The driving rain and sleet had turned into a calm but heavy snow, swiftly settling down onto the chilly streets and softening the harsh city lines. As the late afternoon was yielding to darkness, it was already clear that the city would be under a significant amount of snow by morning.
Steve spun his cell phone idly in one hand. He'd checked the screen enough times to know that he has no missed messages but he couldn't bring himself to put it down. Just in case.
The floor was quiet, most of the on-call heroes having retreated to separate spaces to process what had just happened. Various debriefs, various coping mechanisms, and a profound sense of wrongness.
Steve waited. His view of the spider web of streets below was blurred by falling snow, and the distant boroughs beyond completely obscured, but still he stood at the window, looking out into an abyssal white storm, praying for clarity.
The elevator announced Tony's arrival, drawing Steve's attention."I didn't know Ross's voice could get up to that pitch," Tony said. "You're grounded, to say the least. So," he took a seat on the couch facing the huge windows and the view of the storm, unconcerned that Steve remained standing, "tell me; what did your elf eyes see?"
"Nothing that's gonna make you happy."
"Give me some numbers to work with." The intensity of Tony's full focus could be unnerving.
Steve sighed. "Everything's hard-wired, and with no access points outside of the main security station. The asset-control system, though," and he cringed at the name, "seems to run independently on each unit. For better or worse, they don't seem to work very well."
"Bad for Ross, good for us. You weren't able to get your hands on a unit?"
Steve shook his head. "They seemed more concerned with securing the broken unit than controlling Russo."
Tony grumbled but it seemed more performative than expressive. "I've been going through the Accords, trying to find the redacted section mentioned in Russo's record, but haven't found anything yet. Not sure if that means it's incomplete or just poorly written yet. It's scintillating bedtime reading - more dry even than these medical disclosures Pep has me going through, but that's -" he waved a nonchalant hand, "not relevant." The rambling served as only a small indicator of the speed of Tony's thought process.
Steve glanced down at the phone's dim screen; waiting, just like him. "It's not just a prison, but it hasn't fully become what it's supposed to be."
"Yet," Tony added.
"Yet," Steve confirmed.
"Well," Tony took a beleaguered breath, "that sure turned to shit real quick. If I didn't know you so well I'd expect a 'I told you so'."
"I would have been happy to be wrong."
"You sure you're up for this? We start turning over rocks and who knows what we'll find."
"You know what I'm going to say."
Tony sighed in mock exasperation. "Some overly-repeated, patriotism-riddled sound bite? Sure, save it for the next press conference." Tony stood, checking his phone in an idle deflection. "I'll let you know when I've got a toy for you to play with. Enjoy your snow days, Rogers. We've got sleds in storage if you get bored."
Steve idly spun his phone in one hand, contemplating his options.
The small house always seemed smaller when it snowed. Janice herded the children into snowsuits and boots, conjuring sleds and hats and gloves from God knows where to bundle up over-eager delight in warm protection.
Paul barely heard the shrill ringing of the home phone over the shrieks and squeals of his children. He grabbed the handset, pressing it to his ear and plugging the opposite one so he had a chance of hearing. "Hello?"
"Mr. Brennan?" a warm but vacant voice asked.
"This is he."
"I'm calling to reschedule your appointment with the research team at Mount Sinai. We're closing today and tomorrow for the snow, just as a precaution."
Paul stepped around the corner, the long phone cord following after him but catching briefly on the door frame. Piece of shit. "Okay, but I'm still getting paid the same, right?"
Easy confirmation, like it was a typical question. "Yes, Mr. Brennan. You'll still be eligible for a five thousand payment on the day of your appointment. I have an appointment window available three weeks from today, if that works for you?"
Paul weighed the steadily mounting bills in his mind. "You don't have anything sooner? I can do any time of day or night."
Faint keyboard clacking. "I do have an end-of-day appointment available in a week and a half."
"I'll take it."
"Thank you. And just to confirm, your medical history remains unchanged? No addition of supplements, prescribed or over the counter?"
Janice yelled for him from the other room, so he rushed to confirm. "No, no changes."
"Thank you. Please remember to arrive fifteen minutes prior to your appointment to check in, fill out paperwork, and confirm your details."
"Yeah, got it, thanks." Paul hung up quickly.
"Who was that?" Janice asked, handing him a scarf and hat.
Paul lied - another one on top of the ever-mounting pile. "Just work - picking up an evening shift next week."
Steve stood on the partially-cleared stoop, whose steps had been cleared with apparently a shuffle of boots rather than an actual shovel. He kicked off some accumulated slush from his boots on the bottom step as he climbed.
Not too long ago, through falling autumn leaves and echoing motorcycle rumblings, he'd looked up at the ornate glass storm door and a sly smile vanishing behind it.
Some last-minute hesitation stilled his hand before pressing the doorbell. He'd had some trouble reaching Mab this morning and had walked through the snowy city almost purely on an instinct telling him to go.
Go, the falling snow had beckoned him, go.
He could barely see the city through the falling snow high up in the tower, but things seemed clearer down on the street. The early cries of delight rang clearly through over heavy blankets of snow and it helped him think.
Go, the laughter sang, go.
So there he was. Ringing a bell.
He could hear the deep ringing of an ancient system through even the glass storm door, the little vestibule, and the thick oak door beyond. Some mail had accumulated in the post box mounted on the wall in the vestibule. Bright yellow and pink envelopes with FINAL NOTICE in an aggressive font.
The heavy inner door opened and a shortish bearded man stepped into the vestibule, wrapping the open front of a wool cardigan tighter around his middle. "Can I help you?"
This must be the Uncle, Steve thought. "Good morning, you must be Mr. Dumont. Is Mab at home?" The traditional manner and courtesy flowed from him easier than breathing.
He grunted, unlocking a heavy latch on the vestibule door. "Come in. It's cold out here."
Steve kicked off as much snow as he could and pulled gently on the door, trying to make it appear like he had normal difficulty opening the old, solid door.
David squinted at him, as if that might improve his vision. "You look familiar. Have we met?"
Steve hid a grin by lowering his head. "Not that I know of, sir."
"Well, in any case," he seemed dubious, "Mab's not feeling well. She pushed herself too hard over the weekend."
"Oh," Steve said in a lame reply.
David appraised him briefly, judging something Steve couldn't guess. "Stay there a minute. And keep an eye out for Christine." He ascended ancient stairs, the wood creaking loudly at each step.
Steve jammed his hands in his pockets, feeling at once foolish and juvenile. This was exactly the kind of thing Natasha would tease him about incessantly and he'd deserve it. Just because she hadn't called, hadn't answered his messages, didn't mean anything sinister. It could also very well mean that she just didn't want to talk to him and he'd gone and shown up at her doorstep -
A mewling trill interrupted the beginning of a vicious mental storm in Steve's mind. He looked up at the first landing on the stairs where a gray cat scrutinized him, tail lifting and forming the better part of a question mark.
"Hey there," Steve said, crouching and offering his hand for the cat to investigate, "you must be Christine."
The cat made a trilling noise and bonked her head against the railing. Perfect whiskers tickled his knuckles as she cat sniffed his offered hand. Soft fur followed a wet nose as the cat ran her face across his hand in greeting, and he briefly pet the top of her head.
Satisfied, the cat descended the last steps and brushed past Steve without any further notice. Very much a cat. "Nice to meet you," he said for no reason. The cat flicked her tail and disappeared into a back room.
"Steve!" the sound of Mab's voice at the top of the stairs drew his attention upwards, but it was the flush of her cheeks and the surprised smile that drew him to take the first step up the stairs. "What a surprise!"
Mab's steps seemed slow coming down the stairs, her hand gripping the railing too tightly, and Steve offered his hand as she neared the bottom of the stairs like he could be a better stabilizing force than ancient wood. She took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I couldn't reach you so I thought I'd just drop in." And it was a relief to see her.
Mab sighed in exasperation, pulling the offending phone from her pocket. "I can't figure out where a charger is supposed to plug into this stupid thing, so I thought maybe it didn't need a charge? Which if course sounds stupid now that I say it out loud, and now I suppose it's just stopped working completely."
He'd thought that might be the case. "It uses a magnetic charger - I brought a spare."
"Of course you did." Mab smiled. "My hero."
His skin buzzed with it. Buzzed with the energy of her smile, and the warmth of her hands as she accepted the little piece of technology - the lame excuse to come see her - with gratitude and even enthusiasm.
"So, you came all this way to bring me a phone charger." She crouched next to a side table to plug in said charger, and Steve didn't like the wobble he noticed in her balance.
"It wasn't that far." He stepped closer, just in case.
"It's like… thirty blocks." She didn't seem to notice, rising slowly and adjusting the placement of the magnetic charger on the side table before setting her Stark phone on it with great ceremony. The screen flickered to life. "Voila! Life, once more."
He came all this way because he was worried. Because it had been raining and she hadn't called. Because there was peace when she was around. Because the snowy streets made it impossible to think. "I came all this way to take you out on the town."
"I'm…" Her smile slipped slightly. "I'm not having the best day, Steve." She looked down at her house slippers. "I'm sure you noticed. So… I wouldn't get very far before we had to turn around, and my chair doesn't do well in the snow."
"Well then I brought just the right ride."
"I don't think The Flying Avenger will do well either, Steve."
"I've got something better."
Mab raised a dubious brow. "Oh, I think that's a tough one to beat."
"Trust me," Steve smiled.
Mab thought about it, and the pink of her cheeks deepened. "Give me a minute to change." She passed David on the stairs and they shared a meaningful look Steve couldn't interpret.
Once Mab was out of sight up the stairs, David's look turned stern. "You listen and you listen good - I don't care who you are; I won't hesitate to stab you in the neck if I think you're going to hurt my niece. You hear me?" he spoke softly, but with sharp venom.
Steve believed him. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Glad we have an understanding."
"Yes, sir."
David yelled up the stairs. "Mab, I'm headed out. I should be back later this evening."
"Okay!" Mab appeared briefly at the top landing, a few pill bottles in her hands and a cream-colored sweater draped over her arm. "Be safe! Watch out for icy spots!"
David shot Steve another warning look, and Steve nodded in understanding. Nothing further need be said. Could he really blame her Uncle for being so protective when he'd felt such a strong pull to check in on her after only briefly being out of contact?
The townhouse was full of evidence to affection. Mab's cane leaned at the bottom of the stairs, the yellow-and-black stripes far from invisible. But clearer to him, he could see that all the furniture was at least a wheelchair's-width apart, even though the chair itself seemed to be tucked away at the moment. Many upper shelves on bookcases were empty, items having been moved down to a more accessible height. Tripping hazards had been moved far away from landings on and around the stairs.
Mab appeared at the top of the stairs again, wrapping a familiar green scarf around her neck. She wore the same cream-colored sweater as well; the one that had looked soft. "Alright, so what's better than the bike?" she asked, going down the steps a bit faster now that she'd put on boots instead of slippers.
"After you," Steve said, pulling open the heavy vestibule door as Mab pocketed keys and grabbed her long coat off a coat rack.
Mab burst out laughing at the sight of the Iron Man branded sled propped in the space. She tried several times to comment but just kept laughing. It was a little more traditionally structured than modern plastic sleds, more resembling the wood-and-steel sleds of Steve's youth. The long rope looped around the front guards of the metal skids would let him pull Mab on it through the snow.
Mab's giggles continued as he settled it on the snowy sidewalk, but didn't protest taking a seat and didn't comment as he began to pull her along. Rather, something he hoped was delight twinkled in her eyes.
"I believe you said the best hill is on 102nd," Steve said.
Mab immediately protested. "That's like… ninety blocks! And you already came all this way. What about Stuytown? They hide some half-decent hills on the 20th street loop. Not such a hike there and back."
"Alright. Stuytown it is." Steve wanted her to feel comfortable.
"So," she started, changing the subject, "if I remember the calendar correctly, you're supposed to be working today."
She had a good memory. "I'm actually on suspension."
"What?!" Mab cried. "How? You're - that doesn't even make sense. "
"It's not a big deal," he said.
"It kind of sounds like a big deal," she said. "What happened? As much as you can tell me, of course."
Could he tell her anything at all? He could be vague, he supposed. She already knew who he was and what he did, and probably the basics of what he could be ordered to do. "I refused to follow an order."
She hummed thoughtfully. "I mean… from what I've read about you that's pretty on-brand."
"Oh, what you've read?" Steve tried to keep his tone light but the thought of Mab marveling at the glorified, sanitized, propagandized exhibits of his life and deeds, that thought made him nearly physically ill.
"I work for a publisher, so I get to read a lot of things, including rejected manuscripts. There's a whole basement archive full of them collecting dust. Anyone who works there can take them home to read, maybe to give them a second chance, who knows." She paused. "But anyway, there's a chapter or two about you in this book, The Misdeeds of the American Dream. I think the title alone gives you a good idea of the… tone."
The snow, which had previously seemed to settle, began to fall again. Steve didn't ask the question, didn't need to, as Mab continued. "I think there's a lot about you that really shouldn't have been made public, but it was all a part of the mythos; nearly starved, nearly froze, lost every fight, but always got up again. The country didn't give a shit until there was something you could do for it, and that's fucked up. And even when you could be of service, the respect you gave wasn't returned. So, in every way that matters, you are wholly representative of the American Dream. That includes all the dark corners and little indignities."
Laid too bare. Was this way of her telling him that she knew everything? How could he expect any privacy, anyway? He'd signed it away, signed away the authority to use his heart to rule his hands and deeds. The life he lead now wasn't exactly what he'd imagined when he'd tried to enlist over and over again. He imagined more that he might protect his mother, or follow his friends into the field of battle to protect some imagined concept of safety.
He hadn't imagined the power, the battles, losing all that time. He couldn't have seen the brilliant lights of the future glimmering on that distant horizon, to know the shadows they concealed, highlight the terrible decisions he'd be asked to make and make and make eternal.
It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen.
"I haven't always been sick," Mab said, interrupting the dark storm gathering around Steve's thoughts.
Steve stopped, turning to look at Mab. She looked small, sitting on the sled being pulled through the snow like a child. Her expression seemed calm. "When I was young I had all these different dreams of what I was going to be when I grew up. But I got sick one day, and this really fancy new scanning technology found a defect in my heart that probably should have killed me. One thing led to another, one medication to another… and here I am."
No, it wasn't fair that she knew all of his barest secrets. It wasn't fair to be used and abused as a symbol that America had all but stapled to his skin. His face, but his mouth sealed shut, a justification for whatever a commander deemed right.
Steve didn't have anything to say about her story. He just started pulling the sled again. He knew she wouldn't want to hear apologies, or any kind of sympathy. That wasn't why she'd said it. It had been a trade, in the spirit of fairness.
Sled trails and toboggan runs ran like rivers down the hills at Stuytown, some already abandoned in lieu of steeper runs and wilder routes.
"That one!" Mab pointed. She'd picked a gentle run to start; something mild.
"What, you worried you're gonna have too much fun?" Steve teased.
"Don't want you to have a heart attack on the first ride." She scooted forward on the long sled and patted the empty space behind her. "Hop on."
Steve pulled the sled a little further along to the top of another route before swinging his leg over the back of the sled and sitting behind Mab. "Ma'am," he said in her ear, "I'm going to need you to be willing to live a little."
Mab muttered something into her scarf that he couldn't hear, but cleared her throat and nodded in reply. "Okay," she said.
It was easy to propel the sled forward with a little kick of his feet. The dip down the hill and the sudden acceleration pushed Mab back into Steve for support. Swift freedom, running on a cold air that still tasted like a promise of snow, the over-engineered Stark sled skimmed as easily over the hills as a bird lifting up into flight.
Steve tugged hard on the rope and leaned, Mab leaning with him, banking around a turn near the bottom of the hill to skim to a slow stop along the snow-covered street. Swiftly beginning, and swiftly ending, the delight already cut short by a loud engine starting to pull into the 20th street loop.
"Aww," Mab sighed, spotting the plow truck starting to turn the corner, "I guess that's it."
"Wait a sec," Steve said, rolling easily off the sled into a crouch. "I'll be right back." Steve flagged down the plow, and with a brief negotiation he was headed back to Mab and the truck was backing out of the loop.
"What did you do?" Mab asked as Steve pulled her on the sled back up the hill.
"I gave him a hundred bucks to come back in twenty minutes."
"Then we'd better make it count. Top of the hill, Sir; your finest sled run!"
"Yes, ma'am." He picked the run starting at the very top of the hill, that no one seemed to be using anymore. Mab's enthusiasm was briefly blinding, and rather than investigating why he simply sat on the sled at her bidding and propelled the sled into motion.
This run was much faster, the run having smoothed and frozen into a slick toboggan run, and Mab grabbed onto Steve's arm as she shrieked with laughter.
But Steve saw the danger before Mab. The toboggan run had been abandoned for good reason- at the bottom of the hill, right at the last turn, the run had uncovered a fire hydrant in the drifted snow. Steve rolled, cradling the back of Mab's head against any impact with one hand, and pulling her tight against him with the other.
The hydrant cracked into his shoulder, their speed forcing them off the toboggan run and into a drift. They tumbled, and Steve kept Mab cradled firmly but gently as hidden sticks and rocks cut into the backs of his hands.
As they tumbled to a stop and Steve released Mab, a swift glance told him that she had escaped without a scratch. Relieved, he could only make a little joke; "Maybe too much fun isn't a good thing."
"Are you okay?" Mab asked, patting his face with her gloved hands, concern clearly written on her face.
"I'm fine," he laughed. He'd jumped out of planes without a parachute, and fallen a dozen stories from a building with nothing better than his shield to land on. Mab was worried about him taking a tumble in the snow.
The cold air had made perfect pink roses of her cheeks, and left little snowflakes on her eyelashes that stuck even as they fanned those perfect roses. Her hair spilled out from the wrapped green scarf like the roots of an ancient oak tree tumbling over green hills. Her lips were slightly blue-tinged.
"We should get you back inside."
"No," she whined dramatically, "Not yet, please?"
"Mab, you're freezing." And so was he, now that he thought about it. He didn't really like being cold. "I haven't been this cold since I was sitting at the bottom of the ocean."
"Did you just-" Mab propped herself up on her elbows and fixed him with a very serious look. "Steven Grant Rogers, did you just make a joke about being frozen into a Capsicle?"
"Yes, yes I did, Mab Henrietta Dumont."
Mab flushed a deep, deep red. "Who told you my middle name?" she hissed threateningly, though she was about as dangerous as a kitten.
"I'm an Avenger; I know all kinds of secrets. Just like I know we need to head back to Greenwich Village."
Mab grumbled but didn't argue any further. Steve retrieved the sled - it had gone skittering off along snow and ice as they'd bailed, and Mab sat without complaint, letting Steve take the lead to bring her home. They passed the plow truck pulling into the 20th street loop, the driver nodding to Steve.
Maybe to hide her disappointment, maybe just to fill the silence, Mab spoke up. "What's it like? Pretending to be…mundane? Trying not to break doors and things?"
Steve thought about it. "I had to learn pretty quick. It's… a challenge sometimes." It was a challenge just to be so much taller. A challenge to sleep at night. "It was a lot like the Wizard of Oz when suddenly the color gets turned on. I was a bit colorblind before. Now, I can see colors that most people can't see at all."
"What do you mean?"
"Well they tested me a lot - after." Quite a lot. "I can see better than perfect."
"Better like LASIK better or better-superhero-better?"
He shot a slightly wry smile over his shoulder. "I can see just beyond the normal human observable color spectrum." It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen. It was a part of why that line kept sticking with him. He seemed to see so much now that was just invisible to the rest of the world. He always had to argue, to explain, to debate the position of a bearable moral standing. Not trying to be the best, just trying to be… enough. To be able to sleep at night.
The streets of Greenwich Village had been cleared by the time they got back, but not the sidewalks. Walking trails compressed pristine snow into slush, but the sled did a fair enough job of getting Mab home.
If she was getting tired, or still feeling unwell, Mab was doing a good job of faking wellness as they walked up the front steps. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to make us something warm." Mab kicked off her shoes at the door, revealing one yellow sock and one blue one. "David's not due back from his residency event for another few hours, so we don't have to worry about him suddenly realizing who you are making it weird."
Steve hid a grin with his hand. Mab didn't notice. "That's good to know."
Mab leaned out of the kitchen, instructing Steve who still just stood in the front hall, "Turn on some music, would you? Player's in the back room. Follow the stacks of books."
"Sure." That gave him something to do, at least. Mab's instructions were perfect, as gradually larger stacks of books seemed to lead a perfect trail to a back room where bookshelves lined almost every wall save for a few framed pieces of art, and books were stacked on almost every flat surface.
But, he was looking for music. The appliance caught his attention immediately. A gorgeous victrola, gleaming with well-polished love and care, beckoned with familiarity from a small side table near the back corner. The push-button power, the lifting arm, the gentle descentof the needle onto spinning vinyl. Light and easy classical music filled the library.
At ease, even in that unfamiliar place, Steve took a moment to look around. Mab had told him to, he supposed. Books, enough for a lifetime, a framed small oil painting of a lake, and on the opposite wall, mounted in a gold frame and a green mat board, a handwritten poem in a tilted cursive hand wrote:
Prayer for Parity
There is no ballast of laughter
That outweighs the leaden heft
Of the simplest words:
I'm
Sorry.
Those two words become your fortune
Spoken in a language of hardship.
If you thought your arms were tired
From carrying the weight before, you were wrong.
Hands bleeding, cut to the core bearing worry
Cupped, imploring in desperate supplication
The chalice I made fills and spills over and over
Let this offering I give at a sterile altar
Pay for someone's misfortune in full
I imagine suffering like a fixed amount of weight
Carefully distributed across a sea of the faithful.
As the burden hunches my shoulders
Tips my gaze lower
Across the field I hope another lifts higher
Face glowing with a fever of excitement
As the balance tips in their favor.
I close my eyes as the load increases
Press them tightly shut, keeping out all light
I lift my hands to accept the weight
All that I can carry, ten pounds more,
Ten pounds more.
I don't want to know
If I stand in a sea of the faithful
How many heads lift
As mine drifts ever lower
Or if I stand alone
Hands forever inviting
Suffering
From an
Empty
Dispassionate
Sky.
Mab Dumont
So her uncle wasn't the only poet. But she hadn't mentioned it; a touchy subject, maybe? Her poem was hung with pride, but in a back room that Mab herself didn't seem to frequent; the aisles between stacks of books and paperwork weren't wide enough for her chair so it must be mostly her Uncle's space.
Steve's cell phone rang and he answered without looking at it. "Rogers."
"I thought you knew I was joking about the sleds, Rogers. Get your ass back to the tower." Tony's voice hung between amused and annoyed. "If Ross hears you're out vacationing on suspension we're not going to have nearly as much fun."
"Yeah, I got it," Steve sighed inwardly. "Heading back now."
Of course. Not that he was surprised. Honestly, he hadn't actually believed Tony's joke to begin with but he'd followed that call of the snowy streets, followed that gut instinct that had told him to walk through the deep snow down to a book-filled townhouse. He could have been driven to a slow madness waiting for Mab to pick up the phone, his vivid imagination filling that empty silence with too many possibilities.
"Mab, I-" He walked into the kitchen but froze as the smell of what she was cooking washed over him. Steve utterly and completely forgot about what he was saying.
Mab stood in the small kitchen, stirring something in a small pot on the stove. He could smell it; butter, brown sugar, milk. "Do you have to go?" she asked, turning off the heat and turning with the pot in one mitted hand. "I just wanted to make something to warm us up a bit."
Steve walked forward slowly, afraid if he moved too swiftly the appearance might dissolve into a dream, or reveal itself to be a hallucinatory memory. Mab dipped a spoon into the pot and offered it to Steve with a knowing smile.
An impossible dream. A memory from too long ago, but so fresh he could still smell it. He took a very small and hesitant bite. Milk. Butter. Brown sugar. Cream of wheat.
"Is it too sweet?" Mab asked, setting the pot down on a trivet and slipping her small hands out of the protective mitts. "I haven't made it like this before, so-" She stopped speaking as Steve took her hands, clasping them tightly in his, raising them to press his lips to her knuckles.
"It's perfect." It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen. "Perfect, Mab." The taste lingered in his mouth, a very real tether between the here-and-now and the way-back-when, and he could still hear the music in the other room and he couldn't stop holding her imperfectly calloused hands.
"Mab, I-" Steve wanted to stay in that exact spot forever. He wanted to stay and eat the food she'd made and talk about the most absurd things she could imagine until midnight. He wanted to know if Mab tasted like brown sugar.
Steve's phone rang in his pocket and he clenched his teeth tightly. "I really appreciate this, but I do have to go."
If Mab was disappointed she managed to hide it very well. "Okay," she smiled, "I understand. Thanks for today; I had a lot of fun."
"Keep that phone charged."
"I will. Sorry if I worried you."
Steve smirked. "Don't let it happen again." He had to tell himself that it was better if he left before he did something stupid. It hurt though, too.
"I won't," Mab promised.
Steve could feel a yawning ache in his chest just putting his shoes back on, accepting his coat from Mab, and stepping back out into the cold. So much more quiet, so much more cold. Alone. He turned uptown towards the tower, pulling the sled behind.
A/N:
I can't make the world something it isn't right now. I can't find the words for the fear I feel. But I can give us a snow day.