assumes that's what she's doing when she starts speaking into a slim black headset. She waves him over to an elevator, but points out a nondescript grey door when he says he'd rather take the stairs. He needs to work off some energy before climbing in the transport.
He wonders if she's really seen Captain America impersonators before. Not many people know he'd been recovered from the ice. S.H.I.E.L.D. plays their cards close to the chest.
Besides, his heyday was seven decades ago. He'd heard the comics had gone on, after he'd been declared KIA, but surely he'd slipped from the public consciousness already. The thought of the fame and attention and scrutiny returning makes him nauseous. Likely, he's overthinking this. No one outside of the military cares much about his service record.
He resolves to ask Coulson about it. With any luck, the agent will set him straight, and tell him it's all in his head.