Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An alarm goes off.

‘Good morning, Captain Rogers’, a tinny voice calls through a small speaker. ‘The car is coming to pick you up at eight fifteen to take you to the cathedral to avoid London morning traffic.’

Already mostly awake, the man is quick to rise from the soft hotel bed, carding fingers through sleep-tousled hair. “Thanks, Friday,” he answers the computer operating out of his phone.

‘You have missed messages,’ the computer reports.

“Play, please.”

“Oh Steve,” a warm woman’s voice sighs through the recording. “I’m so sorry about Peggy. I hope you don’t mind some company, because we’re about to get on a plane. I… I don’t think you should be doing this alone. Call me, if you get this. Or I’ll try you when we land. Or text me. Someone showed you how to text, right? Did I forget to-” the message cuts off as the speaker runs out of time.

He sighs. “Next message.”

An irritated man grumbles, sounding quite tired. “Cap, pick up the phone; these roads are all wrong and we can’t find the hotel, and I’m gonna kill Barnes if he doesn’t stop kick-” the caller abruptly stopped speaking, and the message grew muffled as he had to assume the phone got dropped.

He can hear arguing along the lines of ‘kick my seat one more time and I’m deporting you’ and smiles to himself. “Next message.”

“We found the hotel. Everyone’s in one piece,” a calm but mildly amused woman reports. “Meet you at the cathedral in the morning.”

An alarm goes off.

A very sleepy woman rubs at her face, trying to return to her dream. In it, she was dancing. In her dream, the sky was blue every day, and the buses always ran on time.

“Time to get up if you want time to shower before the service,” a voice calls through a thin door. Without a reply the knocking continues, more insistent now. “Mab, are you up?”

“I’m up,” she calls, voice slightly muffled through her hands. She coughs, but tries to suppress the sound. She takes the first of her deepest shallow breaths for the day. She coughs again as her weak lungs protest.

“Do you…” the voice hesitates, “do you…need help or something?”

“I’ve got it,” she answers. The woman stands slowly, keeping a grip on the bed in case the world goes blank. “Thanks, Uncle David.”

“I can bring the chair up if you need it,” the voice answers, trying to be helpful in the new and uncertain world.

“I don’t need it until we go out,” she answers, sitting up but holding herself steady by gripping the bed’s headboard. “Not yet,” she adds quietly to herself.

An alarm goes off.

A heavy hand slaps at the snooze of a clock radio, silencing the talk-show host’s enthusiastic morning greeting.  A sigh of relief in the darkness, and possibly returning to sleep, is cut short by a bedroom door opening and throwing harsh fluorescent light over the bed.

“Paul – you have to get up or you’re going to miss the train.” His wife seems angry with him this morning.

“I can sleep ten more minutes,” he replies, pulling the covers over his head.

She pulls them down and away from his face. “No, you can’t! You said it yourself; there’s pre-shift training today and you can’t miss that – if you get fired because you can’t work the lift I swear to God, Paul-”

“Alright! I’m up!” he declares, giving in.

His wife seems less angry now. “There’s coffee going in the pot, don’t forget to take that new medicine the doctor prescribed-”

“I know, Janice-”

“-because you’re so forgetful in the morning-”

“I know, Janice-”

“-and I don’t want you dropping dead on the subway!”

“I said I know, Janice!” he barks, and his wife leaves him to finish waking up, though leaving the door wide open to keep him from falling back asleep.

A sleepy mother wakes in the night.

She rolls over and pats the empty side of the bed, sighing and wishing her husband stopped working nights. But she is confused as she reaches across the bed, as an odd sensation touches at her hand. It almost tickles, like a spider caught along the sheets. She swats at it, and a burst of light hurts her eyes.

She cries out against the sudden brightness, shielding her face. She blinks against the light and shrieks in horror. Her curtains are on fire.

Someone pounds on the wall of the apartment building – her neighbors are so close, and the walls are so thin. “Keep it down! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

“Fire!” she yells back. “Fire!”

She leaps from bed, slipping her feet into the house shoes she keeps neatly tucked under the bed, but as she touches the doorknob, the thin hollow-core door bursts into flames. She recoils, holding her hand to her chest as if burned.

But it hadn’t felt hot, she realizes. She reaches out slowly, taking hold of the doorknob. The flames licking their way up the board tickle her skin, like a delicate feather duster.

An alarm goes off.

Chapter Text

Moving carefully around the collection of unopened moving boxes in the little guest room, Mab gave her teeth a cursory brush and her face a splash of water, promising herself that she’d shower later. First, she needed medication, some food in her stomach, and a cup of coffee.

She shivered against the rough autumnal cold snap, pulling on a pair of thick socks with a bit of a stumble. The radiator in the corner groaned and knocked, complaining about the cold as well. Still adjusting to the massive change in living conditions, Mab missed the sunny breakfast nook in her mother’s house, and the space-heater that lived under the table year-round. But Mab also missed more than just the house.

A nervous gray cat, still distrustful of the brownstone’s new occupant, scuttled around the hallway corner as Mab opened the door, hissing and spitting in disapproval.

“Be that way,” Mab grumbled. “I don’t like you either.”

Mab found her uncle poring over her treatment binder, flipping back through a series of post-it marked pages. “Good morning,” she greeted softly, easing down into a seat at the kitchen island to catch her already shaky breath.

“Morning,” her uncle mumbled. “Uh, I’ve got your medications set out right, I think…” he flipped through the pages again with one hand, pushing a cup of pills towards her. “I’m just trying to figure out what you can eat with them.”

“Toast is usually safe,” Mab suggested, accepting the hefty dosage of medications. She eyed the cup briefly, satisfied that the number and variety of colors looked correct.

David closed the binder with a grateful snap. “Toast I can do.”

Mab took an offered glass of water to take her pills. “Are you meeting with the office soon?”

“I hope not, I don’t have anything to show for the last month,” her uncle admitted regretfully.

Mab tossed her head to swallow a few pills at once, making a sour face at the bitter taste of the last one. “I think they should give you some slack – you’ve been dealing with a lot this last week.”

David grumbled in agreement, putting bread in the toaster to warm up. “Well, the next time you go into the office and see Mariah, you tell her that.” He snapped his fingers in sudden realization, face brightening. “You know what?”

“What?” Mab obligingly asked with an amused smile.

“They should make you my live-in editor!” David exclaimed, pulling jams from the fridge to give her a selection for her toast.

Mab sniffed the open jam jar and scrunched her nose as she quickly replaced the lid. “Oh, believe me, it was suggested. But to need an editor, you need to submit more than one poem a month.” She slid the jar off the edge of the counter and into the trash.

“It’s worth a try at least,” David argued, turning as the toaster dinged to get his attention. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Yeah - let me write you a list.” Mab nodded idly, pen scratching as she doodled in the corner of her paper to get the pen working. Like so many things in her uncle’s house, even the pens spoke to a general feeling of deferred maintenance; a preoccupation with living in his own head, trying to push poetry out onto a page to exchange for goods and services. An artist who lived alone, who forgot that the world revolved around usefulness. 

“What’ve you got there?” David asked, peering at the scribbles that had turned into words.

“Just scribbles,” Mab mumbled, covering it with a hand.

David tugged the paper from underneath her hand, scanning the short phrase. “This is quite good – do you mind if I use it?”

Cracks in the walls
let in a foggy discontent
muddled by burdensome shadows

“Please,” Mab waved a hand, blushing at the faint praise, “someone should get use of it.”

Her uncle folded it with a hand and tucked the paper away. “What are you up to today? Some unpacking, maybe?”

“I’ve got the rest of that ‘Quill and Hill’ World War Two manuscript to get through.” Mab ran a hand over her face. “I swear; it’s ten percent typos.” She turned the interrogation back on David with a raised brow. “Are you getting any writing done today?

“Well…” he avoided her gaze. “I’m going out today to… go talk… to some people.”

“Uncle David,” Mab pressed, “is everything okay?”

He sighed. “It’s just with the funeral costs, and you moving in… I’ve just got to sort out a plan with the bank. It’ll be okay; I promise. Just need to hang on until the estate settles.”

Mab dropped her head. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ve just got to get our feet under us again.” David patted her hand comfortingly. “We’ll both get by - your mother left very clear instructions.” He coughed, eyeing the thick healthcare binder. “Very detailed.”

“Brevity was not her strong suit.” Mab smiled wistfully. “I miss her,” her voice cracked. “I feel ridiculous - a fully-grown woman saying ‘I miss my mom’.”

David nodded slowly, his face twisting painfully. “I miss her too. They have their exits and their entrances just doesn’t seem to cover it.”

“I didn’t think she’d go before me, you know? Not with…” Mab gestured to her whole body, “everything.”

“Ok, that’s enough of that; you’re not dying yet. I mean, everybody on the planet is dying because that’s how living works, but-”

“I get it,” Mab stopped him, standing. “I’m gonna get to work upstairs. If you make coffee before you leave, let me know.” She retreated from the increasingly emotional conversation. Mab and her uncle hadn’t spent much time together as she’d grown, but when her mother’s health started to deteriorate he became more of a fixture. It was very sensible, moving in with an older relative who could be responsible for her incredibly complex care, but that didn’t mean it felt right.

Mab took her time getting up the stairs but she was still out of breath at the top. The skittish grey cat growled at her from a dark corner, which Mab ignored. She was half-tempted to hiss in reply, but decided that would be a little too petty.

It took a little digging around in the tight space of the spare room to find the right box with her manuscripts for review, and another grumbling search to find her laptop. She opened two windows - one with her editing notes document, the other to a live news feed. Trapped as she so usually was indoors, she liked to keep an eye on the outside world whenever she could.

“... backup quickly resolved afterwards. Fortunately there was enough space to transport the literal thousands of pounds of gear to the Port Authority, though training was significantly delayed. The Port Authority has not yet commented on the total impact on the city’s disabled community. Back to you, Dan.” Mab fished her reading glasses out of the drawer of her nightstand, glancing at the screen and the never-ending drama of New York City’s outdated transit system. 

“Thanks Chuck, we’re taking you now to the East Side where, yes - you can see the newly operational Raft Transport Vehicles moving overhead. We reported earlier this week about the enhanced-initiated apartment fire in the upper west side, and now it looks like that person is finally being transported to the Raft.” 

The Blonde co-host laughed. “I’ll sleep a lot better knowing they’re out of the city.”

“As if you’d be caught dead above 35th street,” Mab murmured, turning her attention to the manuscript in her hand. She thumbed past the chapters she’d already reviewed, searching for a page not yet marked by her signature green pen.

“Ha ha, alright Susan; let’s talk about the next big thing everyone is talking about - The Sokovia Accords, and what that means for the future of the Avengers; our heroes, or just another military operation?”

Paul tried to sneak past his steely-eyed supervisor after clocking in, but was spotted immediately. “Gregson! You’re late!”

“Sorry,” Paul mumbled, turning, “missed my train.”

His supervisor stared at him a little too long, like he was thinking but the act was physically painful. “Did you get the session last week on the new lifts?”

“Well-” Paul mumbled, stalling.

His supervisor spotted another driver at the clock-in station, barking out, “Anders - don’t let me catch you clocking in for that follow-up course! You should have made it on time when I told you the first time! I ain’t paying for laziness!” He turned back. “You were saying?”

“Yeah,” Paul mumbled, “I got it last week, like you said.” He’d just have to hope the new lift system was easy enough to figure out. His family couldn’t afford hours of paid work lost.

His supervisor grumbled, chewing on a cigar without lighting it. He often complained - loudly and frequently - that New York had gone to hell in a handbasket for not letting people smoke inside and around workplaces anymore. “Well, clock in and get to work! Riders aren’t going to pick themselves up.”

Chapter Text

Just another type of muscle memory moved Steve through the steps of making coffee. It had taken a few attempts, but he’d finally figured out how to get the machine to work consistently. It thunked and grumbled and hissed, but eventually got into motion. 

Out of habit, he picked up the glasses left in the sink to give them a rinse. The smell of slightly stale beer drifted up from the basin and Steve’s thoughts took a sharp left turn.

There is a tavern in the town, in the town.
And there my true love sits him down, sits him down
And drinks his wine as merry as can be
And never, never thinks of me

The coffee machine chirped to announce that his morning brew was ready, but Steve didn’t hear it. He was surrounded by the sound of raucous laughter, drunken singing, and the pounding of leather boots on worn wood floors. 

Oh dig my grave both wide and deep, wide and deep
Put tombstones at my head and feet, head and feet

A hand on his shoulder startled him, but he managed to hide it well. “Stare at it a little longer, maybe it’ll turn into wine.”

He grinned at the little Russian. “I thought you were at the Barton Farm this weekend?”

Natasha quirked a perfect eyebrow, snagging a clean mug from the counter to help herself to the fresh coffee. “Its Monday, Steve. Weekend’s over.”

“Is it?” Steve shook his head and sighed. “How is Clint?”

“He’s extending the house again.” She shook her head as Steve offered her sugar for her coffee.

“And the-?” Steve’s question was cut short by the shrill chime of his phone - a distinct signal that belonged to one General Ross, probably wondering why the tracker on Steve’s jet still indicated he was at the Compound.

Natasha didn’t comment as Steve checked his phone, confirming his suspicions before tucking it away again. She watched shrewdly, her opinion on the matter clear from the firm line of her lips.

“Don’t,” Steve warned tiredly.

“You’re not the only one late for work.” Natasha didn’t seem in much of a rush, sipping at her black coffee.

“You seem very concerned,” Steve said sarcastically.

Natasha shrugged, pouring the coffee into a travel mug. “What’s he going to do; arrest me? I could break out of that place with a broken paper clip.”

“General Ross is requesting you answer his calls, Captain Rogers,” Friday chimed in.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” Steve answered, pouring coffee into a travel cup of his own. 

“You should have called Sharon after the memorial,” Natasha commented, lifting herself with one hand to sit on the counter.

Steve hung his head slightly, the repetition of Natasha’s insistence of finding him a partner getting very old. “I’m not ready for that, Natasha.”

She seemed unperturbed. “Friends don’t let friends mope all weekend.”

Steve made sure the coffee pot was off, although he was certain there was no earthly way the compound could burn down because of a coffee pot left on too long. “I’m working, not moping,” he reminded her, grabbing his gear bag from the table.

“In your case they’re one and the same.” Natasha hopped down from the counter, shouldering her bag as well. “If you don’t find someone soon you’ll be going stag to the wedding, and that’s just embarrassing.”

Do not let the parting grieve thee,
And remember that the best of friends must part, must part.

“It’s not about me,” Steve rebutted. “ I’m happy to just go and see him be happy. He deserves it after everything he’s been through.” But that wasn’t entirely true. 

Achingly, Steve was envious of his old friend finding the peace he’d been denied for so long.  He’d seen the horrors of their separation on both ends of his long sleep in the ice and it had been painful just to watch. But, he thought ruefully, at least they’d come to this happy point in the end. He’d come through to the finish line only to carry a casket with a lost love.

Steve felt almost cheated by time, but where his friend had paid for his happiness with seventy years of suffering and torture and blood, Steve couldn’t help but wonder what price he would have to pay in the end to find his version of peace.

“If you like,” Natasha offered, either oblivious to his internal conflict or well-aware and attempting to divert his attention, “I could put you back on ice for another seventy years. Might be easier to find you a date then.”

Shying carefully around the sterile halls, fiddling nervously with the suppressor band around her wrist, she was looking for something that would help stabilize her emotional free-fall. She kept her head down as other inmates passed, looking instead to find guards.

The lights flickered overhead and she eyed them suspiciously. She trailed a hand along the damp wall, but decided she’d rather keep her hands clasped tightly in front of her than deal with whatever mystery substances might soon start growing on the walls.

“Keep back!” A guard barked as she turned the wrong corner, finding herself at the intake gate. The wide frame was open as new inmates filed in, wearing the heavier suppressor collar she recognized too well - stronger, painful, the precursor to the little wristband that kept all the Raft’s inmates powerless. The collars seemed to be popular for transport, though - she had seen enough new faces file past, eyes cast in red from the bright sensors so close to their faces.

She held up her hands, hoping she wouldn’t get zapped for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, she figured, it might be her only chance to ask her question before lights-out. “Excuse me,” she murmured, “Am I… going to get to call my family sometime soon?”

The guard made an incredulous face, nearly laughing. “Who exactly do you think you are?”

“She’s an American citizen and you’ll treat her with respect,” a firm, commanding voice interrupted. 

The guard turned with a slowness that looked like dread as all the color drained from his face. A size and breadth unmistakeable, further accented by a white star on his chest and, if nothing else, the red, white, and blue shield on his arm. A symbol of righteousness, of justice, of authority, and he was staring with blue-eyed fury at the guard.

“Sorry, Sir,” the guard croaked.

“You’re Captain America,” she whispered reverently. The Captain turned his attention to her, and much of that righteous fury softened into concern as he stepped through the open gate without bothering to ask for permission. No one moved to stop him or the black-clad redhead who followed closely behind.

“What’s your name?” he asked, moving to stand between her and the guard too dumb-founded to protest like some great tactical-clad guardian angel. 

“Ginny,” she said quickly, “Ginny Ellis.”

“They treating you okay in here?” he asked seriously and it looked like he actually cared about the answer.

But he wouldn’t want to hear that the suppressors itched like crazy, and with her fire powers suppressed she was always catching a cold in the dark, damp cells. He wouldn’t want to hear that the food was terrible, and there was nothing to do at all during the day but pace from one end of the cell to the other, and the constant sounds of construction made it impossible to sleep.

“Yes,” she responded, too quickly. “But do you think I could call my family?” It was all she cared about. She hadn’t been able to get in touch with them since she had accidentally set the apartment on fire. Had her husband had any trouble getting the kids ready for school? Did he remember that Lenore wouldn’t eat sandwiches if he left the crusts on? Did Bobby get his homework done every evening? 

The Captain’s smile was apologetic. “Not right now, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Steve,” the redhead warned under her breath, her eyes following some motion outside the gate. “Wrap it up; Ross is coming.” Clearly, whatever rules he had broken by bypassing the gate might come back to bite him if he didn’t move on soon.

“How about I bring some books the next time I come out?” the Captain offered. “Something different.”

Ginny gave a little sigh of relief; something from the outside world would be a welcome escape. “That would be amazing, thank you Captain.”

“I’ll check in,” he promised, and his tone turned the promise into a warning as he shot a look at the guard. “Soon.”

The gate closed after him, and Ginny stepped back as the guard sent her a - somewhat less aggressive - warning look. She could see the briefest patch of sky as the huge bay doors high above opened to give the helicopter access to leave. She took a deep breath, savoring the cold tingling in her lungs at the fresh sea air; so different from the smell when filtered through all the steel layers of the Raft to drip-drip-drip between panels in the dead of night. 

“Back to your cell, 0-3-0-2; it’s almost lights-out,” the guard reminded.

“I’m going,” Ginny promised. She stole her last breath of unfiltered air before the bay doors closed and the air stilled again, reminding her with a thundering finality of her place in the world as the Raft sank beneath the waves once more. 

Chapter Text

Mab wished that her doctor’s office hallways were just a little bit wider. She only sort of noticed it when she was having a good day and could manage getting around with just a cane, but when she was in her sport-style wheelchair it became difficult to navigate the narrow halls. Sure, people jumped out of the way when she came around the corner, offering excessive apologies about ‘being in her way’, and holding doors open or offering to push her chair, but that in and of itself was exhausting.

Just once, she almost wished that someone would see her headed down the hallway and stand their ground. Maybe nod to her a ‘one second, please’ kind of motion and actually finish what they were doing before giving her the space to get around. 

The social niceties required of her when someone went out of their way to be accommodating were just not worth it. More exhausting than pushing the chair around all day or standing in line at the store, a constant placating smile drained her of all reserves.

But, seen as a burden to society in the eyes of those too accustomed to fully-functioning bodies, that was her responsibility. Aside from the obvious, she was obligated to be perfect in all other ways they could conceive. Polite smiles, polite words, generally deferential, and never ever angry. She was not allowed to be angry.

“Let me get that for you!” a patient coming through the door she needed to exit offered, springing out of her way and holding the door open from the inside, unfortunately standing mostly in her way, and blocking the handicap door button that would have opened the door for her.

But Mab smiled gratefully, cheerfully adding “thank you!” as she barely managed to roll past him without crushing his toes. The corner of the door clipped her fingers as she failed to move them in time, taking a bit of skin from the back of her hand. Small price to pay.

Mab shook her hand to clear the tingles as she pulled up to the nurses’ desk.

The nurse glanced at her briefly, sliding a sheet of paper within Mab’s reach. “I’ve called the cipro prescription into your pharmacy, and here’s the orders for blood work. Do you need to schedule a follow-up appointment?”

“Yes, please,” Mab smiled as she folded the lab orders into a square and slid it into the front pocket of her bag.

“Two weeks?”

“Three, please,” Mab said, thinking about co-pays.

The nurse typed the change into her computer and handed Mab a reminder card. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

The card joined her lab orders in Mab’s bag. “No, thank you; I take the bus.”

“Have a good day,” the nurse said automatically.

“Thanks, you too,” Mab supplied the standard reply, beating down any of her off-the-cuff responses that might elicit a genuine reaction. Burdens to society don’t get to be funny, burdens should just smile and be polite and predictable. 

Thankfully, the hallway and elevator were both empty and Mab got to enjoy a normal routine. The elevator car stopped just right at her floor without lurching up or down. She was able to move her chair smoothly, and all the buttons were at reasonable heights. The car stopped smoothly on the ground floor and met the arriving floor level just right. The doors out of the building had handicap buttons that still worked, giving Mab time to wrap her scarf neatly around her neck before braving the outdoors of New York City.

Mab was having a not-too-bad day. The bus arrived on time, and the wheelchair lift was one of the new ones so it was working pretty well. The bus driver knew the fast way of getting her chair clipped down, and no one grumbled about getting up out of the foldaway seats that made room for her.

Mab pulled a book out of the bag strapped to the back of her chair, conveniently covering the foldable handles in case anyone felt ‘helpful’ and grabbed at them, and chased her fingers along the pages until she found her slender bookmark saving her place.

Her ride was not-too-bad, almost pleasant, when the bus cruised to a stop and picked up two more passengers. The first took a few seconds to get his MTA card inserted right but got it eventually, and the second was clearly almost falling-down drunk at eleven in the morning. 

Mab kept her eyes focused on her book, but kept tripping over a typo on the page that ruined her focus. Somehow, this made her less than invisible to the drunk who honed in on the easy prey as soon as the bus started moving again.

“Heyyyyyy meals on wheels! How’s it goin’?” he laughed, managing to slur that as well.

Mab ignored him, keeping her eyes on her book and the typo.

He sauntered closer, leaning over to look at her book. “Looks real nice - can I borrow it when you’re done?”

Mab bit the inside of her cheek, taking shallow breaths to avoid inhaling the strong smell of alcohol pouring from his mouth. Her lungs rebelled as a result, making her cough to force her to breathe. 

“Hey,” the drunk slurred, waving his hand in front of her face, “I’m talkin’ to you - you deaf, too?”

Mab kept her eyes lowered even as his fingers brushed against her nose, doing her best to play the good New Yorker and ignore it. It’s easy to pick a target that can’t just get up and move to another seat. She did not look up and try to make eye contact with anyone else on the bus; relatively useless, anyway. New Yorkers didn’t interfere unless blood was shed, and even that was highly variable.

The drunk swore at her. “Frigid bitch-”

And someone interrupted by stepping into the narrow space between her and the drunk, forcing the inebriated man to step backwards or else get plowed directly into the side of the bus. “Oh hi - funny seeing you here!”

Mab looked up at the calm address, her mouth falling slightly open as a rebuttal died in her mouth, teeth clacking shut. She’s only seen the second passenger out of the corner of her eye as he’d boarded but now she was getting a good look at the face hiding under a baseball cap and behind thick glasses.

He was definitely addressing her, and as she opened her mouth to inform him he’d definitely mistaken her for someone else because there was no way in hell he knew her, he gave her a very meaningful look from behind wide-rimmed glasses. The man, whose face she knew without any possibility of mistake and even around that terrible disguise, had positioned himself between her and the rambling drunk on purpose. 

She was being rescued.

“Oh, hi!” she greeted with too much enthusiasm, trying to play along. “Funny seeing you here, yeah!”

He glanced sideways at the drunk, who seemed too intimidated to try and shove his way back towards Mab. He gave her another meaningful look. “Are you headed to the library, too?” Do you need help?

Mab could play along better now that the initial shock had worn off. “I am, actually.” Yes, please.

He nodded, as if giving it measured thought. “I’ll keep you company, if you don’t mind. I know how hard that thing can be to get on and off the bus.” Do you need me to do something?

Mab shook her head. “I’ve got the routine down by now, you just stand there and look pretty.” You’re doing great.

He smiled. “You know, I thought I might be mistaking someone else for you, but then I said to myself: ‘Steve, you’ve known her for a long time’.” My name’s Steve.

Mab smiled, thinking to herself: Oh, I know. “Well,  there’s only one Mab in a flashy wheelchair.”

Steve pulled the yellow cord to alert the driver to their stop, and waited patiently as the driver unclipped her chair. Mab hadn’t thought too much about how long the whole process took until that moment when she had someone waiting on her.

Steve exited the side door while Mab slowly descended to the curb and had come up to the front before her wheels ever touched concrete. Chivalry isn’t dead, Mab thought, it just got put on ice for a while.

“Thank you,” Mab sighed as the bus pulled away from the curb. “I really appreciate you stepping in.”

“Steve,” he introduced again, holding out a hand. 

“Mab,” she replied, wiping the tire-dirt of her chair off on hands onto her jeans before taking his hand. “I hope I didn’t mess up your plans for the day.”

He tucked his hands in his jacket pockets. “Not at all - I’m picking up books for a friend.”

This is kind of wild, Mab thought. “Well, I appreciate it. Have a good one,” she said as she turned away, headed for 42nd street.

“You’re not going inside?” Steve asked, following only a step.

“Wheelchair access is around on the 42nd street side,” she explained patiently.

His ears turned a little red. “Oh, sorry, I-”

“Please don’t apologize,” Mab interrupted sharply, even as she plastered on another friendly social smile. She simply couldn’t stand hearing any more apologies, especially not from him. “You didn’t know. It’s fine.” She rolled forward and back a bit, a fun motion that usually distracted people out of whatever conversational rut she was suffering through. “You have a good day, Steve.”

“Thanks. You, uh… you too.” He waved.

Mab thought for a moment about either thanking him for his service or acknowledging his status overall, but decided against it. He deserved to be invisible sometimes, too. He wasn’t wearing fake glasses and a baseball cap because he wanted to be fawned all over on public transit.

She’d feel bad later about being short with him, but that was a problem for future-Mab. Present-mab was getting tired of human interaction and social niceties and needed a new book to distract herself. Something well-edited so she couldn’t be interrupted by typos.

Mab chuckled under her breath as she picked up speed to better negotiate the wheelchair ramp. What was Captain America doing on public transit, anyway?

Steve’s neck reminded him that he’d been staring up at the ceiling for a little too long as he stood in the library’s grand entrance. It was exactly the distraction he’d been hoping for. The compound felt cramped at the corners, and the empty tower felt too… empty. 

Tony had offered him a range of cars to choose from for his ‘wild joyride in the city’, but Steve honestly just preferred the bus. There were more buses and trains available now than when he was a kid, but it was still basically the same. Smelled the same, anyway. 

The public library was also still the same. A little cleaner on the inside than he remembered - no more cigarette smoke adding a film to the upper surfaces. It was nicer this way. 

Steve sighed and fished a slip of paper out of his pocket - he’d made a list of books that might be a nice escape for Ginny Ellis, and he should probably get around to finding them. 

The library was a comforting maze with levels that didn’t get more confusing or labyrinthian the deeper he explored. There were no safety gates and guards with oversized rifles and prisoners with defeated expressions. Instead there were computers, and study alcoves, and rows upon rows of carefully preserved books. 

Everything in its best place, sorted, aligned as tightly as military ranks. Steve traced the nearly identical labels, digits increasing and decreasing to provide a coded roadmap to knowledge.

Maps led to plenty more than just knowledge, Steve thought. We’ve got thirty-five miles of unmapped territory between us and the nearest forward base. He could taste the evergreen air, smell the gun oil. He missed the certainty of the older times; the assurance and clarity of it. 

“Excuse me,” a voice prompted, “can I get around you?”

Steve jerked out of his memory violently, almost dropping the books in his arms. I’m so sorry,” he apologized profusely, stepping to the side.

The voice interrupting his distraction was immediately familiar - the handicapped young woman from the bus. She nearly skimmed his trousers with the black and yellow wheelchair as she rolled past, giving him a wry smile. “You apologize a lot for things that aren’t your fault?” 

Her question, sharp but not biting or vicious, carried a taste of that vintage wit he missed from the old commandos. “Just how I was raised, ma’am.”

“Sure do love being called ‘ma’am’. Makes me feel all youthful and spry.” Mab glanced at a slip of paper, tracing the air with her finger as she counted the numbers in reverse. Her face fell as her finger traced higher, and finally completely out of her reach. 

“Which book can I get for you?” Steve asked.

“No, I can-” she started to say.

Steve glanced at the book’s call number, clearly visible on her slip of paper at his angle, and grabbed the book from the shelf. “It’s okay to ask for help, you know. ” He glanced at the cover. “I really don’t know anything about poetry,” he said as he handed her the book.

Dark anger shadowed her face, but it was swiftly replaced with a practiced banal smile that completely failed to reach her eyes. A muscle on her jaw tightened, revealing the anger hiding behind the mild upturn of her lips that pretended to be friendly.

Uh-oh. Somehow, he’d said something very, very wrong.

“Thank you,” she said slowly, dangerously, even veiled in a smile, “for your help.” She looked down at the book he’d handed her. 

“I said something stupid, didn’t I?” Steve asked bluntly. “It’s amazing how quickly I can put my foot in my mouth around women.”

The fake smile fell from her face as his comment drew her attention upwards again. Her surprise morphed into a smile, a real one that twisted her mouth into a sly grin. She leapt on the opportunity to make a joke. “What’s amazing is that you can reach; it’s so far away.”

Steve laughed, and someone in the next aisle over shushed him angrily. “Sorry,” he whispered back. 

“Well, you either ‘get it’ or... you don’t.” Mab held up the book. “Poetry, I mean.” A blue cover promised poems about the sea. 

Steve crossed his arms, looking up at the wide selection of books. “Any suggestions where I could start?”

“Well, if you don’t mind having your guts ripped out by a short poem, then Neil Hilborn is a great place to start.” Mab rolled backward a bit, reaching down to grab a book with a coiled snake on the cover. 

“Thanks?” he said cautiously, adjusting his fake glasses. 

“You’re allowed to say ‘no, thanks’, by the way,” Mab said, withdrawing her proffered book slightly.

“No,” Steve said hurriedly, tugging it out of her grip, “I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Really?” Mab raised an eyebrow.

“No, ma’- Mab.” Steve course-corrected.

“And here I was thinking you called me ma’am because you’d forgotten my name.” She rocked forward and back in the chair, like Steve might see most people shift from foot-to-foot. “It was nice meeting you, Steve.”

“Can I walk you out?” he asked automatically, wincing as he tripped over severely-outdated mannerisms. 

“I think I know the way, besides,” she grinned, and Steve couldn’t help but smile with her, “I can always follow my tire tracks back if I get lost.”

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed, but corrected a little too loudly: “Dammit - Mab!”

“Shh!” the angry patron in the next aisle hissed at him.

“Yeah, Steve; where are your manners?” Mab agreed, pressing her index finger to her lips as her eyes sparkled with laughter before she vanished around the edge of the aisle.

Steve sighed in resignation. He could defeat an army of aliens from space but not the rules of the library. He tapped his selected books on the edge of a shelf, smiling in spite of himself. 

Paul pulled the bus up to the stop in front of the New York Public Library and opened the doors as the bus crouched down to make the step up easier. He saw the girl in the wheelchair waiting near the back of the pack rather than at the front like she was supposed to be.

He grimaced; he’d been hoping to get through the shift without having to work the new lift system. His luck was pretty bad that day, it seemed. Paul got out of his seat to flip up the adjustable seats and make room for her chair. Some old man grumbled about losing his seat, but stopped when Paul shot him a dirty look. 

He took a deep breath as he sat back in his chair, both hands on the lift controls. It seemed fairly straightforward, and almost identical to the last system. He just had to push the red button and twist there… and the lift slowly extended from the front door, reaching for the curb. 

Immensely proud of himself, Paul’s smile slipped as the young lady stayed on the curb, looking back at the library with an amused grin on her face. 

“You getting on?” Paul asked, doing his best to be patient.

“Yes, sorry,” she turned, face flushed. She rolled her black-and-yellow sport-style wheelchair onto the lift panel and grasped the handles on either side.

Okay, so… green button to lift it? Paul guesed. The mechanics ground against each other in complaint as Paul fudged with the controls, switching the controls to work in the correct direction as fast as possible. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled as she rolled into the main aisle.

“No problem, thanks for picking me up.” She beamed a warm smile, and Paul felt a little better. 

“Let me scan that for you,” he offered. She surrendered the subsidized pass and he scanned it in, barely glancing over to make sure it went through before he followed her to the side of the bus to strap her chair down for the ride.

Chapter Text

Ginny sat on top of a table in the center of the dining hall, chewing on her thumbnail and watching the guards sidle nervously around the scorched steel that used to be a catwalk. 

“Ginny.” She turned her head just a shade to look at the slender, olive-skinned man that sat down on the table’s long seating bench. 

“Hey, Lukas,” she replied idly. Not quite a friend but more than an acquaintance, Ginny was used to sharing dinner conversation with the shadow weaver. Lukas scared the guards, as even with the suppressor around his wrist he still seemed to leave rooms a little darker when he walked in. 

Lukas tossed his head at the pair of jumpy guards watching over the poorly supervised exercise time in the dining hall. They would have much prefered the security of a guard tower, but it was currently doing a very good impersonation of a smoldering heap of metal. “They’re saying it was you or Rodriguez.”

“Wasn’t either of us - look;” she gestured, tracing the shape of the exposed wires running around the upper perimeter of the room and leading to the shape that was once a guard tower, “see the discoloration in the casings?”

Lukas squinted. “What about it?”

“Electrical short started the fire - I’d bet my dinner on it.”

“How'd you know that?” Lukas asked, sounding vaguely impressed.

Ginny shrugged demurely. “Met my husband at trade school. We’re both electricians.”

“You don’t look like an electrician.” Lukas scratched at the peeling paint on the table. “You look like a soccer mom.”

“I am a soccer mom. Want to see my stretch marks?” Ginny lifted the edge of her blue sensor top and Lukas coughed a laugh.

“Oh-three-oh-two!” a guard barked and Ginny shot to her feet.

It took physical effort not to scratch at her wristband as the guard approached, shock-rod in hand. “Suppressor check.”

Ginny held out her wrist for his inspection. “It’s working just fine.”

“Did I ask you your opinion?” he snapped, still about a foot too far away to properly check that it was functioning. Ginny’s powers had never pushed beyond the supressor’s limiter, but something about the nature of her abilities gave the guards pause. Some fear of dying in a horrible fire, she guessed.

“Don’t you want to check my suppressor?” Lukas asked sweetly.

The guard ignored him. “Don’t start with me, seven-three-nine.”

“Who’s starting anything? Maybe I just like talking to you, Miller.” Lukas reached out a hand to caress the guard’s shoulder. He just seemed to love playing around, even though it could get him a warning shock if he wasn’t careful.

The guard whipped out his tasing rod, the crackle of energy suddenly the only sound in the room. “I will fucking put you down, Russo.”

Lukas’s expression grew dark, all the casual flirtation turned to outright malice. “You touch me with that thing and it’ll be three minutes of hell for you before backup bothers tromping down the hall.” 

“Are we all friendly?” The little Russian walked up to the conversation with his hands swinging casually at his sides. Two more prisoners walked with him - the only other Russians on the Raft, and they always moved with Ivan Volkov. Ginny hadn’t had enough conversations with him to find out what his powers were, but she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with mental control.

“Everything’s just fine here, Mr. Volkov.” Ginny almost hoped that Ivan didn’t have any powers, but had managed to convince the government that intimidation prowess alone was his super power. 

“That is good. I would hate to see Miller relieved of duty missing fingers.” There was nothing about the Russian that was particularly threatening; he was under average height for a man, and wasn’t made of muscle like the meatheads that followed him around. Faded blue eyes the color of old farmer’s denim never seemed to sharpen or grow angry, and the wrinkles in his weathered skin formed friendly crow’s-feet around his eyes. He’d somehow managed to survive Russia’s attempts at creating enhanced-persons with his good humor intact.

“Are you threatening me?” the guard balked at the idea. 

The older man didn’t respond to the aggression. “Of course not. In fact I just said I would hate to see you lose fingers. What part of that was a threat?” He looked far too comfortable in the blue and gray uniform littered with sensors; like it was an outfit he’d chosen that morning and not mandatory. 

The subtlety was lost on the Lieutenant. “I’m shutting down the dining hall.”

“That sounds like a strong decision, Miller. I’m sure they’ll be promoting you to Captain soon enough.” Ivan spoke with the accent of someone who has worked very hard to get rid of the accent of their old country, but had failed to properly work out all of the kinks.

The guard wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Why don’t you just suck his dick, Ivan?” Lukas drawled as the guard retreated, running relaxed fingers through his long hair. 

“Lukas Russo,” Ivan turned a disappointed expression on Ginny’s friend, “have you ever played a game of chess in your life?”

“I prefer Yahtzee.” Lukas gave his suppressor band an irritated wiggle, like trying to unstick a decorative bangle bracelet from the wrong spot on your forearm. It was a common shared motion among prisoners of the Raft; they itched unbearably when their inner workings acted against powers.

The three loudspeakers above screeched as they synced up to a guard’s walkie. “Disperse, or you will receive a warning shock.”

Lukas stood smoothly, pushing back long hair at the temples with both hands. “That’s us, darlings.”

Ivan rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand together, like someone testing the texture of salt. He gave Ginny a warm smile as he twitched his suppressor wrist irritably. “Have a pleasant day, Mrs. Ellis.”

“You too.” Something about the Russian’s attitude just drew a respectful tone out of people, and Ginny certainly did not intend to get on his bad side. She’d never seen his bad side, and all evidence pointed to him not having one at all, but she didn’t want to find out either way.

She knew there was at least another hour left in their mandated exercise time so GInny decided to take a walk around the big loop. 

The drip-drip-drip of water was never ending. A prison submerged in the sea had no hope of being waterproof forever, so there was always the torturous drip-drip-drip. 

The Raft had two loops the prisoners were allowed to wander mostly unattended. The little loop - or inner loop - contained most of the cell units; five or six rooms to a pod that shared something like a central room, but were otherwise locked off from each other when exercise time was over or during lights-out. 

Drip-drip-drip. Ginny skirted around a drip, not interested in the slightly greenish liquid oozing from the ceiling panel.

The big loop - or outer loop - was wider and quieter, but you had to run at a dead sprint back to your cell if you accidentally wandered too far from your cell unit and the guards called for a ten-minute lock-up warning. It was the only time you were allowed to run. 

Drip-drip-drip. Tap, tap tap. Ginny paused, listening to the odd echo through the metal grating. She craned her neck to see around the gently turning halls of the big loop, distant sparks casting staccato shadows.

Drip-drip-drip. Tap. Tap-zap! The popcorn collection of electric arcs finally combined into a bright flash of light as the circuit overloaded and exploded.

The hall fell into darkness.

One. Two. Three. Four. Ginny counted internally, waiting for the emergency lights to kick on.

Five. Six. Seven - the red emergency lights kicked on and Ginny screamed as a broad figure appeared in front of her. Bad reflexes shot her hands up in front of her face, as if that would help at all, and the suppressor on her wrist made her skin tingle fiercely as her powers tried to react for her.

“Mrs. Ellis?” the figure asked, a familiar star-and-stripes shield lowering slightly to reveal a familiar face!

Ginny breathed a heavy sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her frantically beating heart. “Steve! Oh - er, sorry, Captain.”

“Steve’s fine,” he offered a kind smile as he returned the shield to whatever magnetic switch kept it adhered to the harness system on his back. “What are you doing this far out?”

“We’re allowed back here,” Ginny defended. 

“I know that,” Steve replied slowly. He seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject. “This happen a lot?”

“Brown-outs?” Ginny hesitated. Would she be getting someone in trouble if she was honest? Did she care? “It happens a lot. Everytime someone comes or goes, a little seawater gets in and, well…” Ginny gestured widely. “Electricity and water don’t mix.”

“How long should we expect it to last?”

“Twenty to thirty, maybe? That’s about how long it takes them to find, dry, and reset the right breakers.”

“I’m glad I ran into you, actually.” The Captain reached into a pocket and pulled out three books, a little worn around the edges from being stuffed into a pocket, offering them to Ginny. “I didn’t know what you liked so I shopped around a little.”

“I honestly thought you would forget immediately,” Ginny admitted with an open smile, gratefully accepting the books. She kept her smile plastered firmly as she saw they were a little outside of her usual reading selection - poetry, science fiction, and some short novella. He’d tried, and that meant the world to her.

Ginny flipped through the books, holding them as close as she could reach to one of the dim red lights on the wall. “My god... this stuff is depressing,” she said. “If I were somebody else, I think I would still be mentally ill. It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen.”

“Oh - I think that one’s mine, actually.” Steve smiled apologetically. “Neil Hilborn?”

Ginny checked the cover and he was correct. “All yours, Cap.” She surrendered the book and Steve flipped to the poem she had just been reading. 

It hurt Ginny a little to look at the Captain. Time-skips notwithstanding, she was probably older than the soldier. He couldn’t be more than, what, thirty? Thirty-five at most? Her knees already felt ancient at forty-three, and the cold and damp air of the Raft didn’t help much. 

As tired as any soldier returning home, the sad politeness just made Ginny want to invite him to her dining table, sit him down between Bobby and Lenore, and let him relax a little. He was a good boy, just like her Bobby. She would bet her dinner he took after his mom, just like her boy. 

She returned the favor of changing the subject. “What brings you around to my neck of the woods?”

“Transport. The enhanced made the Secretary nervous so I was asked to assist.”

“Don’t all of us make them nervous?” Ginny asked curiously.

Steve grinned ruefully. “Let’s just say he made them extra-nervous.” He lowered his head. “Did they ever let you call your family?”

“Briefly. But, yes.” Her husband had cried on the phone. Her daughter hadn’t. 

Before he even asked the question, Ginny knew from the apologetic look on his face what he was going to ask. “Can I ask - you don’t have to answer, but-”

Ginny interrupted, doing her best to keep her tone warm; like when Bobby had broken her grandmother’s vase but didn’t try to hide it. “I set my family’s apartment on fire in my sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded earnest. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Just my curtains,” Ginny joked. “And my bedroom door. Only cost about a hundred and fifty to fix. So I know what your next question is going to be - what am I doing here, right?”

Steve nodded, smiling apologetically. “I’m that easy to read, am I?”

“It’s everyone’s next question.”

The lights switched from emergency red to the usual hazy, poorly-cleaned halogens. The Raft’s speakers screeched with a warning. “Lock-up in ten. I repeat, lock-up in ten.”

“That’s me,” Ginny tried to say casually, stretching her knees. “Gotta run.” She was already losing the baby weight she’d never quite managed to lose after she’d given birth to Lenore, no matter how many diets she’d tried. It turns out incarceration was a pretty effective diet. 

“Right, yeah,” he agreed, seemingly having forgotten that she was a prisoner here. “Stay safe. I’ll get those back from you when I visit again.”

“You get something to eat, you hear me? You’re looking awful thin.” Ginny chided, and Steve laughed; the desired effect. Ginny couldn’t make her own situation any better, but she was getting a feeling the Captain was in oddly the same boat. She added, jogging backwards, “Just for the record, I prefer historical nonfiction!”

Steve leaned back on the sofa, tilting his head to rest on the back and release a little of the tension that had built in his neck. For all the time he spent sitting on jets, helicopters, and other military transports, all he wanted to do at the end of the day was just sit down. Sit down or punch something. It varied.

Wide windows open to the late summer breeze, the sound of crickets and evening birds provided light chorus for the cheerful conversation rumbling in the kitchen. Vision insisted that he’d prepared the recipe exactly as instructed, while Wanda assured him that she would fix it to make it edible.

Something cold and damp tapped his shoulder, making Steve lift his head. A beer, offered by Tony. “Rough day at the office?”

“You could say that,” Steve said, taking the beer. It wouldn’t do anything and they both knew it, but the symbolism was appreciated. 

Tony cracked open a bottle of water, sitting on the opposite armrest. “I hear they got the venue”

Steve nodded. “Thanks for making that call to the gardens. I know Alice appreciates it.”

Tony shrugged it off. “Don’t mention it. Pep’s been bothering me to donate more to offset our taxes.”

The peace lasted a good two minutes. Steve could feel it fade as Tony glanced down at the empty bottle before lobbing it towards a bin. 

Tony missed and made a face. “So, did you have fun with the Aztec?”

“Is that what they’re calling him?” Something behind Steve’s eyes hurt but he resisted the urge to rub at his temples. 

“You know the news - love their nicknames.” Tony gave Steve an appraising look. “If I ask why you look like someone dropped the Stars and Stripes, will you brood more or less?”

Steve sighed. If he avoided the question Tony would just pry more. “It’s not how I thought it’d be. No - it’s exactly how I hoped it wouldn’t be.”

“We don’t get to call the shots anymore - we don’t have to call the shots anymore,” Tony emphasized, “and that’s a good thing. A pinch of oversight keeps the…” he paused, considering, “the Ultron away?” He shook his head. “That’s definitely not right, but you get the idea.”

“But we’re still stuck holding the bill.” Steve looked at his friend. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

Tony stood, shoving one hand in his pocket and pointing at Steve with the other. “I’m gonna get Ross to give you some vacation days. You’re looking a little pale - too much time spent in that overgrown submarine.”

Steve clenched his hands together. “It’s not - Tony, some of them have done nothing at all; just turned up with powers at the wrong time.”

Tony appraised him. “Would you rather it be Barnes in there? Or Wanda? What about Alice?”

Steve’s brow furrowed as he clenched his hands tighter in anger. “This isn’t about them.”

“Isn’t it?” Tony pressed. “You signed to keep them off the Raft, and now you don’t like paying the bill? I hate to break it to you, Cap, but this is how the world works.”

Natasha slid between them, setting down a tray of discs that looked mostly like cookies on the coffee table. “Okay, boys; I think that’s enough for one night.”

“It didn’t used to be like this,” Steve thought out loud as Tony drifted off towards the kitchen.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “It’s always been like this; you just didn’t have to see it.”

“Is it naive to hope that we’ll reach a point where everything works itself out?” Steve rubbed at his eyes now. “Or are we just going to keep making the same mistakes over and over?”

Natasha made a face. “What would that even look like?

“What would what look like?” Sam asked, climbing over the back of the couch with a bag of chips in one hand. 

“World peace,” Natasha said.

“Can we talk about something more realistic?” Wanda asked, sitting at the end of the coffee table on a low chair, “like the return of dinosaurs or something?”

Steve had been born into a war. It had gobbled up all the young men of the world and fallen into slumbed. It had awoken when he was a man, and consumed another offering. Again and again, war and destruction woke and consumed all the happiness in the world, all the good and honorable people. 

It always left the world more afraid. None of the lessons that needed to be learned seemed to stick in place no matter how vehemently the survivors declared it was needed.

Steve smiled as his friends laughed over Vision’s insistence that dinosaurs could not, in fact, survive peacefully in the current climate with limited appropriate ecosystems and resources. 

Natasha made eye contact with Steve, raising an eyebrow with an unspoken question.

Steve shook his head slightly and looked down at his half-drunk beer.

It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen.

Chapter Text

Summer seemed to have yielded its final battle to autumn, letting in a surprisingly cold snap that had left a series of now-deda bugs on the windowsill woefully unprepared. Mab wrapped the cardigan tight around her middle, tracing the shape of the banister before bracing the stairs.

“Shit!” she stumbled, ankles all mixed up as a gray ball of fur wiggled and ran around her feet, batting at one with five sharp razor blades. Her uncle’s gray cat hissed angrily as it retreated to the shadows, spitting threateningly for good measure.

“Your cat hates me,” Mab grumbled as she slid into a seat at the kitchen island, accepting the offering of her morning medication and a warm cup of coffee.

David lifted a plate, offering scrambled eggs. “She hates me too.”

Mab shook her head, turning down the eggs. Her stomach wasn’t up for it this morning. “Then why keep her?”

David shrugged, adding the eggs to his plate. “Because she’s my cat? I don’t know. She’s always been here, and it would feel rude to kick her out.” He leaned over the counter, shoveling eggs into his mouth even as little bits of it got caught in his beard.

Mab’s face twitched in a vaguely disgusted look but she managed to hide most of it. “Has she ever let you pet her?”

David snorted at the idea. “Christine doesn’t like being looked at, you think I’m going to try to touch her?”

“I think at this point she’s not really your cat; you’re more like her jailer.” Mab wrapped her cardigan tighter; trying to close a gap over her collarbones that seemed to be letting all of her heat from bed disperse too quickly.

“Are you cold? I can turn up the heat.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can make some toast?”

“David,” Mab snapped, “Just-” she took a deep breath before continuing, “what do you want, Uncle David?”

Her uncle pressed his palms together, eyes shining. “I have an idea.”

“Oh no,” Mab groaned, looking up at the ceiling and silently praying for strength.

“It’s a good one!” he defended.

“David, not again.”

“No, I did the research this time, it’s real.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t-”

“So just listen!”

“Alright,” Mab leaned back, pulling the coffee close, “I’m listening.”

“Okay,” David started, snapping his fingers a few times and shuffling through a pile of papers on the counter, “okay…”

“Some time today?” Mab pressed.

“Got it! Okay - so, New York is revitalizing its Poet Laureate program; they got a new endowment but the applications close today.”

Mab tilted her head, confused. “And you’re thinking of applying?”

David beamed. “No, I think we should apply. Two applications are better than one!”

Mab’s face fell flat. “You’re kidding. You have to be kidding. I’m an editor, not a poet.”

“You are a poet,” David insisted, “you have a Masters-”

“David!” Mab yelled, slamming her coffee back down on the counter, cracking the handle. “Shit,” she swore under her breath, “I’m sorry.”

David’s face fell. “Let me,” he said, taking the broken mug and leaving a dish towel on the spilled coffee. 

“I just… I don’t have the spoons for it. I’ve got like…” she counted on her fingers. “I’ve got like… six spoons’ worth of mental energy to spend today, and like fifteen in errands that I have to run this week, not to mention my meeting with Mariah-”

David smoothed his beard with one hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Good luck. I really hope you get it,” Mab encouraged.

David pivoted ideas, trying to make up for it. “If you’re feeling tired, your Andrea’s instructions said I should give you-”

“I’m going upstairs now.” Mab stood up, abandoning her hopes of coffee. She paused at the foot of the stairs, but kept her eyes down on her slippers. “I know you’re trying. And I do appreciate that.”

David nodded. “I’m going to turn up the heat a bit, so don’t get surprised if the radiators knock a bit.”

Her smile was at once apologetic and appreciative. “Thanks.” She took the stairs up slowly, leaning on the ancient banister more heavily than a normal person might. 

David didn’t know how his sister had managed to turn out such a contrary daughter. Andrea had been so full of life; unconcerned with marrying even as she grew more and more pregnant. She’d laughed off the idea as unnecessary.

They’d fallen out of contact after Mab was born, Andrea preferring to move around every few years to give Mab ‘a broader upbringing’, but they still spoke every Christmas over the phone and occasionally flew out for birthdays. He’d gotten a vague sense of the complication surrounding Mab’s health, but had no idea of the true breadth until his sister had called about two years ago, asking for him to sign on as Mab’s secondary medical proxy. Andrea had pancreatic cancer, and just wanted to be prepared in case the worst happened.

The pair of them had moved back to New York, into a small house far out on Long Island. David hadn’t seen Mab in maybe ten years so it came as a bit of shock to see her toll up to the brownstone in a wheelchair. It’s just for bad days, she’d explained, and the look in her eyes openly dared him to make any further comment. She’d barely softened to him in the mean time between her arrival in New York and her mother’s funeral. In that way, Mab reminded him a lot of his cat, Christine.

David cracked his knuckles as he turned on his ancient computer. “Okay, I can figure this out,” he repeated a few times, finding the application website with only a few wrong turns. 

Welcome to the application for the New York Poet Laureate Residency, funded by an endowment from the September Foundation. Please read the instructions for application carefully, as no repeat applications will be considered. 

Name of Applicant:

“David… Dumont…” he typed, hunting-and-pecking for the keys. He got halfway through typing before the autofill on his computer highlighted the relevant fields all over the page, and tapping the enter key successfully added his address, email, and phone number. 

Sample of works (please limit to a single poem or other written short form work).

David opened up a file on his desktop, scrolling through his favorite works from the last decade. He opened a few, tsked at his older writing style, and continued on. “Ah, that’s definitely the one!” he declared, skimming the content and satisfied himself that it was appropriate. 

His smile slipped as he recognized a stanza as one he’d gotten a little more help composing.

Cracks in the walls
let in a foggy discontent
muddled by burdensome shadows .

David glanced at the ceiling, listening to the shifting of wood as the old brownstone creaking in tune with Mab’s wanderings and Christine’s scuttled movements. 

“No,” he mumbled to himself, “she said no, David.”

David attached his poem to the application, and scrolled through quickly to make sure everything had attached properly. 

Muddled by burdensome shadows.

Mab looked so much like his sister, even with her disapproving gaze. She shared a particularly wry wit that had made Andrea such a hit at parties growing up, even if Mab kept it fairly reigned-in out in public. 

He paused over the submittal button. “Oh, to hell with it,” he mumbled. He refused to be accomplice to her hiding from the world. He couldn’t deal with the idea that his sister would be disappointed from the afterlife if he didn’t at least try.

He scrolled back up in the form, deleting his attached poem and diving into a different file on his desktop. Mab-app-dctrt, he found it easily, and squinted at the screen until he found the right PDF. Prayer-for-Parity.pdf

David glanced up at the ceiling again, as if he could feel Mab’s angry disapproval radiating through the old building’s frame. But she wouldn’t be so angry if she won, right? They wouldn’t have to worry about affording rent or groceries, or even about affording the laundry list of medication that kept her moving. She really was an amazing writer, even just idly, and New York should have a chance to read her works.

Before he could chicken out, he dragged the PDF into the submission box, scrolled to the bottom, and his submit.

Mr. David Dumont, thank you for your application to the New York Poet Laureate Residency. You will receive a confirmation email within the next 24-48 hours with a processing number you may use to look up your submittal on our website. 

David’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh shit what?” David spun in his desk chair, sitting in front of the monitor as Mab snuck up on him in the corner of the tiny dining room that served as his office.

“Nothing!” He replied. “Pop-up ad!” He raised an eyebrow as Mab draped a scarf around her neck. She was dressed to go out, grabbing her cane from the stand next to the door. “Where are you going?”

“Mariah called; she needs me to come in for an hour or so. Client’s upset about some of the notes I made on his manuscript. Have you seen my gloves?” Mab asked, peering around his office.

David could see them from his angle. “On the radiator - they were drying from that day it rained. Do you need me to go with you? Are you sure you don’t want your chair?”

Mab dismissed the idea with a hand. “Mariah’s paying for a cab since it’s last-minute, so I just need my stick. I should be back for dinner. Do you want me to pick up anything from the corner on my way in?”

Prayer-for-Parity.pdf

“P-pears,” David stammered.

Mab smiled. “Pears it is.” Her smile drifted into an expression of concern. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I think Christine ran off with my favorite pen,” he lied immediately.

Mab rolled her eyes, pulling her gloves off the radiator and slipping them on. “I told you; that cat is a menace.”

“Don’t be mean about my cat,” David defended Christine’s honor against the made-up crime, “she has plenty of redeeming qualities!”

“Once any of those redeeming qualities involve purring, petting, or other proper cat behaviors I’ll reconsider my opinion,” Mab promised. “Try to get some work done this morning, Uncle David; I’m sure Mariah is going to ask.”

David gulped nervously. “Lie for me.”

Mab laughed, grabbing her keys from the bowl. “We’ll see.”

Two burly men stood in the half-dark bus depot, both staring with arms crossed at the inner workings of a wheelchair lift of a public bus.

“What the hell did you even do to this thing?” Ambrose asked. Paul’s friend, and one-time mentor at the depot, was supposed to have seen almost every type of damage those public transit buses could handle.

“Couldn’t tell you if I tried?” Paul replied. “Think you can fix it?”

“Fix it? That automated crap’ll take your hand off if you don’t do it right.” Ambrose sucked his teeth. “It’s brand-new! You know they’re gonna chew you out if they find out.”

Paul’s heart raced and he felt a little light-headed at the thought. He couldn’t afford to be out of work right now. “The new system’s got bugs, right? They’re probably gonna come around with parts-swaps in a couple’a weeks; I just gotta limp it along until then.”

Ambrose seemed skeptical. “If you say so, because that screw-lift looks completely stripped to me. You’re gonna drop someone if you’re not careful.”

Paul sighed, waving for Ambrose to give him a hand putting the cover panels back in place on his bus. “Why’d they have to change ‘em all out, anyway? Old buses were working just fine.”

“Well,” Ambrose grunted, holding the panel in place while Paul slipped the screws into their holes. “If the governor doesn’t spend his budget, you think they’re gonna give him any more money? Gotta spend money to make money, you know.”

The screwdriver slipped out of the head and dove for Paul’s hand. Practice with tools saved him from a fleshy gouge to the hand. “Aren’t they rolling in it with the Raft?”

Ambrose kicked the panel to get the final seating right, and nodded his approval at Paul’s handiwork. “That shit’s Federal. They make better money on transport days. Big fat check for every super they turn over.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Paul asked, alarmed.

“Some shit Nancy watches - bunch of old ladies sitting around a table yammering about stuff they don’t know anything about.” Ambrose groaned as he checked his watch. “Speaking of old biddies - I’m gonna catch hell if I don’t get home. See you tomorrow, Paulie.”

Paul jangled his keys in his pocket, chewing on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. He’d figured out how to properly work the lift, but the damage he’d done to the delicate system during siad learning seemed significant. 

But it would be okay, right? The more he thought about it, the more he’d heard that all these new types of systems came way overbuilt for their use. He nodded to himself, thinking back he also knew that they also came with redundancies. Being so brand-new, there was no way he’d broken it so badly it would fail any time soon.

Chapter Text

Steve shook rain off his hat and brushed water from his jacket shoulders as he walked through the doors of the library, feeling a little guilty about dripping water on the marble floors. 

It had been more than a few days since his last summons from Secretary Ross to appear at a Raft transport location so he was certain one was imminent. He felt himself drawn to the old library with its solemn lions guarding the front doors, reminded by a lingering memory that he should pick up a new set of books to distract Mrs. Ellis. 

Steve quietly asked the circulating librarian for book suggestions and was sent on his way with a short list of recommendations. Rain thundered against the ceiling, echoing ominously through the cavernous study hall. Steve took the elevator into the depths of the library’s lower levels, relieved that the loud and insistent cacophony was greatly lessened by depth.

The library seemed to be a popular refuge in the rain. All of the open seats were taken, and the aisles slightly more crowded. People had taken their children and shopping in from the deluge outdoors, and the collection of both led to a series of excited shrieks and shushing parents, inevitably leading to quiet whimpers and tired meltdowns. 

Steve found his books with relative ease; he was starting to get his bearings in this place after a limited number of visits. Confirmation of titles was interrupted as a peal of tinkling childish laughter bounced through the next aisle.

Small feet and broad wheels skimmed past the edge of the aisle, banking a hard right and the childish shrieking continued, even as the older rider tried with her own giggles to keep the child’s enthusiasm in check.

Peering through books, Steve saw a familiar face driving stealthily through the books, chasing after a small toddler, whispering ‘I’m gonna get you!’. Playing tag with a toddler in a library, both received fairly nasty looks and amused smiles in equal measure. Steve leaned on the closest bookshelf, watching Mab for a minute longer out of pure selfishness as he appreciated the little moment of joy on a rainy day.

“Stephanie!” another voice called, and the toddler ran past in the other direction, followed by a rider in a black-and-yellow wheelchair. A different woman, securing an infant in a complicated-looking chest carrier, collected the enthusiastic toddler with a look of relief on her face.

She said something quietly to Mab, who grinned and shrugged before waving goodbye to the suddenly shy child. The mother reached for her purse but Mab shook her head repeatedly, even rolling backwards to put some distance between them. The mother looked grateful, nodding and pulling gently on her toddler’s arm before heading in the opposite direction. 

Steve’s feet moved without proper instruction as they brought him within casual distance. “Hi again,” he said as he walked into her field of vision.

Her head snapped up like she’d been badly startled. “Oh, hi!” she said loudly. A librarian shushed from the end of the row and Mab flushed a deep red. 

Steve grinned mischievously. “Where are your manners, Mab?”

“Oh get stuffed, Steve.” Her words were harsh but her face looked amused. “Funny running into you again.”

He lifted the collection of books in one hand. “New books for my friend.” Loud thunder boomed through the lower levels, the strength of it making Steve glance up out of habit. 

“Contacts?” Mab asked, seemingly out of context.

“What?”

Mab pointed at her eyes. “No glasses today, just a hat. Contacts?” She kept talking, thankfully giving Steve enough time to wrap his head around the thought. “I could never get used to the idea of putting little pieces of wet plastic in my eyes every morning. Thankfully, my eyes are one part of me that actually works properly.”

“I broke them, actually.” it seemed a better answer than they’re a part of my disguise and I forgot them today.

She looked confused. “Your contacts?”

“My glasses. They broke,” Steve clarified. 

“Ah.” She rolled her chair forward and back a bit. 

Steve glanced down at the books in his hand. “I liked the book. The poems, I mean.”

She smiled faintly. “Clearly you like torturing yourself, then.”

“I’m told I wallow on occasion,” he admitted.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Your friends are blunt.”

“You have no idea.”

It was an odd thought, that Mab kept up just fine with his stride rolling smoothly along well-maintained tires. 

She hung a tight left into an aisle and scanned her slip of paper before searching the stack. 

Steve waited, hands in his pockets.

“It’s the red cover up there - could you grab it for me?” Mab asked. 

Steve scanned the cover as he pulled it down. Conversation Casanova: How to Effortlessly Start Conversations and Flirt Like a Pro.

He put the book back on the shelf. “So that’s how it is?”

Mab was laughing behind a hand, trying and failing to hide the sparkle of amusement. “I’m sorry,” her shoulders shook with laughter, “but it was just too easy. And your face!” She moved her hand from her face to her chest to reveal her broad smile, tapping her thumb against her collarbone. “But that was mean, I’m sorry.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, you look real sorry.”

“No; I mean it. Let me carry your books.”

“No, I couldn’t-”

“Because I’m a girl or because I’m in a wheelchair?” she cut his protests off with a sharp raise of an eyebrow.

“Because I’m scared of what else you might sneak into the stack.”

“I’ll be good; I promise.” She held out her hands for the books. She went through the stack immediately after receiving them, putting her two favorites on top. “Mm. The Emperor of All Maladies and Nickel and Dimed. Someone has good taste.”

Steve didn’t want to admit the circulating librarian had chosen them. “So what are you actually looking for, Mab?”

“Ah yes - follow me.” The art of navigating with the wheelchair seemed to be a delicate art. It didn’t appear to have any kind of braking system, so turning and maneuvering was based on careful application of pressure and grip to the handrims of the back tires. The quiet friction of steel against the thin fingerless leather gloves sounded like distant ocean waves on a timeless shore.

“Here it is,” she offered the book for Steve’s inspection.

The History of English Syntax .  “I’ll be honest, not what I was expecting.”

“It’s to settle an argument with a colleague.”

“You came all the way to the library, braving the perils of public transit, to find a book to settle an argument?”

She bobbed her head side to side. “Well, hopefully to win an argument.”

“That is…”

She raised her eyebrows, challenging; “Infuriating?”

“Determined.”

Mab took her book back. “Can I ask you something?”

“I think you just did.”

She sniffed indifferently. “Okay, smartass; why did you step in with that drunk on the bus?”

“What do you mean?” Steve was confused. 

She waggled a finger like a disapproving mom. “Good New Yorkers keep their heads down, Steve.”

“I don’t like bullies.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Are you this blunt with everyone?”

“Oh no, you’re definitely special.”

“Lucky me.”

“Cheeky.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket to check the time. “And distracting, too. I lost track of time and I need to check out if I’m going to catch my bus. I like to get going before rush hour so I don’t get dirty looks if the bus is going to be full.”

Steve was mildly appalled. “They wouldn’t-?”

Mab interrupted with a dark laugh. “Oh, ho ho; yes they would!” She shrugged it off. “But I understand it, at least. Good seeing you again.”

“You avoiding me?” he asked spontaneously, raising his voice enough to be shushed from a few rows over.

She paused, the leather fingerless gloves skimming the handrails just enough to come to a stop and turn at the same time. “I would honestly not dream of avoiding you, Steve.” She rolled backward, smiling in a suspiciously knowing fashion. “But I do have to go.” She vanished too easily for someone in a vividly striped wheelchair - probably following the easiest route she’d practiced a dozen times through the stacks. 

Steve thought about wandering through the aisles, grabbing a book at random and seeing where it brought him. But, he thought with a chuckle, he might pick up a landmine like Conversation Cassanova out of universal irony. He worked his way back up to the main level and checked out instead.

Steve slipped the books into his jacket pocket but his attention was drawn to a black-and-yellow chair rolling in the opposite direction. The roar of heavy rain on the ceiling high above thundered through all thoughts like an intrusive thought in its own right. It ran alongside the image of Mab using both hands to navigate her wheelchair, making soft ocean tides as she turned corners. 

Thundering rain overhead, and both of her hands navigating gentle tides. Both hands. He lengthened his stride to catch up as she approached the accessible side door. “I’ll wait with you.”

Mab spluttered for a moment, resisting; “It’s pouring, you really don’t need to.”

Steve was resolute. “I insist.”

She huffed, lips thin as she stared up at him. “Well, then you’re going to have to share an umbrella because I refuse to let you get soaked.” She held out a compact green umbrella. 

Steve unfurled the umbrella as Mab pushed a button that remotely operated the doors. It was a little tricky to get down the narrow ramp with both of them under the umbrella, but they managed. 

Steve followed Mab’s directions to get back to the front of the museum and they joined a small huddled group waiting under a covering of umbrellas at the bus stop. The bus shelter had been damaged and was cordoned off with some caution tape and a sad-looking traffic cone, leaving the riders exposed to the elements.

Water poured from the lions’ backs in little waterfalls, smacking against the sidewalk in off accompaniment to the sideways glances Mab seemed to be receiving from others waiting for the bus. She caught his gaze, speaking volumes with a slight tilt of her head and a quick raise of an eyebrow. 

Steve had gotten used to being the one on the receiving end of odd looks. Ever since the serum his height and breadth alone had drawn stares. In uniform, the effect was multiplied by an order of magnitude. Impressed, adoring, appreciative; those were not the types of looks Mab seemed to be getting.

He understood it a little better as the bus pulled up to the curb and no one moved as the doors opened. “Come on; I’m supposed to get on first,” Mab said, rolling towards the bus. 

The driver spotted her and nodded, reaching for a different set of controls next to the steering wheel. The bus crouched lower to the curb and a part of the stairs started to unfurl towards the concrete. 

Mab rolled back slightly, and a quick glance at her face showed a confused frown. Steve was about to ask if everything was alright when the screw-lift jerked, vibrating the panel in place like a frightened bird. It dropped swiftly onto the sidewalk, slamming into the concrete with enough force to break the curb.

There were hushed whispers from other passengers waiting to get on the bus. The driver fiddled with the controls as his face reddened, and It took a few valiant tries to get it moving at all. It only seemed to want to retract into the bus in shuddering starts and stops, some internal gear whining in protest. 

“Uh, I don’t think we should try to lift you, ma’am,” the driver called over the pouring rain. 

The tired defeat on Mab’s face didn’t even look fresh; like these sorts of things happened all the time and she’d just learned to accept it. Steve knew the look. He’d seen it plenty of times on his mother’s face. He’d seen it on Bucky’s face. He’d seen it in the mirror. A tired resolution that carved away at the soul.

“I think there’s a diner around the corner, maybe we can get something warm to drink while you wait for the next?” Steve suggested.

Mab sat very still in her chair as the other riders walked around her, easily ascending the three steps that proved to be a barrier to her transport. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “I mean, this is your bus, right?”

Steve shook his head as the bus driver shot him a ‘you getting on or not’ kind of look. “I’ve got other options. Come on - let’s get coffee.”

The lions outside the library glared down in judgement as the bus pulled away from the curb. 

Steve had never been more aware of every uneven spot in the sidewalk; every spot where a trash can narrowed the field, and every broken curb ramp. Rainwater was collecting at every corner, skimming the bottom of Mab’s shoes as she rolled from one block to the other. 

It was an odd relief that the diner had a sloping concrete ramp up to the diner’s front door. Mab didn’t say a word as Steve held the door open, not even to ask for any assistance in conquering a minor steel-lipped threshold.

It took a waitress a full seven seconds - Steve counted - to seem to figure out what she needed to do when Mab asked for a table. “Uh, can you give us a minute? We’ll need to move some chairs around.”

Mab smiled blankly. “Take your time. We appreciate it.” There was that odd smile again. 

Chairs scraped as they rearranged the tables - not only to give them a table with only one chair, but to move other seated patrons a few feet to the left or right so Mab could actually squeeze past and get to their table. It was a relief when they were seated.

“You two need menus?” the waitress asked. 

“I’ll just have coffee, please,” Steve replied.

“Same. And dry toast,” Mab added with her empty, vague smile.

The coffee came quickly, Steve leaving his black even as Mab added hefty amounts of heavy cream from a miniature carafe but avoided sugar entirely.

“So what do you do, Mab?” Steve asked as she seemed to uncoil the steel from her spine when the waitress gave them space, leaning forward on the table to fiddle with the paper placemat.

“Can’t you tell?” She gestured broadly with her arms. “I’m a ballerina.”

Steve snorted into his coffee, but immediately looked horrified at his own amusement. Thankfully, he held in the apology that was written on his face.

But she smiled at it - a real one, not the vaguely empty one she seemed to make under all other circumstances. “I’m an editor for a publishing firm downtown; so basically, I read for a living. What about you?”

He was unprepared for the reciprocated question. “Uh, I’m a… military... contractor?”

“That sounds interesting! Do you get to travel a lot? I’d ask you where’s the most interesting place you’ve been, but I imagine you can’t tell me; classified, and all that.” Mab coughed into her elbow, wincing slightly. “Sorry,” she apologized quickly.

“You apologize a lot for things that aren’t your fault,” Steve parroted her earlier words.

“You know what, I take it back,” she grumbled, “hope you get pneumonia.” Mab’s toast arrived and she ate it very slowly. “Do you like your work?”

“What do you mean?”

She dipped her toast in her coffee briefly. “It’s a very normal question, Steve.”

“I… don’t know what I would do otherwise.” Steve stirred his coffee with a spoon even though he hadn’t added anything to it. 

Mab made a thoughtful sound. “Well, that’s depressing.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“Well,” she smiled at the waitress as she refilled coffees, though Mab scowled immediately as soon as she turned her back. “She threw off my cream-to-coffee ratio…” she grumbled in explanation as she tried to correct it with the limited amount of cream left in the carafe.

“Excuse me?” Steve raised a hand, getting someone’s attention. “Could we get more cream, please?”

The waitress beamed. “You got it, hun.”

“Why do you say that’s depressing, Mab?” Steve drew her attention back. 

“I tripped over something sensitive there, I think.” Her face did something funny where it looked like she was trying to smile, but hadn’t managed it well. Her cream arrived and she spent careful moments getting the correct ratio back in her coffee, spending the time clearly mulling over her thoughts. 

Her quiet contemplation made Steve a little apprehensive, and the long breath she took before speaking a relief. “If you take into account all of the ways that we reference our jobs in American culture, you have to come to the conclusion that we are nothing without our work. So, if you don’t love what you do you either hate yourself or are in abject denial of yourself.”

“That is depressing,” Steve murmured, stirring his coffee again.

“There’s also a third option,” Mab added hastily.

“Is the third option jumping out a window?”

“You’ve just got bills to pay.” She shrugged, and she glanced around before adding; “It’s not a crime to simply... survive.”

“So do you like what you do?” Steve asked quickly.

“No,” she said, “I don’t. But I’ve got bills to pay and my plans of being a ballerina didn’t work out so well.”

“Why not?” Steve asked jokingly.

She made a dramatically sad face and sighed wearily. “As it turns out, I can’t jump very high.”

Steve had to laugh, and Mab laughed along with him, losing the last bit of toast in her coffee. “Oh, shit -” she went fishing with a fork, appeared to think about eating the overly-soggy bread, and then discarded it on her plate with a half-disappointed sigh.

“Do you want more toast?” he asked.

“Nah,” she said. “You know,” she stirred her coffee and stared at the marbling of cream and coffee, “most people either want to talk nonstop about the chair, or they can’t talk about it at all.”

Steve gestured to the chair in question. “Can we talk about the bumblebee stripes, because I’ve got to know.”

“Oh, that’s a funny one, I-” evidently laughing and talking at the same time wasn’t so doable, because she started coughing. A few deep gulps of cold coffee seemed to do the trick at stopping it.

Steve’s phone buzzed, and a message from Natasha popped up. Wrong turn in Brooklyn? You’re late. 

They moved the buildings, he texted back.

Drop a pin and I’ll send a ride :)

Steve dropped a pin around the block - he definitely didn’t need Mab to see him getting into a luxury car, that would only raise questions he was hoping to avoid - before shoving the phone away. “I’m dead serious about the stripes, but I’ve got to go.” He tore off a corner of the paper placemat, grabbed a pen from his pocket, and scribbled the pen to get the ink flowing.

“Here,” he handed her the strip of paper. “If you ever want someone to wait with you in the rain for the bus, just give me a call.”

Mab stared at it, her expression blank. 

“Maybe I do need to go back and check that book out,” Steve joked nervously.

“No!” Mab exclaimed. “I just…” she set her hand on it, but didn't quite accept it. “You do… see the chair, right? Spinny thing with black and yellow stripes? What are you trying to do here?” she asked accusingly.

Her warm face returned as the waitress came by with a carafe of coffee, refilling both mugs even though Steve was clearly leaving. “Thank you,” she said, sounding earnest even though her eyes still had a sharp glint against him.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Steve asked carefully.

Mab hesitated, admitting softly; “I don’t know.”

“Okay then.” He stood, pulling a twenty from his wallet and handing it to the waitress as she passed. “So… next time it rains, I’ll be expecting a phone call.”

Mab looked down at the strip of paper, then up at him. “And what if it rains tomorrow?”

Steve adjusted his hat and turned up his jacket collar to protect from blowing rain. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stepping outside of the diner was like walking into a hurricane. The rain had gotten worse and a powerful wind had joined it. He was grateful to be getting a ride, but thought in hindsight maybe he wouldn’t have minded getting picked up just a little closer.

His phone buzzed and pulled it out to glance at the screen, expecting to see a witty reply from Natasha about how old men get lost. Instead, an unfamiliar number had texted him. 

If you ever feel the rash desire to wait around in the rain, you can call me, too.

Chapter Text

Steve’s knuckles ached, cracked and bleeding under the protective leather of his gloves. The muscles of his shoulders and legs screamed for rest. An endless stream of metal faces that laughed with one voice mocked their efforts and demanded blood. A body with too many bullets and not enough breath in its chest lay on the floor of the carrier’s transport. 

The massive structure composed of endless toils of impoverished people and the technological dreams of all the worst parts of man trembled in the sky as engines shuddered to a halt and it slowly yielded to gravity. Beyond his reach, beyond his control, beyond saving, the city would fall.

Falling.

A hole in the sky that tore through all expectations of dimension and reality, pouring out nightmares and swallowing friends. Aching and exhausted, pushed to the edge of survival and finding no more rope left to give, Steve could only watch as another moved to make the ultimate sacrifice. “Tony!” Steve yelled through the radio, hearing only devastating silence as he stared at a distant figure plummeting to the ground. Too far, too fast, too lifeless, he could feel the sick horror rising in his throat.

Falling.

“Bucky!” Steve reached until the tendons of his shoulder screamed at their limits, “Take my hand!” Fingers brushed his cold steel gave way and he caught only the barest glimpse of fear mixed with hurt as he just missed saving his friend. Too late, too slow, too weak to make a difference he could only squeeze his eyes shut and screw up the already weeping place in his heart as his friend vanished into the icy grip of death. 

Falling.

Falling inside himself, into himself, muscle shrinking away as his identity atrophied from misuse or abuse. Someone was pasting up papier-mache limbs on the outside of him to build him up again, painting a patriotic smile on his face and nailing a shield to his arm. Music built up around him and drowned out the cries and protests, muffling and muzzling him. He tried to move the arms but they moved in different ways, following commands he couldn’t hear and just dragging him along for the ride.

It is impossible to imagine-

Steve snapped awake violently as he fell out of bed, catching himself before his face hit the floor but not before the sheets wrapped around his legs and prevented a more graceful landing. Sweaty palms slipped against the smooth floor but a quick grip of an area rug made for easy recovery. 

Breathing heavily, Steve lowered himself slowly to the floor and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his palms across his face as he kicked off the sheets wrapped around his legs, wiping away sweat that stank of fear.

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “Lights on.”

Friday brought the lights up slowly as Steve surveyed the damage to his bed. The too-fluffy bed had been nearly destroyed in the night; covers and pillows strewn throughout the room and a heavy scent of his nightmare clung to the air.

Ready to be rid of the reminder in the air, Steve pulled himself together and rolled to his feet. He pulled the sheets off the bed and stripped the pillows, collecting the linens into a neat pile before placing them in the linen chute in the corner. He knew the building’s automated system would whisk them away and have them returned, freshly laundered, by the afternoon.

Steve pulled the spare sheets from a cabinet and went about making his bed, tucking the top sheet into tight pleats at the corners with a top surface flat enough to bounce a dime. Fluffing the pillows a little in their new cases, his bed made a pretty picture as he finished; no evidence at all of endless nights without restful sleep.

A hot shower that he regretfully switched to lukewarm halfway through helped clear the last of his senses. Alice had offered to make him an herbal soap that was supposed to soothe and ease his mind, but he honestly preferred the modern soaps that smelled nothing at all like his memories. He needed it to help separate his present from the past that clipped at his heels in the night.

Clean, calm, and completely collected at four-thirty in the morning, Steve knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. He dressed for the day and collected the stack of manila folders from the floor that usually lived at his bedside on his way out the door.

‘Coffee, Captain?’ the ceiling asked him as he walked, the volume respectfully low for the early hour.

“Yes, please,” he replied, trying to organize the stack of papers to make more than haphazard sense. He’d upset the collection at some point in the night, leaving it on the poor side of jumbled as a result.

The bitter smell of coffee welcomed him into the compound kitchen, but it took a little longer than usual for him to find a coffee mug. The previous shift had done some rearranging in the cabinets and nothing was where he usually left it.

Rotating with a collection of on-call Avengers sometimes left the compound feeling more like a public house than a military base, but they had made it work even though there were still kinks in the system. Tension seemed to live in the air - waiting to be called to assist in a transport, or apprehend a newly-discovered enhanced, or accompany a diplomat through compromised territory - they were always just waiting for the next alarm to go off.

The high-pitched keening wail of the “Kovy Alarm”, as Sam and Rhodey tended to call it, had absolutely no regard for personal lives or sleep cycles. Summons to attend to the requirements of the Sokovia Accords, whatever shift happened to be available in their 48-hour cycle dropped everything when the government called. How high, Sir?

Waiting for his coffee to reach a drinkable temperature somewhere under third-degree-burn territory, Steve did his best to reassemble the folders’ contents. Some folders were more difficult than others depending entirely on the content that was available in the file itself - or rather, how much had been redacted.

LUKAS RUSSO 0-7-3-9 : ACHLUOKINESIS: [REDACTED] participant under the [REDACTED] pursuant to [REDACTED] subsection [REDACTED] paragraphs [REDACTED] through [REDACTED], clause [REDACTED] of the Sokovia Accords. Fled assigned posting at [REDACTED] and apprehended. Recommendation - permanent detention and suspension of constitutional rights on S.A. Vessel ‘The Raft’. 

Staring at the mostly blacked-out page, Steve sipped at his coffee a bit too soon. He hissed in pain as it scorched the roof of his mouth and set the mug down.

“Friday,” Steve addressed, knowing the computer was always listening, “where was Lukas Russo’s original posting?”

‘That information has been classified.’

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I can see that. Can you do some digging?”

‘Is this an open or off-books search?’

Steve considered it. “Off-books. Friday?”

‘Yes, Captain?’

“How many sections of the Sokovia Accords include subsections with multiple paragraphs?”

The computer was silent as it ran a quick search. ‘Three hundred and seventy-one.’

Steve tested his coffee, finding it more temperate. “And how many of those also contain clauses?”

That search was faster. ‘Fifty-three.’

“Would you please have those printed for me?”

‘Sure,’ the computer replied, ‘what are you looking for?’

“I’m not sure yet.” Steve’s reading was interrupted by the violent screech of an alarm.

“Who’s on duty?” he barked, losing his grip on the mug as he tried to quickly set it down in the sink. The porcelain shattered and he winced, but there wasn’t time to clean it up.

‘Wilson, Rhodes, and Romanoff.’

Steve was already jogging down the hall, headed for his suit and shield. “Tell them to gear up and meet me in the hangar bay in five.”

Right at five minutes a collection of footfall signaled his small team had arrived at the jet, exchanging a range of tired comments and guesses as to the cause for the alarm.

“Fucking Kovy,” Sam swore as he buckled his harness, looking all the world as though he was still fighting off sleep. “I was having good dreams.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Natasha chided, looking completely normal as she glided into the copilot's seat, checking fuel gages and confirming that the jet was prepared for takeoff. 

“There’s been a breach on the Raft,” Steve briefed.

“What kind?” Rhodey asked.

“They’re not sure yet. The Box is showing multiple sensors have gone dark.” The Box. The quietest, deepest, darkest part of the Raft where terrifying powers went into solitary confinement. 

“Anyone in particular?” Natasha asked as she took over control of the jet to handle takeoff. 

Steve released his controls, switching to communications and dialing Washington. “De Léon.”

Sam groaned. “The Aztec; great.”

Trees zipped past as the heads-up display popped up in front of Steve, showing the interior of Secretary Ross’s office before the man himself stepped into view. “We’re not receiving anything from the Raft. I’m recommending that we sink it to depth remotely.”

“Dropping the Raft will make it somewhat difficult to board and confirm on arrival,” Steve tried to insist.

Ross was less than convinced. “All due respect, Captain, but you’re not the one in charge of these prisoners.”

Steve clenched his jaw to keep back the sharp retort that nearly jumped out of his mouth, settling for a more reasonable but still sharp middle-ground. “But you are asking for our help and I’m telling you that if you drop the Raft there’ll be no way to know for sure that there was a breach; it will be unrecoverable.”

There was a long, crackling pause in the connection as Ross mulled it over. “Alright, Captain. If this goes sideways it’s on you.”

Steve nodded. “We’ll meet your men at the Raft.”

“Negative - meet the helicopter at the midtown landing pad. If there’s been a breach we don’t need to give him multiple avenues of escape.” Ross tapped something on his end and new coordinates popped up in front of Natasha.

“Received,” Steve confirmed.

“Don’t be late,” Ross barked, severing his connection.

The tense silence inside the jet would have been unbearable if not for the roar of the engines accompanying it. 

“Is it possible to be late at six in the morning?” Sam asked sharply.

“Sam,” Steve started, but the reprimand fell short.

Natasha’s mouth twisted into her typical sly smile. “We’re ten minutes out.”

“Ten, copy,” Steve said, turning his head. “Rhodey - this is your first trip to the Raft, right?”

“I studied the schematics, but yeah. Why?”

“I want you to stick with Sam - it’s easy to get turned around down there, and I don’t want you anywhere near the Box if they do choose to drop it.”

Rhodey’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What does that mean; ‘drop it’?”

“It means some egghead in D.C. pushes a button or two and the ballast tanks get blown, flooding the Raft and dropping it to the bottom of the ocean,” Sam said.

Rhodey was alarmed. “Why is that even an option!?”

Still going about the process of getting ready, Natasha flicked a switch on the jet to switch communications to their portable units. “Radio check, channel two.”

“Two, confirmed.”

“Two, check.”

“Two - this place is still somewhat safe, right?”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax, Rhodes; all the prisoners wear suppressor bands, so it’s exactly as safe as a regular prison.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s very comforting, thank you.”

“Hope you’re alright with getting a little wet,” Natasha warned.

“I swear to God, if we have to swim-” Rhodey exclaimed as he unclipped his harness. 

Natasha punched the ramp control and her warning became instantly clear as they walked down to the asphalt. Whatever weak rays of early sunshine might be attempting to peek over the horizon were beaten back by angry winds and driving rain.

Steve had to yell over the howling wind to be heard as the Raft Tactical team approached, heads lowered to walk into the freezing sheets of water. “Is your transport here?” he barked, not seeing the helicopter yet.

“Not yet, sir! It’s having trouble landing in the storm!”

“Captain! Captain America!” A thin man in a yellow raincoat stumbled across the open asphalt, holding a recorder in front of him and likely getting rain pouring down the inside of his sleeve. “Can you tell me why the Raft has gone ‘radio silent’ for the last two hours?”

“You can’t be back here.”

“Actually, Sir, I have special permission from Secretary Ross himself so yeah, I can.” The reporter flashed a press badge. “I’m with the Post-Standard. Hunter Jansen.”

The chop of helicopter blades thankfully interrupted. 

“Mister Jansen, I’m going to need you to step off the landing site so we can get this bird down.”

“I’ll get you on the way out, shall I?”

The heli-transport was far, far less than comfortable. The howling wind shook and battered the reinforced aircraft, using its bulk against it in stomach-churning fashion. Wet, cold, and on the only slightly better side of miserable, the group kept receiving odd looks from the tactical team. 

Steve glanced at Natasha to see if she’d noticed as well. She returned his glance with a sidelong look of her own. 

She’d noticed.

Natasha reached above her for one of the integrated headsets built into the transport - the only way to be heard over the combined fury of the engines and the storm outside and shot a friendly smile to a tac-team soldier across the transport. He pointed to himself in a ‘who, me?’ kind of confusion and Natasha nodded with a soundless laugh. 

Poor man had no chance, Steve thought to himself, hiding a grin behind one hand. She’d worked her charms with less time than a thirty-minute chopper ride to work with. Even without being able to hear a word of their conversation, the aura of her charm was palpable. He’d seen it up close, back when SHIELD had fallen, and even then it hadn’t been directly intended to charm him but do misdirect the Strike team hunting them down.

As quickly as she’d turned on the charm it switched off as the helicopter slowed, hovering over the slowly opening bay doors of the Raft. Leaning to one side, Steve could see out the small window and see sheets of rain replacing the waves of seawater trying to enter the facility.

The helicopter shuddered as it descended, fighting against gusting winds and powerful rains to make a safe landing on the launch pad. Steve was not the only one to breathe a deep sigh of relief as they finally landed. 

Steve nodded to Sam and Rhodey and they disembarked with the rest of the team, giving him and Natasha the briefest of moments to talk before they would be noticed missing.

“What time did the Kovy sound at the compound?” she asked under her breath.

“Just before five.”

“That tactical team has been waiting at the midtown launch pad since four.” She looked up at him, her lips pursed. “So why did the Secretary wait until five to sound the alarm?”

Tense voices from outside the helicopter cut their discussion short. Steve jumped out of the open transport door, shield at the ready and Natasha right behind him. He’d been ready for a fight. He hadn’t been ready for the collection of arguing officers that seemed beyond confused and irritated that they’d landed on the Raft.

“Major Thomas!” Steve barked, interrupting the rising voices.

The Raft’s commander looked beyond confused to see him. “Captain Rogers? What are you doing here?”

Steve approached, and both his team and the Raft’s guards moved swiftly out of his way. “De Léon’s transponder went dark - did he escape the Box?”

The Major spluttered. “Escape the - the Aztec was transferred to gen-pop, sir. Transferred yesterday. He’s been a model prisoner. You could have called, Sir, and we’d have told you that.”

Steve was quickly developing a headache. “D.C. has been calling you nonstop for the last three hours, son.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Major Thomas gulped nervously, suddenly aware of the relevance of the sudden visit. “I’ll have someone check the relays immediately. Can I… can I get you somewhere to sit down? Maybe dry off?”

Steve shook off the rain, regretting not clipping his helmet on before stepping off the helicopter and onto the open landing pad. “Where is De Léon right now?”

“In the dining hall having recreational time with the others.” He was certain - no doubt at mixed in with his concern and confusion.

“Show me.” 

The Major waved down a guard. “Pearson, take the Captain directly to the mess.”

The others stayed completely silent as they were led through the maze of halls into the depths of the Raft, bypassing two new checkpoints that Steve didn’t remember seeing before. 

‘Captain, you’re receiving a phone call.’

“I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

‘Caller identification lists it as a favorite contact; Mab.’

Steve stopped short of the dining hall entrance. Water dripped from his shoulders and tumbled through open metal grating into the depths of the Raft. It was raining in New York. “Put her through.” 

He waved the others on as he stepped to the side of the doorway. Natasha raised an eyebrow and stayed behind as Rhodey and Sam continued inside. “Hello?” he asked as the comms switched over to a connection with his cell phone.

“Steve?” Mab’s hesitant voice seemed quietly apologetic.

Head ducked as he tried to keep his conversation relatively private, water rolled off his helmet and tickled his nose in an unpleasant way. “You don’t think I could convince the weather to rain tomorrow instead, do you?”

She laughed. “Probably not; but you never know in New York. You’re busy, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I’m shouldn’t have-“

He stopped her short. “No, I told you to. Listen I’m… on assignment right now.”

She seemed to understand. “Ah, secret military contractor stuff.”

A guard seemed to notice his distraction and moved to intervene, raising a commanding hand. “Captain Rogers, you can’t make calls in here-”

In a flash, Natasha had stepped between them, even advancing with enough confidence in her face to make the guard take a step back. “No no,” Natasha warned, finger to her lips. 

Grateful for the assist but mindful of his mission, Steve tried to wrap up the call quickly. “Mab, are you at the library now? Because I can have someone meet you.”

“No; it’s early and I’m still at home. But… I just checked and the weather report does say there’s a fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow?” In most other circumstances it might be odd to hope for rain.

“I’ll be there,” Steve said.

“Okay.” Piped directly into his ear, was he imagining the clarity with which he could hear a smile in her voice? “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he could feel the corner of his mouth lift into a weak smile, “Ten?”

Some paper shuffled. “Eleven? I’ve got a thing downtown at nine.”

He nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Eleven it is.”

“Okay,” she said again. “I’ll see you. Bye.”

“Bye.” Phones didn’t click when a call ended now; the line just went dead or a little beeping chime might remind you that you were now just talking to yourself. 

Steve lifted his head, finding that Natasha looked like the spider that had caught the canary. “So…?” she asked, nearly purring in satisfaction.

“Don’t start,” Steve warned, leading her through the open doorway into the dining hall.

“What? I’m just curious,” she defended, “I thought you were too busy for dating.”

It figured that Rhodes and Sam hadn’t gotten far, and managed to pick up on the conversation at exactly the worst time for Steve. “You’ve got a date? Congrats, man,” Rhodey slapped him on the shoulder. “Is it Sharon?”

“I bet it’s Sharon,” Sam agreed, looking smug about it.

Nat shook her head. “Mm, it’s not.”

“Bet?” Sam asked.

“Twenty bucks,” Nat shook on it before Steve could stop either of them.

“You’re both wrong - I’m not dating anyone; just meeting a friend.”

Natasha considered this, turning to Sam. “Twenty bucks,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

The Raft was an odd place to be detained. It wasn’t technically a prison, since they weren’t afforded the same rights as a prisoner of the United States, but whatever expectations Ginny might have had about being there had fairly swiftly been thrown out of the window.

Ginny didn’t exactly ‘make friends’ with the other prisoners of the Raft, but she was careful not to make enemies. Her slightly-rounded mom-look had served her well; she benefitted from reminding more than a few people of their own mothers. Sure, there were the usual brawls as people locked involuntarily into tight quarters and given the barest of food that counted as nutritious are always likely to need, but Ginny was always excluded. Nobody had beef with Mom. 

In fact, the threat of a fight had seemed particularly bad only the day before during rec time. Ginny had pressed herself into a far corner as the room locked down and warnings from the guards above could barely be heard over the yelling within the dining hall. 

Someone new to the general population that Ginny hadn’t exchanged a single word with moved between her and the angry, milling crowd; towering far above six feet and reaching for seven, he was a very effective barrier. Back to the crowd and giving her a friendly smile, he had spoken in a low and calming voice.

“What are you reading?” he asked, not bothering to give the brewing conflict any attention.

“The Emperor of All Maladies,” she’d answered hesitantly, holding the book out a little further from the tight grip she’d had against her chest.

“Is there a library?”

Ginny could have laughed. “No, but I can put in a word for you if you’d like? Geneva Ellis; Ginny.” She held a hand out for a shake without really thinking about it.

“Miguel De Léon.” He said his name with a smooth latin roll, and took her hand slowly, carefully. A cup thrown from across the room beaned him on the back of the head. He hardly seemed to notice.

She liked Miguel. She waved him over to her table as she settled in for morning rec and waited for the mess line to open for breakfast. The waters of men parted for him, some moving in a skittering motion to get out of his way. They acted as though Miguel was a man with a bad reputation, though the man himself barely acknowledged it. 

“Breakfast is late,” he commented in greeting, sitting on the table instead of the bench. The mental image of him trying to fold his big legs under what would be a very low table for him was quite funny, and Ginny smiled.

But her friend was right. The disruption in the ordinarily iron-clad schedule seemed to be putting people on edge. She looked around, taking in shifty looks and twitchy hands all around. All, it seemed, save for Miguel and one always-calm Russian.

Ginny stood, stretched her bad knee, and walked slowly over to the Russian. His two larger companions paid her no mind. To them, at least, she had clearly been classified as harmless. “Good morning, Mr. Volkov.” She noticed he kept his gaze fixed up at the guards’ catwalk above. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Not necessarily, Mrs. Ellis,” Ivan Volkov greeted, also nodding to Miguel who had followed Ginny without a sound. Impressive, for such a large man. Volkov’s large companions had clearly not classified Miguel as harmless and took wary steps forward. Volkov waved them off with a benign smile.

The doors opened and two guards entered, followed by two men she didn’t recognize. “Holy shit…” she murmured, sitting up straighter on the bench. She did recognize them, but only from the news.

Ivan Volkov’s attention drifted to a clock on the wall. He rubbed together the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand but soon twitched his suppressor wrist irritably. “Interesting,” he said smoothly with a smile.

“What’s interesting?” Ginny asked.

His smile broadened, deepening the crows feet at the corners of his eyes.  “Breakfast is late.”

“Right…” Ginny murmured, not quite believing the answer.

“You behave today, Mrs. Ellis. I don’t believe our friends will be in a giving mood for a while.” He nodded to Miguel and calmly clasped his hands behind his back, meandering off and leaving a very confused Ginny behind. 

Miguel sighed. “Geneva, you are a trouble-magnet.”

Ginny made a weird face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You cannot be mother to Ivan Volkov; he’s at least twice your age.” Miguel hummed as someone else in the crowd caught his eye. “Russo, on the other hand, could use a motherly scolding once in a while. He spends too many days in the Box.”

“He’s just having a hard time lately,” Ginny defended automatically, and Miguel laughed heartily.

“There! You see? Mother hen looking after ducklings not her own.”

“Two-eight-eight!” A guard yelled, advancing with a tasing rod already in hand.

“¿Si?” Miguel asked calmly, managing better than Ginny would have not to flinch.

The guard threatened Ginny briefly with the rod and she stepped back, arms raised. She hadn’t been tased in a while and had no plans to relive the experience anytime soon. “Suppressor check, two-eight-eight.”

Miguel tilted his head, holding out the arm with his suppressor band. “¿Quieres comprobar esto?”

“Yes, you big fu - I mean… yes, two-eight-eight.” The guard glanced up to the observing Avengers, their presence seeming to unnerve him. 

“No es mi culpa que no hables español,” Miguel muttered as the guard inspected the band.

Any time the large man breathed out of rhythm or shifted his stance, the guard flinched. It took several minutes for him to inspect all of the external components and confirm all the right lights were blinking, and Ginny believed the poor guard nearly had a heart attack at least twice.

Satisfied at last, the guard backed away. “Back to your rec time, Aztec.”

“¿Que?” Miguel asked.

The guard gestured with the tasing rod, twirling it a little. “Tiempo de juego, two-eight-eight.”

Miguel nodded emphatically, smiling warmly. “Ah, Si. Espero que desarrolles tacto en algún momento y al menos me preguntes si hablo inglés.”

“Whatever.” The guard retreated quickly and Miguel sat back down on the table. Where Ginny would have been exhausted by the exchange, Miguel seemed entertained. 

“So do you do that for fun, or…?” she trailed off.

 He leaned back, tapping a finger absently on the steel table.  “They never asked.”

Ginny looked around for Ivan but the Russian had vanished already. “Is that like exploiting a racist stereotype in reverse? They assume the Mexican can’t speak English, so you don’t correct them so they leave you alone?”

“Something like that.”

Ginny straightened as a familiar star-spangled form walked out onto the guard’s catwalk, followed by a familiar redhead. She lifted her hand a little to wave, thought better of it, and put her hand down.

The Captain seemed to find her anyway, and from a distance she could see him offer her a nod and a small smile. Ginny smiled back, returning the familiar nod.

Glancing around, his avenging friends seemed to be discussing something at length and not paying attention to the Captain, he lifted his hands and made a book-opening gesture, the question on his face. Done with the books?

Ginny lifted The Emperor of All Maladies slightly, then set it down. She wasn’t quite finished, so she held her fingers slightly apart in a pinching gesture. Little bit left. 

Steve nodded, and held up two fingers slightly, tilting his head. Two more?

Ginny shook her head, then tilted it to Miguel while still looking at the Captain, and held up three fingers. One more for my friend.

Steve’s shoulders shook with a mild laugh she couldn’t hear at her distance and he shook his head in disbelief, but nodded. Sure.

“Arranging contraband, Geneva?” Miguel asked, amusement evident in his tone.

“Something like that,” Ginny replied, and Miguel laughed.

Chapter Text

Mab tapped a pen against the long mahogany conference table in impatient irritation, following along with the tempo of only two bars of music running on a loop in her head. She tapped the screen of her phone to check the time, and sighed as it read 9:47. 

If she could spend forty minutes coordinating subway and bus rides to be at the office on-time, why couldn’t anyone else manage to run even close to that?

Smart flats slapped against the thin office carpet in the hallway and a barking voice overpowered the ambient noise, preceding the arrival of Mab’s boss. Mariah looked for all the world like someone’s fun-loving, sock-knitting, cat-hoarding aunt. Plump and adorned in all of the kitschy crocheted acoutremon of an older childless woman, the resemblance stopped short at her face and recoiled in fear at her voice.

“How’ve you been, Mab?” she asked, sweeping into the room with a clatter of heavy jewelry, giving a brief glance at Mab’s wheelchair as she passed. Her brow showed she wanted to ask, but the pursed shape of her lips showed she knew better.

“Peachy.” Mab’s attention moved briefly to the wide bay of windows, appraising the low-hanging clouds threatening rain. “So what didn’t you want to say over the phone?”

Mariah pushed a plate of muffins closer to Mab, who shook her head at the offer. “Mab honey, you’ve more than proved yourself to be a great editor since your uncle convinced us to take you on, and I’m glad you were able to make working from home work so well with all of the… everything.” Mariah cleared her throat. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not a great editor, because you are, I’m just saying that you need to learn to be nicer.”

“Nicer.” Mab repeated the word as if that would make it sound less ridiculous.

Mariah nodded, and her glasses slipped down her nose a little, disturbing the beaded lanyard keeping them from getting lost. “Yeah; nicer. Terry called after he got his manuscript back and he didn’t appreciate all of your notes.”

Mab chewed on her lower lip briefly, restraining a sharp retort. “Which notes exactly?”

Mariah waffled. “All of them.”

“So,” Mab spoke carefully, setting down her pen and lacing her fingers together, “he would prefer that notes in the vein of ‘new paragraph’ and ‘spelling error’ and ‘capitalize’ read as… what?”

Mariah leaned back in her chair, some part squeaking in protest. “This is his fifth book with us; can’t you just just write over the text with the changes instead of adding notes?”

“This is his fifth book with us, Mariah!” Mab’s voice rose a little higher than she’d intended. “Can’t he just learn to capitalize his character’s names and spell them consistently on his own?”

Mariah leaned forward and jabbed a finger at Mab threateningly. “Your job is to edit, not to try to teach him some kind of lesson! He wants you fired, Mab! This is the third-”

“What?” Mab interrupted, her voice shaky.

Mariah breathed deeply, reigning in the fire that had risen to match Mab’s frustration. “I’m not going to fire you; you’re too good for that. I am saying that I can’t keep pulling you from projects because you can’t get along with the authors. Don’t make me choose between you and the money again, you understand?”

“Yes.” Mab lowered her head, clenching her fists in her lap. “I understand.”

Mariah sighed, pushing her glasses further up her face. “Since we don’t know if you’re going to be back here before your birthday, take this.” She retrieved a small package wrapped in newspaper from her tote bag and slid it across the table. 

“What is it?” Mab asked suspiciously.

“A box of scorpions,” Mariah deadpanned. “It’s a birthday present; take it.”

Mab accepted the package, putting it away in her bag at Mariah’s further prompting. Mab checked her phone. “I’m running late; I have to go.” She pushed her wheelchair back from the conference table and hastily swung her bag around to the back. It caught against her shoulder and scratched deeply.

Mariah seemed concerned. “Are you okay on the bus with that? Should I call you a cab?”

“I got here fine, I’ll get back fine.” Mab didn’t mean for the tone to be so sharp - she was on thin ice already - but her boss seemed to understand. Or, at the very least, gave her a little more leeway to be cranky in the moment. “See you next time,” she added, offering a warm smile.

Mariah held the glass door open for Mab to retreat. “You’ll get it right. It just takes work.”

Mab could feel a scream building inside her as she rolled down the long hallway and people jumped out of her way like they were a hero in their minds. Impulsively she took a left when the elevators required a right turn, retreating to the company bathrooms. It was a little difficult to wrangle the heavy door but she managed, swiftly locking it to secure her alcove of sanity against any intruders.

Smooth tile surfaces and humming overhead lights welcomed her with broad arms, inviting her to roll far from the door and skin across pristine reflective surfaces. Mab raised her hands, trembling, and pressed both tightly against her mouth, trapping all the anger and frustration inside her body. 

Mab screamed into her hands. The breath ran out of her, bending her at the waist and bowing her head to scatter her tears into her lap. She could feel the gaping maw of her scream pulling down on her jaw; a painful force trying to claw its way out of her and raze the earth bare. 

Mab locked her wheels, kicked the foot pedals out of the way, and savored the act of standing. Blood rushed from her head as she rose and static filled her vision. A quick grab for the sink saved her from teetering over and breaking into a thousand pieces on the floor. Gripping the artificial porcelain with shaking hands she looked in the slightly crooked bathroom mirror.

Eyes puffy and red, and a feeble attempt at professional makeup had smudged all over. Mab splashed water on her face and couldn’t worry about the waste of mascara. 

A memory of a soft touch caressed the back of her head. “Oh honey… are you not feeling well? Do you want something to settle your stomach?”

Mab remembered crying in a different bathroom, not so long ago. “I just can’t handle it - I can’t handle one more thing being wrong.”

Her mother’s strong voice denied her anguish. “Yes you can. You can and you will, and you’ll handle the next thing and the next. You’re a Dumont, and Dumont women are fearless.”

“Just let me be upset about this!” She’d smacked her mom’s hand away, too tired of the coddling and gentle touches. She didn’t want to be yet more breakable and another rung down the ladder. But her mom had stayed, still within reach and still embracing with gentle hands.

Now Mab was alone, in such a similar moment that she could almost smell her mother’s perfume or feel the caress of her hands on her hair. Mab closed her eyes and lowered her head, taking shaky but deep breaths to steady her frustrated emotions. 

The dizziness was catching up and Mab retreated to her chair. It waited with open arms as she eased down into it and unlocked her wheels.

Someone banged on the locked bathroom door. “Hurry up in there!”

As Mab took her time ensuring she was good to go, the person outside grew more agitated, banging harder as Mab rolled up to the door and unlocked it.

The door-banger, a tall man in a loose suit, drew down his gaze from the height of an ordinary person to Mab’s much lower level. He flushed a deep embarrassed purple and spluttered an apology. “Oh! I’m - I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Mab beamed with her best fake smile. “It’s fine.” She ran over the edge of his shoe as she passed, and though he hissed in pain he clearly didn’t dare yell any more.

She could feel that scream growing inside her again as she descended in the elevator and multiple smiling faces offered to take the next elevator, as if her disability might be contagious or otherwise required a safe distance.

The scream inside her bounced around her tightly-closed mouth as she waited for the bus under a faintly-raining sky, as she boarded the bus on a shaky lift, as she was locked down into place, as she was released and the process reversed.

The scream clawed inside her like hunger, demanding sacrifice every time she smiled and was so far from meaning it. She beat it back as she skimmed up the accessible ramp and the auto-switch opened the door for her. The silence of the library threw a weighted blanket over her anger and her shoulders began to relax.

In search of a hero, for a figure he could never hope to properly disguise under fake glasses and a baseball cap - not to anyone really looking, anyway, the scream inside her began to fade. The hungry, furious, screaming demon inside her chest cackled as a long-abandoned door creaked open just a little wider than before. 

Mab spotted him examining science fiction novels and she grinned without meaning to. She stopped one aisle over and pulled out her phone, thumbs hesitating over the screen before texting a single word.

“Do I want to know?” the librarian asked, raising an eyebrow at the poor condition of the book Steve was trying to return. Waterlogged and generally bedraggled, he’d somehow forgotten the little novel was in his pocket on his last trip to the Raft and it had been utterly ruined. 

Steve hunched lower as he tried to appear even more apologetic. “I’m so sorry; I thought I’d kept it well enough out of the rain, but…”

The librarian sighed, peeling open the back cover to scan the barcode inside. “These things happen, but I am going to have to fine you the cost of the book.”

“Of course, yes, thank you.” Steve pulled out his wallet and happily paid the twenty-dollar fine. 

“I am going to have to ask you to be more careful in the future,” the librarian advised as she returned his library card and a small amount of change. “No more drowning borrowed books.”

“Of course,” Steve agreed emphatically, “and before I forget - could you point me towards the self-help books?” He checked his watch, confirming he still had a little time to set up his joke before he was due to meet Mab.

“Second sublevel, follow the signs.”

“Thank you.”

It didn’t take too long checking the shelves with his head at an uncomfortable angle, reading titles and mulling over his options before Steve found the perfect book. He hesitated a moment, though, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t. Sure, she’d laid a funny trap for his antiquated chivalrous nature, but was it alright to play one in return?

He didn’t have a lot of experience to draw on. Natasha was more of a conversational wit than an outright prankster, he hadn’t spoken to Sharon since she’d lost her cover as his neighbor, and Alice was usually too busy to dedicate her time to jokes. And Peggy… Steve’s heart sunk and regret chewed at him. He grabbed the book from the shelf and headed for the elevators, going down.

What am I even doing here? Steve thought, watching the elevator’s little digital screen confirm his descent. He was just playing pretend at some version of history where he got to be normal; to obsess over whether his words might make a lady upset and not over whether they might ignite war. 

Steve had started to believe that the guy who wanted stability, a family, and a life beyond conflict had gone into the ice seventy years ago and someone else had come out. He’d started to believe, he realized, that he’d volunteered to be a tool of the government; that he still owed them something after all this time. 

But I do , he thought sourly. He’d signed the Accords to give Bucky his freedom and legitimize Wanda, Vision, and Sam. To keep the family together. They also seemed to be collecting new members faster than Steve could keep track - they had an Ant-Man and a Spider-Man now as well. Did they understand what they were signing on to, or did they just trust that the Avengers wouldn’t direct them into a storm?

He turned down an aisle, following call numbers to find his other books and increase the stack. Just to be safe, he planned to bring four books with him on his next outing - just in case either he ruined another one or Mrs. Ellis had made another friend. He’d be safe either way. 

Steve lost track of time as he found his books and reading the backs to try and get an idea of what he was collecting, Steve absently pulled his phone out of his pocket as it buzzed. 

Peekaboo , the text read. Eight letters and no punctuation and the world slipped away. A small amount of eager anticipation caught up as his head jerked up, searching only briefly until a familiar set of wheels breached the end of the aisle, followed by a sly smiling Mab. 

“Hey, stranger. Branching out, are we?” she asked, eyeing the section. 

Steve shrugged, adding another book to his stack. “You could say I’m starting something of a book club at… work.”

The corners of her lips quirked up in a smile. “Mmn, cryptic. Very classified military contractor work, book clubs are. Everything went okay with your assignment yesterday?”

Mild panic coursed through him. “Well, I really can’t talk about it.”

“I know,” she folded her hands in her lap, “but I can still ask if you’re ok, right? You and your - what would it be: your team? Squad?”

Her concern was touching, and her understanding a relief. “Everyone’s fine.”

“Good.” Mab held out her arms for the stack of books. “Give them here.”

Steve surrendered them without protest. “There’s one for you in there.”

“For me? Which - oh ha ha.” She threw the book at his chest and he caught it easily, poorly stifling his laughter. How to Make Friends and Influence People. “You’re hilarious.”

She was still smiling, and the new sparkle to her eyes said he’d done the right thing by returning her practical joke. “Well if you don’t like my suggestions, what are you here for instead?”

“I have a confession.” She looked guilty. “I called you yesterday because it was raining, not because I was really planning on going to the library. It’s just…!” She made a distrssed noise. “When we talked the other week, you said ‘next time it rains I expect a phone call’, and I thought if it rained and I didn’t call that you might think I was ignoring you or something, and I would never-”

Steve waved his hands, hoping to interrupt the quick rambling panic she’d descended into. “Whoah, slow down!”

She huffed, a little cough accompanying it as she tried to compose herself. “It meant a lot to me that you were… you know… not a dick. So I wanted to make sure you knew that I knew you meant it.” Her brows knitted together in a sincere frown. 

Steve could have laughed but he thought that might be a little too mean. It was too much of a relief that she worried about the little things just as much as he’d agonized over whether it was appropriate to play a practical joke. “So here we are.”

“Yep. Here we are.” She glanced at the aisle. “I guess I could do worse than science fiction for casual reading.” She trailed her fingers over the spines. “What are you reading these days, Steve?” 

“Mostly briefings from… from work.” Why did he always stumble over the easy questions?

She examined him carefully. “Open to suggestions?”

“I don’t think I have the spare time,” he admitted. 

“Okay.” She let it drop without further comment. “Well, you’re in front of the section I want to peruse, so unless you want me to roll over your feet…”

Steve obligingly moved out of her way, managing to keep himself from apologizing. The broadening of Mab’s smile indicated that she noticed, and appreciated it.

Even though she let it go so quickly, Steve’s mind continued to dwell on it. He spent all of his free time working on reviewing Raft documents, on training, on helping others train. In reality, he didn’t actually have free time. 

So would it be so wrong or too selfish to carve out time for himself? Wasn’t that what he was doing at that exact moment? Offering to wait in the rain with this stranger - less strange every time they crossed paths - wasn’t going to prevent any wars, but he’d done it anyway. He’d done it because at that moment he’d felt the most like his old self. 

“Mab?” he broached quietly. 

“Hmmn?” she asked idly, her brow furrowing as she made some very serious decision between the two books. 

He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If I did have the time, sometimes, what would you recommend?”

She glanced up at him, seemingly judging his sincerity before answering. “Well… for military contractors with very little time on their hands, possibly in need of a bit of escapism?” Mab paused too long, stared up at him too carefully. “The Martian Chronicles. It’s a collection of short stories from 1950, so no one bit will take up too much of your time.”

She leaned down, grabbing a book from the bottom row, but as she sat up her eyes lost focus and she dropped the book into her lap. She flailed a little, grabbing the handrail on one tire but missing the other, knocking into the bookshelf instead. 

“Mab!?” Steve asked, crouching quickly and grabbing her flailing hand to keep her from hurting herself.

“I’m okay,” she answered in a slightly dreamy voice, squeezing his hand, “just… got a little dizzy.” She blinked rapidly, letting go of the tire rail to rub at her eyes. “I made the mistake of wondering what it might be like to be your height and I got vertigo.”

“Look at me,” Steve ordered, not liking the shaky wobble he could still feel through her hand.

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

“Sure you are; look at me.” He held up one finger with his free hand and Mab’s eyes lagged in focusing on it. Crouched down so he was level with her face the color of her eyes jumped out at him for the first time. Blue pouring into green, water nourishing a spring garden, diving into an emerald abyss. 

She protested and her voice grounded him again, drawing him out of his distraction. “I didn’t hit my head on anything; it’s just my meds.”

“Follow my finger, Mab,” he ordered, watching her eyes twitch side-to-side as she followed the path of his hand. Blue, blue forgetting that it was blue and transforming to green, green like life waving at the shore from tumbling ocean waves. The call of the dark heart of her eyes grew stronger the longer he stared; promising rest, promising peace.

“Do I pass muster?” she asked, squeezing his hand.

Steve coughed as he let go of her hand, aware that he had held on and stared far longer than was polite. He stood, brushing some floor lint from his knees. “You look okay to me.”

“Well, thank you, Doctor Steve; I’ll be sure to let my medical team know I have your stamp of approval.” Mab fiddled with the crooked stack of books in her lap. “That’s more than enough excitement for one day; shall we?” she invited him to follow her with a wave of her hand.

Steve surrendered. “Well, you’ve got my books so I guess I’m at your disposal.”

“Such power!” she declared with an excited whisper, taking off down the aisle towards the elevators.

He didn’t need to measure his steps to make sure his companion could keep up. She skimmed along at a brisk pace, the motion of air around her forcing bits of bark-brown hair to flutter in the artificial breeze. It was easy, easier than any part of the last week. Talking like normal people, doing normal things, enjoying interactions not colored by an omnipresent dread of forced action or inaction. 

She waited patiently as he checked out and made no comment about the additional warning he received about not getting his books wet. He returned the favor, waiting as she exchanged mild pleasantries with the librarian who seemed intent on asking multiple questions about Mab’s uncle. 

Like the time before, Mab handed him her green umbrella as she opened the automatic door, but paused as soon as she rolled out onto the ramp. “Oh,” she said softly, holding a hand up to the sky, “it stopped raining.”

“I guess we don’t need this,” he said, giving back the umbrella as she reached the bottom of the ramp and turned out on clear concrete.

“No,” her face fell and her smile turned sad, “I suppose not.”

Steve instantly understood the meaning of her sadly soft words. That was supposed to mean he didn’t have to be there. It meant that she felt poorly for imposing on his time. 

“Come on,” Steve said, turning the opposite direction as the bus stop.

Mab followed, keeping up easily with his long strides. He normally made an effort to move with crowds and not be the rude guy who made others move out of his way. But with Mab in tow he held his ground and people moved easily out of his way, clearing the way for her to have an easier time of it.

The tables in Bryant Park - a refuge of greenery tucked away behind the library - were mostly unoccupied as it had only just stopped raining. Steve picked a spot set back from the sidewalk and moved one of the pair of chairs out of the way so Mab could take its place.

Steve leaned back in the second metal chair gently, testing its sturdiness before relaxing into it. “I like sitting out here.”

Mab backed into the open spot left by the absent chair and crossed her arms tightly around her middle, trying to keep a little heat from escaping. “I do too, when it’s not forty degrees.”

He honestly hadn’t noticed that autumn had arrived so briskly and that it might be a little too cold for others. Steve shrugged off his jacket without really thinking about it. He froze halfway through offering it to Mab. His brain stumbled over the presumptive gesture, and he found he didn’t know whether or not that was still something that was a nice gesture or now too antiquated to be mentioned.

Mab saved him, reaching out the rest of the way and taking the proffered jacket. “Thanks.” She smiled as she draped it around her shoulders. It wasn’t the broad and beaming smile that she showed to fill the awkward social moments but failed to reach her eyes. This smile started behind her eyes and spread like heavy morning mist rising from the cold ground.

She turned her attention away from him and out at the mostly-empty park. The city hadn’t completely emerged from the storm yet. There was the usual rattle of tires over manhole covers and honking of irritated drivers, but the air still smelled clear. 

It felt like an appropriate time to talk; to ask questions or share stories, but Steve didn’t feel the need. It felt okay to sit in silence, appreciating the silence. A mild breeze shook the trees, scattering heavy remnants of rain on their heads.

“So,” Mab broke the silence, “if you had a million dollars, but you had to spend it making something on your own, what would it be?”

Steve wondered if maybe he had missed a conversational segue. “Wh… what?”

“I despise small talk. What would you make?” 

Thrown for a loop couldn’t begin to describe Steve’s thought process at that moment. “I’m gonna need some time to think about that one.”

Mab chuffed with laughter. “We can try normal small talk if you prefer; the weather, work, weddings…”

Steve leapt on that. “My best friend is getting married next month.”

“Oh? Are you invited?” she asked with a sly smile.

Steve made an offended noise. “Yes, I’m invited - why wouldn’t I be?”

Mab shrugged slowly, not meeting his eyes. “Well, if the groom isn’t the most handsome, he might not want you giving the bride second thoughts,” she whispered conspiratorially. 

“They waited a long time for this; the time for second thoughts has passed,” he assured.

Mab shivered, adjusting Steve’s jacket around her shoulders. “I wouldn’t get married in early winter in New York if you paid me.”

He hummed. “They’d probably agree, because it’s in Santa Barbara.”

“California!?” Mab gasped. “I’m jealous! It’s supposed to start snowing soon. You’ll miss out on all the great sledding, though. That hill between 102nd and 103rd is amazing.”

“I grew up in Brooklyn, so Miller Hill was my favorite.” He paused, thinking back. “Now that I think about it I’m pretty sure I broke my arm on that hill when I was ten.”

Mab laughed as she pulled the collar of his jacket higher to protect against a chilling breeze. 

“Coffee?” Steve offered, starting to stand. 

“Oh, I’d love some!”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll break out the wheel chocks,” she replied.

A contented grin stayed on his face as he stood in line at the pop-up coffee shop on the far corner of the park. It moved quickly, and the barista seemed bored at his simple order of two plain coffees. They were dispensed from little better than a vat and handed over with little ceremony after he paid.

“Do you have cream?” he asked as an afterthought.

The barista jerked her head to the left. “Around the corner.”

Doing his best to remember the exact color of Mab’s coffee from before, Steve took his time adding cream to her cup and stirring it with a little plastic stick. When he was fairly certain he’d gotten it just right - or as good as it was going to get - he put the lid back on and retraced his steps through the park.

True to her word, Mab hadn’t moved an inch in his absence. She looked out at the open park space, fingers plucking along the sleeves of his borrowed jacket.

“I hope I got the ratio right.,” he said as he handed her the coffee.

She sipped at it delicately. “It’s perfect. What do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s two for two,” Mab said, pointing at him threateningly. “Next time it’s on me.”

Steve changed the subject. “Do you know your socks don’t match?” He wasn’t certain in the dim lighting of the library’s stacks, but in the outdoors he was certain that she was wearing one navy sock and one purple.

“I’m aware.” She shot him an amused sidelong glance. “I wanted both colors, so I wore both.” Her phone rang and she jumped slightly, pulling it out of her pocket and sighing at the screen. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

“David?” she answered. She jerked the phone away from her ear as a loud voice streamed through the other end. She held it a few inches away from her ear to be safe as she tried to interject. “Slow down, what came in the-” she paused, listening. “So it’s-” she sighed. “You know what, I’m headed home. Try not to panic before I get back. We’ll figure it out.”

She hung up even as the speaker continued, effectively cutting them off. “I have to go. Either my uncle is on fire or his computer is; I can’t be certain.” She shrugged off Steve’s jacket and tossed it over the table. “Thank you for letting me borrow that.”

“Should I-?” he was halfway through standing when Mab pointed at him threateningly, so he sat back down.

“You stay and enjoy the park, sir!” she ordered. “It’s a wonderful day now, and you have a book to enjoy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve answered with a smile.

She nodded decisively, working her way back onto concrete and making her way back to the bus stop. She waved idly before turning the last corner, like she wasn’t sure how else to say goodbye.

He could feel the noise of the world pressing in again, the thoughts of his responsibilities crowding to the forefront of his mind. He just wanted one more minute of peace. 

A question suddenly occurred to Steve and he, for some reason, didn’t feel like it could wait. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen, indecision holding him back for a moment. But as he tapped Mab’s number and lifted the phone to his ear his chest was filled with a tender eagerness and not weighty dread.

“Miss me already?” she answered.

“What would you make?” he asked.

“The million?” she asked, picking up on the question’s meaning. “I’d learn to forge blades, buy a bunch of meteors, and make a sword of star-steel.” 

“That’s…” he paused, “a really good answer.”

“Thanks,” she laughed. The faint whine of brakes cut through the call. “My bus is here,” she said.

“I guess I should let you go,” he added.

“Probably. I can’t drive this thing one-handed. Listen,” her end crackled as she adjusted the phone, “let me know when you’ve got an answer, okay? I want to hear what you come up with.”

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning back in the park’s metal chair.

“Okay,” she repeated. “Bye, Steve.”

“Bye, Mab.” He lowered the phone, pressing the red indicator to hang up the call. He set the phone on his stack of books on the table and looked out at the city. 

He couldn’t think of a single thing. He’d spent a lot of time on the internet catching up with the world, learning about leaps and bounds accomplished by the generations that had followed him. They’d figured out solutions to problems he’d never considered to be issues, only annoyances. They’d made new problems and solved those, too. 

But it didn’t have to be for the whole world, he thought suddenly. Mab’s answer had been purely selfish - something that she wanted for herself and wanted to learn to make. What did he want?

Steve’s phone rang, derailing the train of thought. Caller ID read Compound. He stood, gathering his books and his jacket as he held the phone to his ear. “Rogers,” he barked into the phone, all moments of peace left behind, sitting alone at a table with only one chair and looking out on a storm-washed park.

Paul stared down at the pink slip under the empty glass on the bar. A ring of condensation was slowly turning it into a pulpy mess, tearing the middle out as he lifted the glass for a refill. The buzz of alcohol wasn’t helping to dim the anger and the fear he felt about being fired.

Destruction of City Property , the slip still sort of read. Wanton disregard for training practices, resulting in damage of equipment, his boss had yelled, waving the slip in his face.

Amber filled his glass and the bartender eyes him carefully, judging whether or not it was time to cut him off. But Paul wasn’t ready to go home yet. How would he face his wife? She’d be furious at the news; how would they pay the mortgage? Their home-equity loan payment was due in two weeks, too. Would the electric get cut off the second they missed a payment, or would they be able to keep things running a little longer?

Paul downed the glass and the heat of the bourbon filled the fearfully cold place in his chest. He couldn’t tell Janice; he’d just have to figure out a plan on his own. 

Chapter Text

The old family cuckoo clock ticked along the hall, hiccuping out moments in time rapidly transforming the present into the past. Interrupting the vivid silence like little jabs of a needle poked through fabric in search of a buttonhole. 

The small kitchen of the brownstone had an even smaller kitchen table, accompanied by just two rickety chairs. Mab shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the creaking irritating but also grounding. 

Across from her, David tapped his fingers nervously on the table and Mab felt a flash of an impulse to swat at his hands, but instead curled her hands together into a woven net. Restrained, composed, she mulled over the brief conversation in her head as she still tried to grasp the implications. 

Somewhere above their heads, Christine jumped down from a high surface with a skittering of claws on hardwood. David looked up but Mab did not.

Mab looked down at her cold cup of tea, mostly abandoned since she had sat down at the table some thirty minutes prior. “Okay.” Mab steepled her fingers under her chin, giving her uncle an appraising stare. “Okay.  Let me make sure I’ve got this straight.”

She paused a long time, running the situation through her head like trying to do a puzzle in her head without touching the pieces. “So, when you told me about the Poet Laureate program and I told you I wasn’t interested, you went to apply for just yourself.”

David nodded. “That’s right.”

She rubbed at her face, hand covering her mouth for a moment as she turned her gaze down to the table. “But at some point you decided I should also be applying, so you tried to do it for me. And,” Mab took a long-suffering breath, releasing it slowly in an attempt to calm herself before continuing, “in doing that you accidentally submitted my poem… with your name.”

“...right,” David confirmed. 

Mab nodded slowly. “And it won.”

“And it won.”

It should have been an exciting feeling. 

But Mab reigned herself in. She pulled in the quick thrill of joy at the briefest confirmation of the music of her soul. 

“When do they want to hear back?”

“Today. There’s supposed to be a reception next Friday so they need time to get everything printed, and…” David trailed off, picking up again with a swift breath and heightened energy; “I’m sure if I just let them know there was a mistake-”

Mab cut him off with a sharp raise of her hand. “They don’t care, David. They’re just going to see plagiarism and revoke the offer.” She tapped her fingers against the table. “You should take the offer.”

David looked aghast. “But it’s your poem!”

“I’m not a poet anymore, remember? I’m an editor. And as an editor that frequently reviews your work I’m telling you to take the job, and take the money, because you need it.” She stood quickly, the legs of her chair scraping against the tile floor. She paused in the doorway, fingers trailing long the woodgrain. “Which one was it?”

“Which one… ?”

Mab nodded her head. “My poem - which one won the contest?”

“Oh -  Prayer for Parity.” David grimaced.

“Of course.” She laughed harshly, sweeping from the room with a bitter taste in her mouth. “Ten pounds more.” She needed to retreat, to process the strange feeling that felt so much like grief but carried the absolute weight of crushing disappointment in its arms. 

Mab paused halfway up the stairs, panting heavily as she fought for meaningful air. Rather than waiting until she properly caught her breath she forged onwards, forcing her way up the stairs. The world spun a bit as she reached the top and she was forced to press a hand to the walls to make sure she didn’t tip backward down the stairs again. 

She made it to her crowded room without incident, narrowly avoiding tripping over a still yet unopened box from her move into the brownstone to unceremoniously flop over onto her bed. 

Her comforter had lost the smell of home. It had smelled like the expensive detergent her mother had loved - a little luxury in the pile of bills - and the sun-dried crispness that she’d savored. Now it smelled like the dust that collected in the corners and a bit of Christine’s fur.

She lay face-down on her bed for an indeterminate length of time, liens from her poem ringing hollowly in her ears. Ten pounds more. Her whole body felt heavy; overburdened, overtaxed, overdrawn. 

A weight settled on the bed next to her. “I really am very sorry, Mab,” David offered his condolences.

“I know,” she mumbled into her comforter. She turned her head to look at her uncle. “I just don’t think there’s a better representation of irony in my life.”

David held out a glass of water and a handful of pills - she must have lain in bed for hours if he was offering her evening medications. “They want a draft of my remarks by tonight. Do you think… you could... help me?”

“Of course,” Mab reassured, sitting up and downing her pills with a quick swig of water. “What do you have so far?” she asked.

David handed her a lined notepad with a single line remaining among many that had been crossed out: Ladies and Gentlemen of the September Foundation…

Mab looked up, amusement scrawled on her face. “That’s all you have?”

He snatched the pad of paper from her hands, spluttering in embarrassment. “You of all people should know that I can’t write under pressure!”

Laughable, but in a way that lightened her burden, Mab wondered how different certain parts of her upbringing would have been if she hadn’t lived so far away from her uncle. He was just this stereotypical writer; slightly overweight, sporting a respectably bushy moustache and beard, holed up in an old brownstone surrounded by his books and his grouchy, unlovable pet. 

“I’m sorry,” Mab said gently, holding out a gentle hand for the pad of paper, “I shouldn’t have made fun. May I?”

David surrendered the paper slowly, but quickly handed Mab a pen from across the room when she asked.

“Did you have a good morning, at least?” he asked, smoothing his beard in what she was learning was his most common nervous tic. 

“Yeah. I did.” Mab smiled, clicking her green pen a few times. “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

Another day, another gray autumn day that lingered on the edge of brutal New York winters, Mab swept through her bedroom in search of the right set of earrings to match her purple gown. 

Excitement and anticipation yielded a frenetic set of movements, Mab throwing papers left and right until she could open the right box and find her mother’s amethyst drop earrings. “Found you, bastards!” Mab declared.

She stepped into her dress shoes, hidden under the long cascade of beaded silk, and gave an experimental twirl to make sure she wouldn’t trip on the hem. Her bedroom tilted slightly and Mab held out an arm for extra balance. She didn’t want to trip and crack her head on something right before attending David’s Poet Laureate reception. 

“Mab!” David yelled from the kitchen, “the car is here, have you seen my glasses?”

The aforementioned car honked from the street, the driver evidently not willing to come up the stoop and ring the doorbell in the light rain painting the street in watercolor.

“Check the mantle!” Mab called from the upstairs landing, trying to get the earrings properly seated in her ear without falling down the stairs.

“Found them!” David called, lowering his voice as Mab descended the stairs. “Oh, don’t you look lovely!”

Mab curtsied on the bottom step, more of a bob than anything, enjoying the clicker-clack of beads on the wood floor as her dress skimmed the floor. “Thank you; it was mom’s but it fits me pretty well.”

“Purple was her favorite,” David sighed wistfully. He pressed a hand to his heart. “You look so much like Andrea.”

Mab coughed to clear the tightness from her chest, but David putting a hand on his heart seemed to draw attention to the item he was missing. “You forgot a tie, David!” Mab laughed. “Hang on, I’ll get one from upstairs.”

She jogged up the steps, the heavy beading of her dress whispering around her legs. As she reached the top of the stairs the floor began pitching slightly side to side, and her skin prickled with cold.

She stumbled, her feet tripping over the memory of how to navigate stairs, and she crashed down on the upper landing. THe beading of her dress dug into her knees like crouching down on a bed of rice.

Mab could hear her uncle calling her, and could only vaguely see the concern in his eyes as he helped her to her feet.The world made more sense close to the ground, but she was overly aware of the gasping breaths she was trying to take and the burning ache in her chest.

David guided her back to her bedroom, his arm a protective railing as she eased down to sit on her bed. He waved a hand in front of her face, made her count fingers as he held them up. 

Mab was struck with an odd sense of deja vu mixed with painful longing. Another day in the rain, another day between narrow stacks of books, another concerned face close to hers and a warmth of spirit too genuine to deny. 

She pushed David’s hand away from her face, declaring with some difficulty “I’m fine; we need to get into the car or it’ll leave without us.”

But David caught her arm as she sat up and immediately pitched to one side. She was panting from the exertion, screwing her eyes shut as nausea bubbled up with vertigo. “Mab, I think you need to stay home.”

She knew he was right, of course, but that didn’t make it hurt any less to hear. A burden, again. Something that needed to be left at the side of the road to make sure that David, at least, could reach the finish line. “You have to promise to tell me all about it,” she insisted, frustrated tears welling up in her eyes.

The car honked from the street, the driver hired by the September Foundation clearly growing impatient. 

“I’ll be right back.” David squeezed her hand as he helped her lean back again. “I’ll tell the driver I’ll be out just as soon as I get some medicine for you.”

Mab rubbed at her face, wiping away the beginnings of her tears of self-pity, taking deep breaths to steady herself as David trotted down the stairs. She was going to have to be the strong one here; her uncle wasn’t the type to make hard choices like this was about to demand.

Deep breaths calmed her churning stomach as David returned with the overflowing plastic box of medications, some older than her tenancy in New York, some newly filled. 

David looked back and forth between the collection of bottles, distress growing in his face with every passing moment as he tried to consult Mab’s dense medical guidelines and seemingly found no clarity.

“How did Andrea keep this all straight…?” he mumbled.

Mab shrugged. “I’m pretty sure she followed her gut. Every doctor I’ve ever had gave a different opinion, so she just sort of merged them into her version of best practice.”

That didn’t seem to give him any comfort, and her uncle seemed hesitant to give her anything.

The car honked; longer and more insistent this time. Mab patted David’s hands, still trying to decide between medications. “I’m sure it’s just the end of the Cipro,” Mab reassured. “It did this last time, too. Just leave the box and I’ll take something if it gets worse.”

“Are you sure?” David asked, already moving to stand, “because I can cancel if you need me to stay.”

“Don’t you dare!” Mab cried, startling him. “We worked hard on that speech, and you had better not give them any reason to ask any questions!”

“You’re right.” David gulped, clearly following the train of thought. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Go, go!” Mab replied, swatting him away.

He chuckled at her enthusiasm, likely taking it as a sign that all was truly well, and bid her goodbye from the stairs. She made sure to listen for the jingle of keys as he left, and the rattle of the deadbolt turning.

The townhouse fell quiet save for the light rumble of rain on the roof above.

Mab rolled onto her left side, trying to keep the nausea from bubbling up higher in her chest. The narrow window looked out into a slim alley; her view restricted to the neighbor’s brick wall and a little fall of rain.

All that I can carry, ten pounds more.

The storm grew stronger, painting the barely-dotted bricks a deeper red and running long rivers down the window. Mab stared blankly out the window, waiting for the water to pour through the window, to fill the room, to swallow her in ice-cold ripples of liquified time. 

Mab rolled onto her back and rubbed at her face. She could feel the lingering marks of her pitiful tears. This was nothing new, she’d missed out on things before because she couldn’t keep up; she shouldn’t have let it upset her this much.

Mab reached blindly for her phone on her bedside table and checked the time, only to find that she’d been staring out the window for over an hour. David would have started his acceptance speech already. 

Mab swiped through her short list of apps, not really settling anywhere in an idle disinterest. Her eyes flickered to the window, wondering to herself. She tapped on the screen like she might tap on a table, and accidentally pressed the name of the contact twice, commanding the phone to dial while she was distracted.

“Shit!” she swore, rushing to end the call before it connected.

Too late, the receiving end of the call picked up, answering with a brusque, “Yeah.”

Mab stared at the screen, confused. She had accidentally called Steve, and the voice was definitely not Steve. “Uh, is this Steve’s phone?”

The smooth female voice answered again. “It is.” The line sat silent, and while whoever answered the phone didn’t speak any more or clarify anything at all, Mab could hear distant and muffled conversation. 

“Can… can I talk to him?” she mumbled.

“Sure,” the woman purred. “What’s your name?”

“Mab. Mab Dumont.” She nearly stumbled over her own name.

“Mab,” the woman repeated slowly, turning the name over like an insect to be examined. “Do you know, Mab Dumont?”

“Do I know… what?” She frowned.

“Do you know?” the woman repeated.

It took her a minute, but Mab finally realized who she was talking to. She’d heard the voice only once, during Congressional hearings about two years ago. 

The Black Widow. 

Mab gulped, screwing up the remnants of courage inside her. “Yes. I know.” It would be useless to lie. 

“How long?” the Widow asked.

“Since we met. I’m not blind.” That made the widow chuckle for a moment and Mab felt quite proud of that. 

“If I see anything in the news about secrets or scandals do you know whose door I’ll be knocking on?” The threat wasn’t even veiled. 

“Mine. And I wouldn’t - I won’t!” Mab declared.

The Widow seemed interested. “Why not? You can make a lot of money that way.”

“Because…” Mab searched for the right words to express the utter horror and self-loathing the mere concept inspired. “Because then he’d never get to be just Steve ever again.”

The answering side was silent. Mab chewed on her lip, wondering if she had said the right thing. 

“Steve!” the Widow called faintly on her end. “Call for you.”

Mab let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in a big rush, relieved that she’d passed whatever test the Widow had been applying.

The phone made a distressed sound as it changed hands on the other end of the connection, and Mab’s heart raced instantly as Steve finally spoke. “Mab?”

“Hi,” she said with a wan smile, not that he could see it. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Just some hand-to-hand practice .” He wasn’t even breathing fast. “Everything okay?”

“It’s stupid, but…” How could she begin to describe the reason for her call? A terrible few days had led to an even worse one, and she was all but confined to her bed in a sea of self-pity.

But Steve had the perfect answer. “It’s raining.”

It was raining, and she was laying on her bed in a dress her mom had once worn to a party back when things had been more normal. It was raining, and Mab couldn’t begin to describe the Herculean effort it would take for her to sit up and change into anything else. It was raining, and the universe seemed to be laughing at her pain. “Yeah.”

“You know,” the background noise faded, “you can call when it’s not raining.”

“I don’t want to bother you. You’re doing important stuff - secret military contractor stuff.”

“Trust me, you’re not.” Mab could hear a gentle click of a door closing on Steve’s end. “It’s been a long day.”

Mab could only imagine. “It’s going around, then.”

“What happened?” he asked gently. 

“I…” Mab choked a bit on her words. “Have you ever had anything happen that just perfectly illustrates that God has a terrible sense of humor?”

“Yes. ” He chuckled, and Mab remembered who she was talking to and felt immediately horrible. Of course he would understand; he was the man out of time, and here she was feeling sorry for herself over missing a party. 

Mab set her head down on the table and inwardly groaned. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” Steve said, “read any good books lately?”

Mab chuffed. “You joke, but the answer is no - I’m proofreading this terrible, uh… there’s no good description for it except that a few pages in I half expected it to be written in crayon.”

“Is that... bad?”

“Hang on, let me find it.” Mab switched the phone to her other ear so she could hold it in place with her shoulder. 

She rolled over, using her free hand to blindly rifle around through a stack of manuscripts on the floor next to her bed until she found the aforementioned disaster. “Alright - so this book is supposed to be an in-depth analysis of the Russian Revolution, but listen to this.” 

Mab cleared her throat and began to read. “Although many Russians wanted a revolution, no one expected it to happen when and how it did. On Thursday, February 23, 1917, women left work in their Petrograd factories - Petrograd is misspelled, by the way - and flooded the street in protest. The following day, more than 150,000 men and women took to the street. Numbers increased the following days until by Saturday no one was working. Czar Nicholas II - which is somehow also misspelled - was not in Petrograd at the time but heard reports of protests, which he did not take seriously even as incidents of police and soldiers firing into the crowds soon became reports of mutiny. By March, it was obvious that the Czar’s rule was over.”

Mab tossed the manuscript down and rubbed at her eyes. “Typos aside, did that stunning and moving paragraph give you any idea why people were revolting, or why it was so clear that Czar Nicholas was forced to abdicate?”

There was an odd sound on Steve’s end, but it cut short fairly quickly as Steve spoke. “Not a clue.”

“Exactly. That… vague nonsense,” she sighed, “is supposed to be the crux of whatever point he was waffling toward.”

He hummed. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you to try and help fix it.” 

“Tell me about it. It’s never-ending.” Mab rested her head against the headboard of her bed, watching as Christine skulked past her open bedroom door, yowling faintly around a toy in her mouth that she carried around the empty hall. “This must sound painfully banal; oh crocodile tears, the editor is upset that she has to edit. But enough about me,” Mab pivoted, “what did you think of The Martian Chronicles?”

A static-like sound indicated a rough sigh. “Kind of grim, actually. Like… we keep making the same mistakes over and over, and we can’t see it until it’s too late.”

Mab bobbed her head and regretted it as a bit of vertigo came screaming back. She bit her tongue to distract from the rising nausea, which made for an unpleasant pause before she could safely speak without fear of throwing up. “Yes, well; welcome to Science Fiction. That’s pretty much the running theme.”

Having picked up on a sour peeve in her mind, she continued, rambling; “I think all reading should devastate us a little. Whether it’s by making us yearn for the better parts of a life we can’t have, or a desperate appreciation for the little pieces we do. It’s the music and the art that pick up other pieces of our souls. I wish…” Mab stopped herself, realizing she had gone on a bit of a tangent.

“What?” Steve asked.

Mab shook her head. “It’s beyond silly and doesn’t warrant mentioning, and besides; I should let you go.”

“Tell me what you were going to say first,” he insisted.

Even though he had no way of seeing her flushed face, Mab worried it was somehow translated into her voice. “I wish we were just a little closer to California, because then I could make you go to this museum by the sea. I’ve never been there, but I’ve seen enough pictures and read about it, and… it would be so amazing. They have this pipe organ built into the structure of the foyer, so when you step into the museum you can walk inside the music.”

He didn’t say anything as she trailed off and Mab grew self-conscious. “Steve? Are you there?” She checked the phone to make sure she hadn’t been accidentally disconnected, and nearly missed his reply.

“It sounds beautiful.”

Mab’s face was too warm. “I should let you go. I’ve used up enough time waxing poetic about the arts. I’m sure you need to go show someone how not to break their hand on someone’s face.”

“We’ve got that part pretty well covered. Before you go, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“About this million dollars…”

Mab had to laugh. “Okay, what about it? Have you figured out what you would do?”

Steve’s tone changed a little, like someone leaning into conversation with interest. “I need a little help. Why can’t I just buy things and leave it at that? I could definitely give away a million dollars-”

“Absolutely not!” Mab ordered. “You have to make something - something for yourself. Figure out how to be selfish, Steve.”

“I’ll be honest - that’s a little out of my wheelhouse.” He didn’t sound deterred, even as he said otherwise.

Mab smirked. “Then a thought exercise is the perfect place to start.”

“How’d you do it?”

“Me? I’m a perfect human being with no flaws whatsoever. It was entirely easy for me,” she snarked.

“Yeah, your modesty puts all others to shame,” he sarcastically agreed.

“Exactly. I’m glad you understand.” The odd sound from before repeated on Steve’s end. “What is that sound?”

“That would be a few very nosy coworkers continually checking on why I’m not at training,” Steve said. “They kept trying to interrupt so I locked the door. So… they’re picking the lock.”

“Oh my god, that’s too much!” Mab laughed heartily, the image of a cluster of Avengers crouched in front of a door, spying through a peephole too hilarious to forget. “I’ll let you go now, for real. Please tell them I said ‘hello’ even though we’ve never met.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve said, “that would only encourage them.”

Mab laughed harder, fighting hard against it turning into a cough. “Go, Steve! God only knows what they’ll do if I don’t let you go.”

“Fine, but promise me something.” The seriousness of his tone had her heart skipping dangerously.

“O-okay,” Mab stammered.

“Don’t wait until it’s raining to call me again.”

“Okay,” Mab agreed, her cheeks warming further.

“Good. Bye, then.”

“Bye, then,” Mab repeated.

She hung up and let the phone slip from her fingers and bounce against the bed. Mab pressed her hands to her face, giggling like a much younger girl as she tried to pat the heat away with her cold hands. 

She rolled onto her side to look at the rain falling against her bedroom window. The storm was showing no signs of letting up and Mab couldn’t care less. The beading of her mother’s dress pressed uncomfortably into her hip, and Mab couldn’t care less. The room grew dark as evening drew long, and the only light coming into the room came from a streetlamp at the end of the alley, casting fluctuating shadows through the ripples of water on her window, and Mab couldn’t care less.

Rain had become this huge barrier in her life - the curbs and gutters both literal and metaphorical always grew swampy when it rained. Too difficult to manage around, she had learned to avoid the tough times when it rained.

But today, she was happy it had rained.

Chapter Text

Ambrose listened to Paul’s story with the appropriate grunts and shakes of his head and bought Paul a second and third round when he’d finished his first. “What amazes me is that you, of all people, can’t find a job in this town.” Ambrose looked down into his beer like it held all the answers. “Have you tried Jersey?”

Paul downed the last of his beer. “Yeah. And Long Island, and even Staten Island.”

Ambrose grunted. “You’re fucked.”

“Tell me about it. I gotta stay out of the house all day or else Janice is gonna ask questions.”

“You don’t think she’s gonna ask questions when the Sheriff puts your family out on the curb?”

“Can I just drink a beer in peace?” Paul knew that the criticism was likely to be coming from somewhere, and as much as he didn’t like getting chewed out by his old friend it was better than getting a disappointed lecture from his wife.

“I’m just saying.” Ambrose shrugged, scratching at his beard. “Listen, a guy told me about this medical trial that’s supposed to pay big bucks. It’s fifty bucks for the first blood test, and every step you qualify for after that pays more.” Ambrose fished around in his wallet for a wrinkly card. “I got rejected after the first round, but fifty bucks is fifty bucks.”

“Thanks.” Paul felt more than a little sheepish taking the card. It felt like admitting that he was so down on his luck and desperate that, yes, fifty bucks could make a difference. He folded the card in half even though it would have fit just fine in his wallet without folding. He didn’t want to look at it while still enjoying the buzz from his drinks. He’d think about it tomorrow. “So… who’ve they got in my seat?”

Ambrose groaned in dismay. “That’s the shit; nobody! Hiring freeze or some garbage like that. The city’s swimming in it and they’d rather have the bus sitting in the lot than pay someone to drive it. It’s ridiculous.”

Paul could relate. “I swear, these suit-and-tie idiots have no idea how this city actually runs.”

“No kidding,” Ambrose agreed. “This city, let me tell you.”

March along, sing our song, with the Army of the free

Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory

We're the Army and proud of our name

We're the Army and proudly proclaim

The elevator hummed quietly as it ascended the huge tower, curiously absent of the usual elevator music. Hasn’t been turned back on, maybe? It felt strange for Steve to be back at the tower for more than a few hours.

Secretary Ross had been monumentally displeased about the Avengers response time and had evidently called Tony at some ungodly hour in the morning to insist that those heroes on-shift stay in the city. So, the old tower was going to become something like a firehouse bunk, and shifts changing out every four days.

Steve had gotten so used to living upstate. He had gotten used to the changing seasons and the rotating recruits who walked through the door with stars in their eyes. At the tower, he’d been greeted by stacks of discarded cardboard and styrofoam packing material as exhausted teams worked long hours to get the building ship-shape for service.

The elevator doors hissed open with barely a sound, even after many months of disuse. The faint hum of ambient noise still penetrated the glass twenty stories up. Steve dropped his duffel in a chair as he walked into the open common space. “I don’t remember it being so loud up here.”

Natasha grinned over a bowl of ice cream from a comfortable perch on the kitchen island. “You haven’t missed the sweet siren-song of midtown traffic?”

“You get used to it again after a night,” Rhodey chimed in from a brand-new sofa next to the wide stretch of windows. It still had a little bit of styrofoam attached with static cling.

Fiddling with a screwdriver and making a frustrated face at a piece of tech, Tony chimed in; “I’ll add soundproofing to the ever-lengthening to-do list being written by my ungrateful colleagues, even after I managed to talk Ross down from a literal Soviet-Era red telephone.”

Steve grimaced at the thought. “Thank you, Tony, for getting this set up so quickly.”

“Have any fun plans for the weekend?” Natasha asked innocently. “Since there’s no Sunday Dinner at the farm this week.”

“I’ve got a pile of paperwork with my name on it,” Steve answered.

“Fixed it. Stop getting it wet.” Tony tossed the repaired armband to Natasha and walked to the kitchen, presumably for a cup of coffee. The man seemed to run on coffee and not at all on food. “Pick a car, Cap; drive around somewhere exciting - pick up a strange woman and do something I might do.”

“What about Mab? She seems nice.” Natasha asked innocently, scraping the inside of her bowl with a spoon.

“I’m sorry; who or what is Mab?” Tony asked, aghast. “Are you keeping secrets, Rogers?”

“Please tell me you didn’t interrogate her when you picked up my phone - and we need to have a talk about boundaries!” Steve exclaimed, but Natasha’s grin only widened.

Tony tilted his head. “Friday, Steve is hiding things; get me his messages and-”

“What did I just say?” Steve exclaimed.

“Alright, nobody panic, but I think something’s up with the rooms,” Sam said, walking into the shared kitchen, “because mine is a lot smaller than it is upstate.”

“That’s because your room used to be a closet,” Rhodey called over his magazine, turning a page lazily.

Sam spluttered in dismay. “You own the whole damn building and I couldn’t get a real room?”

“It could be worse. We could’ve asked you to roost with the pigeons on the roof.” Natasha clapped Sam on the shoulder. “See you in four days.”

First to fight for the right,

And to build the Nation’s might,

And The Army Goes Rolling Along

Proud of all we have done,

Fighting till the battle’s won,

And the Army Goes Rolling Along.

Section 3, Subsection 1: Funding of Sokovia Accords to be managed by an oversight committee, composed of members from at least five participating countries, with no more than two members from any single country.

Section 3, Subsection 2: The Sokovia Accords Funding Committee shall arrange for quarterly review of all expenses…

Steve set the stack down, unable to read any more. He braved a glance at the clock on his bedside table - lonely there if not for the red-covered novel Mab had recommended. He would be out of excuses not to return it to the library, being only a few blocks away now.

Standing, he dropped the Sokovia Accord printouts into a pile in a spare chair. The room smelled like off-gassing foam, and it was creeping through his sheets and giving him a headache. 

He needed exercise - something to clear his head and maybe make a dent in his pent-up energy. A pulse of excitement drove him to motion as he remembered that, for all its shortcomings, the tower had always been equipped with a spectacular gym.

Perfectly polished floors didn’t creak as Steve made his way towards the elevator in the dead of night, and the freshly cleaned windows let the city’s ambient light wash across the room with tender breath.

“Tenth floor,” he asked quietly as the elevator doors closed.

“Tenth floor,” the quiet computer confirmed.

Tony had built a fairly spectacular workout room for his favorite collection of heroes that could just about keep up with their demands, though the punching bags were swapped out fairly regularly. The treadmill could crack sixty or seventy miles per hour if you really cranked it. 

The doors opened and Steve’s spirits fell. Where he expected to see a wide array of equipment all waiting for his impatient and energetic arrival, instead tape marked the floor where the equipment was meant to be standing.

Of course, Steve sighed internally, they’d only just begun to move back into that towering building. If a mattress and a chair had just barely arrived for his first four-day shift, it wasn’t reasonable to expect that something as frivolous as a treadmill would be there, too.

He briefly considered trying to go for a run around the city - something, anything, to let out his pent up energy - but Tony had been none-too-pleased with the media frenzy that had followed, nor the adoring masses that had gathered around the building; all vying for a brief glimpse of their heroes. 

The elevator doors closed without him ever having got off.

“Which floor, Captain?” Friday asked.

Steve took a calming breath. “Back to my quarters, please.”

The alarm rang between floors, removing the need for distracting exercise.

Then it's Hi! Hi! Hey!

The Army's on its way.

Count off the cadence loud and strong

For where e’er we go,

You will always know

That The Army Goes Rolling Along.

There was a musty smell developing in the air of the Raft. Something wet and stale that had been half-covered by air scrubbers working on overtime but just failing to keep up properly. It grew stronger the deeper he went; like something deep in the bowels of the floating prison was blossoming foul flowers.

As he spent long hours checking in with guards, command, and a few individual prisoners, the smell would fade from his radar. But every time he came back, there it was again with reinforcements.

“Steve! Join us for a hand,” Mrs. Ellis invited with a wave, holding up a hand of playing cards. What was it about people that, when idle with a deck of cards around, humanity always defaulted to playing cards?

He was unable to resist her enthusiastic beckonings, but admitted, “I really shouldn’t.” He almost hoped for a mental excuse to refuse - any hostility from anyone else at the table, or a summons from Sam or a guard - but none appeared. 

She scoffed, like it didn’t matter to her that she was a prisoner and he was responsible for keeping her there. She nodded to an empty bench at the table, insisting. “C’mon - who’s gonna tell you you can’t?”

No one, evidently. 

Steve sat at the table, one ear half-listening to conversation in the surprisingly cheery group while he kept an eye on the rest of the mess hall. It was largely what he expected from a prison, with a few notable exceptions.

Even with suppressors glittering and humming on every prisoner’s wrist the guards kept ample distance; watching from catwalks above and only descending to the prisoners’ level when absolutely necessary. 

For the most part, however, the prisoners seemed fairly calm and in good spirits. Playing cards and mild exercise seemed to be favored activities, with nearly everyone forgetting the incidences of violence that led to his team being called in.

“Who is that?” Steve asked, nodding towards the far end of the mess hall. Walking in a casual circle around the edge, flanked by two much larger men, the older man looked like he was out for a stroll in the park. He smiled easily at everyone he passed, who seemed eager to get out of his way with a speed that implied physical threat, even though Steve couldn’t see one.

Mrs. Ellis looked up from her cards. “That’s Mr. Volkov. Ivan. Don’t ask me what his deal is - I haven’t the foggiest idea.” She dropped a card and tapped the table for a new one. “He’s quite a character, I can tell you that much.”

“He bother you?”

“Me? No, he’s very polite to everyone. If anyone bothers me it’s Lukas here.”

“Hey!” her friend protested with a gasp of dismay.

“You won’t find any trouble here, Captain.” The Aztec shuffled his cards briefly before laying them down, eliciting groans of complaint from Russo and Mrs. Ellis. “No matter what they’ve told you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Steve asked, tensing slightly. 

“Miguel! How do you win every time?” Mrs. Ellis cried as the Aztec drew his pile of winnings - a collection of single-serve chip bags - closer with a satisfied smile.

“My turn to deal,” he said with a mild smile, taking in the cards and giving them a swiftly skilled shuffle. He tossed cards across the table with practiced ease, dealing Steve in without question. “You playing or watching, Captain?” His dark eyes glittered faintly gold and the suppressor on his wrist hummed shrilly. 

It was impossible to miss the clamor of boots on the catwalk behind him - the guards drawn to the sound of a suppressor at its limit - but Steve held up a hand to stop whatever assault was likely imminent. 

He held up his hand, leaving it in the air as he considered the message the man across from him was trying to send. Steve’s fingers twitched, and settled on the clasp for his helmet. “I’m playing,” he said, removing his helmet and setting it on the table.

The distressed screech from the Aztec’s suppressor stopped immediately and De Léon smiled, a hand on the deck of cards. “What’s your bet, Captain?”

Mrs. Ellis and Russo sat in silence, staring at Steve with the same intense expression as De Léon. What were they trying to say, he wondered? He looked down at his cards: eight of clubs and two of diamonds. “I’m not playing with much,” he responded carefully.

“We’ll cover you, darling,” Russo said, adding four packets of cookies to the middle of the table. “Bet of two for me and the Captain.”

“Not much of a bet,” De Léon said.

Steve held his gaze. “Nothing in my pockets but my name.”

The Aztec danced a card across the table as Lukas knocked for a draw. “Names are important.”

Steve met his gaze and could have sworn he saw another glittering of gold, though the suppressor stayed silent. The air between them trembled, shaking with unspoken meaning and an intensity that smothered the musty odor of the Raft.

“Steve.” He said it like an offering, like an introduction where he should be holding out an empty hand in a gesture of faith and not one where he was holding cards close to his chest in secrecy.

De Léon smiled. He tossed Steve a card. “Miguel.”

“Lukas,” Russo said softly, accepting another card.

“Geneva,” Mrs. Ellis said, knocking the table. 

Miguel tossed her a card.

Valley Forge, Custer's ranks,

San Juan Hill and Patton's tanks,

And the Army went rolling along

Minutemen, from the start,

Always fighting from the heart,

And the Army keeps rolling along.

At the edge of the skyscraper’s landing pad that stretched its hand out over the city, Steve stood suspended between man and God. The cold night air didn’t bother him, even as the smell in the air fought with the city scents to promise snow. The last of autumn’s colors were fading from Central Park, and had already abandoned the Compound further North. 

Steve traced the shapes of the streets below with hands too steady for a man running without sleep. His mind buzzed with a reluctant trepidation; a feeling that behind every corner there would be another fight and sometimes that fight was coming up from behind. He felt like he was walking blindfolded; there must be some greater hand working just beyond his sight. He’d never lived in a world without war, so why should he expect tomorrow to be any different?

He wished he could run. He wished he could reduce the flow of his thoughts to the exact placement of his next step, to the precision behind a punch into a weighted canvas bag, to the brief intervals of enjoyment he could derive from this body he had been given.

Steve looked over the city, listening to the sirens wail and the chorus of horns that answered. Symphony of frustration and simmering resentment. People rushing from place to place and just trying to keep up as the hands ticked past. Hands on clocks, on gas gauges and speedometers, on blood pressure cuffs and tracing rhythms. Hands typing on keyboards and whispering numbers under their breaths. The rhythms and hands beat together, beating people into shapes and heads forced downwards. Submissive obedience in the face of unimaginable other. 

The question that could haunt anyone haunted Steve. What if? He could see the whole of history past and see every choice laid before him like the city streets below. Every turn left could have easily been a right. Every horn was a cry of alarm or a mortar ripping through delicate earth. His history was a city street in New York, and the possibilities a cluster of all the side-streets and turns not taken.

If he turned his head only a little, over the dark river and into the bright boroughs beyond, he could only wonder what lay out in the vast reaches of his future. What turns and detours might lead to future regrets?

An alarm rang, the sound cutting through the low background noise of the city and the whistling winds around him. He turned away from the city and the ponderance of his future. Steve returned to the warmth of the building, already barking orders as his team emerged ready for whatever challenge they were being sent forth to conquer.

But the thoughts always returned, waiting in the moments of pause and ringing like the single bell that sets off the cacophony. The bell rang, silence impossible, singing: what if?

What if?

Then it's Hi! Hi! Hey!

The Army's on its way.

Count off the cadence loud and strong

For where e’er we go,

You will always know

That The Army Goes Rolling Along.

At least it wasn’t raining. That much saving grace was all Steve could ask for as he took off his helmet to rub at his eyes, trying to ease the pressure building behind his eyes. For all the insistence that the heroes live in the city to cut down on response lag, it still took forever for the Raft Transports to arrive in midtown.

“Captain! Captain Rogers!” The call cut through the mild murmurings of Steve’s team and the Raft Response team, and it was all he could do not to groan in dismay. At three in the morning? 

He turned, finding a familiar face coming far too close. “Hunter Jansen, From-“

Steve cut him off sharply. “From the Post-Standard, I remember. You really shouldn’t get so close to the landing pad; it’s not safe.”

“That would make it much easier for you to avoid me, wouldn’t it? If you’d just answer a few questions…” The reporter looked so eager, even for the inhuman hour. 

Steve wanted very badly to turn the man around and march him back to the street. On the other hand, he knew that would blow up very badly on news websites in under and hour. He gave in. “You have until that transport lands, Mr. Jansen.”

The reporter perked up, shoving a recorder in Steve’s so fast he had to recoil or else it would have smacked him in the nose. “Right! What would you say is the greatest challenge facing the Avengers these days?”

Steve blinked. Was he serious? “That’s your question, Mr. Jansen?” He’d been hounding Steve for weeks to get a quote, and he’d all but given away his question like a parent lobbing a ball underhand to a child for the first time.

“Captain Rogers, I’m here to ask the tough questions!” Mr. Jansen insisted, pushing the recorder closer.

Steve put his hand on it, gently but firmly removing it from his face. It clicked, then; the reporter’s eagerness, naivety, and his odd ability to appear whenever Steve or his team were waiting on the landing pad. “Mr. Jansen,” he said slowly, trying to peel the bitterness from his tone, “has it ever occurred to you that you’re here because you don’t ask the tough questions?”

Men in rags, men who froze,

Still that Army met its foes,

And the Army went rolling along.

Faith in God, then we're right,

And we'll fight with all our might,

As the Army keeps rolling along.

Section 14, Subsection 1 : Detainee records are to be maintained by - Steve rubbed at his eyes as the words started to swim across the page. He needed a run. Or maybe he just needed sleep in a bed that didn’t transmit the exterior noise up a metal frame.

He jumped slightly as his phone pinged with a text. 

N: Tony wants me to tell you to behave.

Natasha had attached a link to an online article, but Steve didn’t even need to click through the thumbnail to know what it was about. Captain America Dismisses Freedom of Press!

S: I’ll fix it, he replied before immediately tossing his phone onto his nightstand. 

He rubbed at his face as his headache intensified. He’d have to figure out exactly how to fix it in the morning. It was impossible to keep up with all the ways he was expected to be a pinnacle of perfection, and it was growing harder every year. He did his best to stay silent around the press and limited his time walking around the city. The last thing he needed was a series of reprimanding phone calls from Tony or the Secretary - he’d been subject to a particularly strong dressing-down after offhandedly mentioning in the presence of recording devices that he enjoyed his days off.

Captain America didn’t get days off. Captain America loved freedom and pie and never slept if there was justice to be won. Captain America needed to present as the perfect golden boy who loved everyone except who the government told him to lock up without a trial.

Steve could feel the weight of the world pressing him down into the still too-new bed that still smelled like foam and toxic chemicals. He could hear the world screaming up at him in horns and sirens, but he couldn’t understand if they were yelling for his help or yelling at him to leave.

The world screamed and the wind howled. The screams peeled off his false layers, took off the muscles and the strength and left only little Steve, trying to fight off a Hurricane with trembling fists. 

Rushing to the center of the Hurricane, falling through intensifying winds that buffeted him like a paper doll, he could feel Death himself reaching out with bony hands. Here it came, at last. Here it came; drawing him in with a promise of rest and a promise of silence. 

But the screaming storm clawed at him, battering his mind and his body, drawing him down into the spiraling agony formed of his failures.

Then it's Hi! Hi! Hey!

The Army's on its way.

Count off the cadence loud and strong

For where e’er we go,

You will always know

That The Army Goes Rolling Along.

Steve woke up when his shoulder hit the floor. His breath shuddered and he found himself drenched in sweat. Papers strewn around his bed showed the fight he’d tried to keep up in his sleep, and that he’d lost to the paper but beaten his headboard into submission.

Steve stood, thankfully not needing to disentangle from the sheets this time. He pulled at the covers to strip the bed, but his phone fell to the floor with a distressing crack. He examined the screen hastily, not wanting to have broken the slender device, but as he lifted it the screen glowed with an unread notification.

Not Natasha, not a further chastisement for his poorly-considered comment, but from Mab, three hours ago.

M: What do you call a duck that’s also a doctor?
M: A Quack
M: I had to read that terrible joke and now so have you. You’re welcome.

Still cold with sweat from the nightmare, Steve stared at the phone’s glowing screen and a faint smile ticked at the corner of his lips. 

S: Did you have a good week?

Steve stared at the little keyboard. That was stupid. Another poorly thought-out comment that made it seem like he was ignoring her weird joke, or any other horrible possibility. 

He moved to delete it, but the backspace button was inconveniently right next to the ‘send’ button, and some technological gremlin decided that his message should be sent. The message sent before he could stop it. 

Shit. He thought about sending another message, but what if that woke her up? What if the first one woke her?

A little bubble appeared at the corner of the screen - Mab was replying. It vanished. Then it came back. Then it vanished again. Shit!

His phone rang and Steve nearly dropped it. “Hello?” he asked quickly.

“Let me read you the worst sentence ever written by mankind.” Mab’s voice was barely distorted by the connection. “Are you ready?”

Steve sat down on his bed, holding the phone to his ear. “I’m ready.”

Mab cleared her throat. “For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity’s affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss — a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity’s mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world’s thirstiest gerbil.”

Steve laughed. “That can’t be real.”

“It’s so real I think my brain is bleeding. The office got me the book as a joke but I think I should just set it on fire to put it out of its misery.” She didn’t ask about why he was awake so late, and he didn’t ask her either. They were two candles, afloat in paper boats and drifting downriver. 

Steve couldn’t think of how to express his appreciation, so he let the question go unasked. “Maybe they were trying to get you to appreciate the works they ask you to read?”

“Or torture me for my failure to meet deadlines. Here,” Steve could hear a shuffling of paper as Mab changed books, “it gets worse.”

“Do you have a stack of books around your bed?” he asked teasingly.

“Don’t judge me. I read for a living,” Mab snipped. 

He grinned. “Oh, I’m judging.”

“Yeah, and what do you keep at your bedside? Wait - let me guess; it’s completely bare except for an alarm clock.”

“You’re only half-right.”

“An alarm clock and a book.”

He had to give her that one. “You made me read that book, so that’s cheating.”

She dismissed his excuse. “Right, right. Anyway; listen to this one.”

Mab read through a few lines she’d marked in several books, her voice changing as she read in each new narrative voice. Some voices were sad, and single lines enough to break your heart. Other voices adopted accents and he could almost see them parading around in their fictional worlds. 

Something about Mab’s voice was made for storytelling. In speaking, she maintained a peace with her voice like a calmness of being. A still pool of clear water meant to scry secrets of the universe. But in reading - in translating page to spoken word she came alive; finding a voice in every character and bringing worlds to life just behind closed eyes. 

Before too long, Steve leaned back against the headboard. Time drifted away and he sank lower to rest his head on a stack of pillows. He’d stopped responding to Mab’s readings, and his breathing had evened as his eyelids drooped lower. 

He was fast asleep, phone trapped between his head and the pillow, when Mab gently closed the last book. Even breathing lingered on the edge of gentle snoring, drifting through the connection to his listening friend. Like being the secretive conch whispering sounds of the sea, knowing that a curious ear was cradling the gentle shell and dreaming of distant seas.

“Sweet dreams, Steve,” the sound called through him; a tender voice from another lonely ship sailing on turbulent seas. The storm was carrying him, filling his sails and pushing him forward as he adjusted his sails and used its power to crest the waves and fly.

Chapter Text

Swaying slightly from side to side as the cab weaved through traffic, Mab thumbed her phone idly and ran her fingers along the side buttons. She hadn’t heard from Steve in a few days. He had told her not to wait until it was raining to reach out again, but that seemed to remove her usual reason for calling.

David mumbled something from the other side of the cab, head lolling from side to side. “Ladies and… and gentlefuns…” He burped, and it sounded mildly distressed.

“Hey lady, if he throws up back there you owe another fifty,” the cabby called irritably through the partition.

“He won’t,” Mab replied, glancing at her uncle to be sure, “he has a strong stomach.”

“It’s your money,” the cabbie grumbled.

Mab scrolled through her messages; a collection of congratulations for David, a comment or two about his televised interview, regrets for missing the reception. The usual. In her perusal she saw her message to Steve from earlier in the evening when she hadn’t been so emotionally exhausted and David hadn’t been blackout-drunk.

M: What do you call a duck that’s also a doctor?
M: A Quack.
M: I had to read that terrible joke and now so have you. You’re welcome.

He hadn’t read it yet. It had been marked as delivered, but Mab could imagine an entire universe of ways in which he was too busy to read it. Honestly, she felt silly for sending it at all. 

She’d sent it right before she noticed David drinking a few too many glasses of champagne, and laughing a little too long at someone’s off-color joke. The glamor of the Laureate celebration had gotten to her, lifted the tint of smog from her world and made everything glitter at the corners.

But the dirty reality of the world drifted through the air like dust shaken from old curtains, lingering in the air only briefly to finally settle on formerly clean surfaces. That dirt gradually built up on satiny, glittery places, leaving them sad and dim once more. The beauty of her dress and David’s suit wouldn’t matter in the face of everything they were doing their best to hide.

But Mab smiled until her cheeks hurt. She deferred and laughed and played the gentle niece until it no longer hurt to pretend. And then, as the evening grew long and the liquor grew short, Mab poured her uncle into a cab and directed them home. 

She paid the cabbie generously for keeping the ride smooth and David’s dinner in his stomach. It was a challenge getting him up the short rise of steps and into the brownstone.

The rich, warm, smell of coffee grounds washed over them as Mab closed the thick security door, reminding her that she’d forgotten to close the coffee canister after the late afternoon brew. The floorboards creaked with similar warmth; a musicality reserved for well-loved homes that hadn’t been overly-maintained or babied through the years. 

Mab decided against turning on any lights, trying to make David’s progression to bed as smooth as possible Christine’s eyes gleamed like vintage light bulbs in the darkness of the upstairs landing as they started up the stairs.

“Tell th’ stairs to stop… stop m’ving…” David mumbled. “I already lost m’ feet, I don’ wanna lose th’ stairs…”

“You’re doing great,” Mab encouraged gently, “just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Christine stayed mercifully away from the landing - maybe it was the double set of sloppy feet making her a little leery, but Mab didn’t care; she would take whatever grace the universe was offering. That grace extended across the landing and all the way into David’s bedroom, where it swiftly expired as he sat down on his bed and looked at her with oddly mournful eyes. 

“The room keeps whirly-whirling…but you’re here.” He stared at her as she swung his legs up onto the bed and went to work on his shoes.

“Okay, David - let’s get your shoes off.”

“I can do it m’self, Andy,” he grumbled, swatting ineffectively at her hands from too far away.

“I’m not-” Mab fumbled with her words, unsure whether or not to correct her uncle.

“Oh, Andrea,” David rambled, “I miss… I miss…”

She understood the sadness in his eyes now. Through the intensely drunken haze and a poor choice of garment on Mab’s part, David was seeing his sister in her face. “Miss what?” she asked, smiling through the twist in her heart. 

“When life…” he sighed, “was simpler. I miss the time before… so complicated now. I miss,” he sighed wearily, “I miss when it was just me and Christine. But… don’t tell Mab…” he slurred, “she’ll be so sad…”

Mab pulled off his shoes once she’d loosened his laces, letting them fall unceremoniously to the floor. The hard leather hitting hardwood startled Christine, who Mab hadn’t realized had been lurking in the doorway until a frantic scratching of claws on wood signaled her hasty retreat. 

“Okay, David,” Mab pulled the covers up over her uncle, speaking quietly, “you get some rest.”

David grabbed her hand loosely, squeezing it. “I miss you, Andy.”

Mab squeezed his hand back and he let go. “Do not stand at my grave and weep,” she whispered.

“I am not there,” David finished the poem’s stanza, “I do not sleep.” He sighed, his eyes closing as he lay back against the flattened pillows. 

Mab closed the door with a heavy settling of old latches that were always maintained by someone who hated squeaky hinges. She pressed her forehead to the thick wood door, grounding herself in a way that helped none at all.

She knew, of course; how could she not? Mab was more than aware that she represented a significant burden to her uncle. She cost money - for power, for food, for the never-ending sequence of medical anomalies that carved out her existence - and she simply was not charming enough to make it worth enjoying that burden.

Mab was not her mother. She couldn’t face down adversity with a smile and a powerful attitude. She shared a face and a dress size with the woman who bore her, but took her disposition from a sour father who had no interest in parenting. 

She could scarcely remember his face, seen only in a few photographs from her mother’s much simpler younger days. Mab pushed off of the wall, her interest drawn to holding that memory. She slipped into her room, sidling around the ever-present stacks of boxes so the flaps of cardboard didn’t snag on the silk gown. Another purple beauty, another inherited story. 

Not quite diving, but nothing so casual as perusing, Mab worked her way down the box of photo albums until she found one with a worn brown cover. She knew it well. Sitting down on the edge of her bed and opening it reverently, she slipped her fingers over the protective plastic over the photographs, like she could reach out and touch the memory itself.

The pictures from the art gallery could have been from another dimension with how distant they seemed. Andrea - brown of hair and eye - stood in the same dress Mab wore. Next to her, a stone-faced man with blue-green eyes Mab had stolen away. His face inscrutable, his disposition sour; Mab found most of herself in him, even as her mother had always insisted that he’d all but phoned in his part of her conception.

Andrea had given all of her glamorous life up for Mab. As she’d grown sicker and her father had left, the number of beautiful things in their homes always seemed to dwindle. They moved from large homes to increasingly small ones as the medical bills mounted. Andrea always smiled. 

Mab could remember the little delights - flip through the photobook and see snippets of treasured memories, of trips to tiny zoos and indulgent restaurant nights - but that part of her life didn’t feel real anymore. She didn’t feel that off expectation some described with lost loved ones - she didn’t think that her mother was going to walk through the door at any moment, or bring her a cup of tea, or ask if she’d remembered her medications. She was gone, and at the moment of her passing it had felt as though it was always going to be that way.

For all her sour words, for all the unkind thoughts and bitter comments she had ever said out loud or tucked deep inside, Mab felt like she deserved this somehow. This tax on her life was the cost of just being not a very good person.

She shut the photo album and set it carefully back in its box with the others she didn’t have the heart to display. She left her mother and all those happy pictures together, where they belonged. She didn’t want to taint them with her bitterness.

The zipper of the purple silk dress moved smoothly, as it always had, the way that only expensive garments can be expected to behave properly every time. She pulled narrow pins form her hair as the ornate style was disassembled, and counted them to be sure she’d gotten every one. Nine in, and nine out. Makeup washed away revealed her true face in the mirror, with no more pretty powders and soft lipstick to hide the tired shadows under her eyes and the sour downturn of her mouth. 

Mab knew exactly what she was. It wasn’t a matter of disliking herself, or feeling sorry for herself that she had to sit down briefly in the shower to take a break from standing; Mab had an incredible sense of self that told her that effort should not be expelled on the things that didn’t matter anymore. She lived on borrowed time, expensive borrowed time. There was no use in wasting what little time she had left on wishing; she had a debt to repay. 

Providence had provided her with a way out of purgatory - to support her uncle during this beautiful lie of Laureates - and find redemption in return for securing a Dumont legacy. She would happily write for him without complaint. She would smile and laugh at parties. Mab didn’t dream of being a pillar of history. She had never allowed herself the delusion of being important. Her little footprint would be washed away with the tides of death, but if she performed her part of the play to perfection she hoped her uncle would be able to build a castle made of more than sand. 

Mab dressed in pajamas she fished out of the pile of clean laundry she’d never put away. She braided damp hair to keep it from tangling in the night and shoved the covers and blankets away to climb into bed. She would dream, as she often did, of a life where she was ordinary. She would dream of a life where her heart pumped solid life through her body, and not an ever-weakening stream of ache. She would dream of a beautiful, bland world where she had a bland, beautiful job and bland, wonderful children, and bland, ordinary complaints about traffic and forgotten vegetables in the fridge. 

She’d accepted the reality a long time ago. It hurt every time to be reminded of her imposition, but she would retreat to that perfectly boring dream place and it would hurt less in the morning.

If Mab hadn’t taken the time to plug in her phone she wouldn’t have noticed the text coming in.

S: Did you have a good week?

She blinked at the screen. Mab’s lip trembled as the carefully rehearsed and oft-repeated checklist that contained her self-loathing was interrupted by a casual question from the strangest of friends.

M: Not even a little! She typed, tears pricking at her eyes. She stared at it, then deleted the message without sending it. She tried again. 

M: Can you just tell me about your week instead?

She stared at it. Still not right. 

She glanced at the time at the top of her phone, tapping her thumb on the edge of the phone case. She’d seen the news; seen the flash of his uniform as he exited a Raft transport late in the evening. What was he even doing up at this hour?

Mab deleted her text. She bobbed her head a little, deciding on a bold move.

He didn’t look the same on television. Of the little she’d seen in snippets here and there he looked so stern and tight-lipped; standing at attention without saying a word. A perfect soldier.

Between aisles of books, sitting on a bench in the park, he was a different person completely. Everything about the clever glint in his eyes, the playful smile, the quick comebacks, all spoke volumes about the tight box he was trying to squeeze wide shoulders in to fit. It must be unbearably painful, she thought, to maintain that level of self-discipline all the time. It must be an agony of the soul to know that you are not wanted as a man, but only as a symbol.

That kind of pain could keep you up at night.

She dialed. 

“Hello?”

“Let me read you the worst sentence ever written by mankind,” Mab said, grabbing a particular book from the pile on the floor.

He didn’t ask why she was awake, and she didn’t ask either. She could hear it in the air - the desperation for normalcy and a life made ordinary. And if not ordinary, for it to contain an order that made sense. This was her way of telling him she understood, even if he couldn’t know how much. 

She read every horrible line she could find, then she switched to the beautiful moments, and the sad ones. She shared with him the escapism of literature that, while a cold comfort, could make the nights less awful.

She read through a crack in her voice, through all the discomforts and fighting past a cough. She wanted Steve to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn’t wasting his time reaching out to her. She still had some use left to the world. A small act, but one she could still do. She read until light snoring drifted through the connection; a reward beyond measure. 

“Sweet dreams, Steve.”

Morning light cut through the kitchen window in little slivers - cut off by street lamps and overgrown trees on the sidewalk. Mab danced through the light to light classical music, swaying gently so as not to burn off the light excess of energy she’d been afforded by some cosmic miracle.

A creak of flooring overhead and a weak moan of pain sent Mab to the coffee pot, checking that the magical brew was ready for the approach of a walking hangover. “Good morning, Uncle David,” Mab greeted, pouring coffee into a mug as he shuffled into the kitchen. “You’re feeling splendid this morning, I see.”

He grunted, hand shading his eyes against the weak beams of light. “What day is it,” he mumbled, “and what year is it?”

Mab handed him the black coffee. “I prescribe coffee, eggs, and toast.”

He sipped at it slowly, sighing reverently. “Could you just hit me really hard in the head instead? I think I’d barely notice.”

“You’ll be alright,” Mab smiled, cracking a few eggs into a bowl and whisking them to a light froth before pouring them into a warm pan with a healthy slab of butter. 

“Could you stir more quietly,” David begged, wincing, “It’s making my brain hurt.”

“That’ll teach you to drink like you’re twenty.”

“You wound me,” David grumbled, grabbing the remote and clicking on the little counter-tv across the kitchen. He flinched as the volume came on too high for him, button-mashing until he found the mute. 

David flipped through the channels and eventually landed on the news. “Wow,” he breathed, “would you look at that. Three in three days.”

Mab looked over at the television, reading the quick glimpse of captions that informed about yet another collection of enhanced being shipped off to the Raft. But Mab wasn’t watching the reporter, she was watching the collection of figures in the background. 

She stared at the screen, watching the heroes do their best to look inconspicuous in the crowd of navy blue fatigues. Her gaze was drawn to one in particular, of course, who she knew more than all the rest. She knew. Maybe it was because she knew that she could see he looked so tired. 

Her hand moved on its own to retrieve her phone from her apron pocket. It moved on its own, unlocking the screen and sending a text. It moved without her needing to think about it, because she knew with her whole body in that moment that she had been too selfish to keep the truth from him for this long..

M: Are you busy today?

He managed to make taking his phone out of his pocket look like an action of military precision, but the twitch of a smile on his face gave him away. Something in her stomach felt quite warm to be the reason for the crack in that perfect facade. 

Mab laughed to herself as she saw that Steve texted by poking the screen with his index finger like someone’s grandpa. 

S: My shift is almost over.

Mab flexed her feet up and down, testing the steadiness of her balance. Better. She felt good. Well, not good, exactly; but not about to fall down at a moment’s notice. Good enough.

M: This afternoon, then. Have you been to the Met lately?

“Mab, the eggs!” David cried just as the scent of burning food invaded her nose. 

“Shit!” Mab cried, grabbing the handle of the skillet and tossing the whole pan into the sink just as the eggs-turned-charcoal caught alight. She doused the pan with water, sending a foul-smelling plume of steam up into her face. 

“So,” she coughed, waving the steam away from her face, “still want eggs?”

Chapter Text

Steve jogged down the hallway, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He was pretty sure he’d gotten the musty, watery smell of the Raft off of his skin, but it had taken a few tries. He reached for his jacket that should have been draped along the back of the sofa but it was missing. He looked around, tensing slightly as he spotted the little Russian standing casually by the elevator doors, holding his jacket hostage with a raised brow. “You’re a doorman now?” Steve asked, holding out a hand.

“You’re headed somewhere awful quick,” Natasha commented, surrendering his jacket. “Hot date?”

Steve shrugged it on, but Natasha was leaning in front of the controls and blocking his exit. “My shift is over.”

“Rhodey’s not here yet,” she shot back smoothly, “so technically you’re still on-duty.”

Steve’s heart sank. She was right, of course. He was already drafting an apologetic text to Mab in his head as the Russian’s face changed from her usual cool detachment to a friendly warmth.

“But,” Natasha said slowly, “that would only matter if I saw you leave. Which, of course, would be impossible to see from my quarters.” She stepped out of his way, giving him a meaningful look. “Have fun,” she crooned with a knowing smile.

Steve couldn't wait until she was out of sight to punch the elevator’s controls, he was running late as it was. He could almost hear Natasha shaking her head in disapproval. A thrill of excitement turned his hands clammy as the elevator descended, but a quick check of the time sent that into a surge of worry. He was running very late - too late for the bus. 

Luckily, he had other transportation options. “Friday, take me down to the garage, please.”

Paul worked through the gigantic packet of medical questions. He’d cleared the first and second phases of this mysterious medical trial, earning first fifty then five hundred dollars. He could scarcely believe it. 

The basement of Mount Sinai was as nice as the towering exterior promised it would be. There were no indications that Paul should feel anything but comfortable sitting in the waiting area with a collection of other patients, filling out the hefty binder of questions. The lights didn’t flicker, the pens all wrote smoothly, and all the nurses smiled and thanked him for his participation every time he came in. 

If he passed this round and continued to qualify, he would be paid five thousand dollars. Two months’ rent for a cheek swab and a blood test. They hadn’t even given him anything yet. 

He paused at a question - buried in between family history and occupational hazards - that seemed more odd than the rest.

Do you now or have you ever consumed fish oil capsules?

Paul paused.

He couldn’t remember ever taking any. Janice had tried to convince him to take a daily multivitamin, or to go vegan, or to go paleo, or to go keto, but he’d never strayed from his steak-and-potatoes lifestyle. He had the high blood pressure to prove it.

Paul checked the box reading ‘no’, and moved on.

Five thousand dollars .

He crossed his fingers that his luck held out.

Steve stepped through the metal detector without incident, pulling his jacket and keys out of the plastic bin as they trundled through the security screening, nodding to the ambivalent security officer who probably couldn't care less.

The museum was more expensive than he remembered. But then again, he remembered when milk cost a quarter per gallon. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he paid his admission and exchanged the receipt for a map and entered a hall filled with marble.

M: running late. Meet you by the Temple of Dendur.

He had to double back, he realized after a moment studying the map, weaving his way through the lobby to go in the opposite direction. The Egyptian wing fascinated him, and he paused briefly in front of a little turquoise hippo that he actually recognized. From a lifetime ago.

The Temple of Dendur, however, was something else to behold. The huge wall of glass looked out over falling autumn leaves in Central Park, tracing red in the gentle waters surrounding the stone structure. He could see why Mab had chosen this hall to find him - he could take a seat along the edge of the pool and wait, and the crowds were much thinner here than in the tight galleries. Much easier to negotiate with a wheelchair, and he’d be harder to miss. 

He had no idea how long he’d need to wait for Mab. It wasn’t difficult to resist the urge to wander and explore on his own - whatever he could see by himself he would certainly enjoy more with Mab. He pulled a slim book from his jacket pocket, and flipped open to a marked page. 

He always carried a book now. It didn’t distract much from the world, but at least reduced the number of things that required his focus. He could read, but also keep an ear out for the call of alarm, or the sound of helicopter descent, or the whisper of wheels approaching. 

Listening for the faint sound of ocean waves - of leather on steel tire rims, of approaching peace - Steve idly flipped through the pages of his book. He could hear children whispering, and sneakers squeaking on polished floors. Canes tapped and creaked, and other guests folded programs this way and that to try and get their bearings. 

“You know,” a familiar voice came without the familiar call of the ocean, “it’s sacreligious to read in an art museum.”

Steve’s head jerked up in surprise and the sight of her was so much more shocking that he sprang to his feet out of sheer reflex. He blinked, his mouth falling slightly slack.

Mab smiled, leaning slightly on a cane as she stood before him. “Hi.”

But he couldn’t say anything back. He had to check again, starting from the ground up - from her dark shoes planted on the polished floor, up long lengths of denim to the hem of a soft-looking white sweater, past the swaths of cream-colored coat and green scarf, to a delightedly wicked smile and blue-green eyes sparkling with unspoken laughter. 

Her eyes; blue falling into green, as close as the first time he’d crouched down at her level in concern but found himself willing to dive into the waves and let them crash into him over and over. 

Standing. Standing. She was tall, he realized, with her nose coming about to the level of his chin. She stood close enough for him to see the barest touch of sun on her nose, and the trace of a scar running just above her left eyebrow. 

“Surprised?” she asked with a flash of teeth, the sly smile showing she knew he was. “I’m having a good day,” she explained. “On good days I can get around almost normally with a cane.” She lifted a black-and-yellow striped cane, the same pattern as her sporty wheelchair. 

Steve found his voice after quickly clearing his throat. “That’s quite the surprise.”

“Yeah,” she smirked, “I know.” She stepped away, moving as smoothly as she might have drifted away in her chair. Light, lightly on steady feet, she beckoned him to follow.

How could he not? Her movements fascinated him as though he had never seen someone walk before. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

“You didn’t ask,” she replied, switching her coat to her other arm so the cane didn’t get caught up in it.

“Are there any other questions I should have asked?” he asked. 

Her lips twisted in a way that said ‘yes’ even before she looked away. “Come on; it’s still pretty empty so we should see the inside of the Temple before it gets crowded.” She ascended three steps to the entrance of the Temple and he followed. How could he not?

Stone columns twice his height guarded the narrow entrance, forcing them to walk single-file to enter the tiny entrance hall. Mab paused, staring at the carved walls with something somber in her eyes. The silence of the hall faded away inside the stone, leaving only an echo of breath to highlight their solitude there.

As Steve realized they were alone in the Temple, Mab seemed to realize it too. “I wanted to tell you, and I guess now is as good a time as any.” She kept her gaze fixed on the wall as a weary sadness overtook her. “I know who you are.”

The stone walls hummed with her faint words, giving them extra weight that hit Steve firmly in the chest. His first thought was to deny everything. “I don’t-”

Mab looked at him and all denials died on his tongue. “Steve, there are hundreds of photos of you in dozens of museums, not to mention YouTube. I recognized you right away, that day on the bus. I’ve always known.” 

Steve clenched his jaw, fighting back the cold feeling in his hands and a frustration that was more painful disappointment than anger. She knew. He thought he could ready himself for what was coming next - that she was a secret SHIELD agent, or a reporter, or some other terrible possibility that explained her proximity to his life.

But that wasn’t what came next. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I know,” she said quietly, lowering her voice as a young couple entered the entrance hall and gave them a funny look as they passed into the offering hall. Mab let them pass before she continued. “You don’t seem to mind that I’ve got… problems. I didn’t say anything because I just liked spending time with you and it didn’t matter to me that you’re… that you’re who you are. I’d really like to keep being friends, but I also wanted to be honest with you.” Her smile was small, but warm. “I don’t really have anything else to say. I just wanted you to know.”

She looked away, glancing into the next room and its half-broken statue contained behind bulletproof glass. “If nothing else, I had a great time being your friend.” She stepped away from him, entering the smaller offering hall. She left him with her words, giving him the option to leave or to follow.

Steve stood in silence as she moved on, trying to process what had just happened. The cold feeling in his hands that he had thought to be disappointment quickly turned into warmth. She knew. 

She knew, and if he could take her at her word, then nothing had changed; nothing would change. Or, if her actions spoke as clearly, she was giving him a free choice to walk away. 

His feet followed, even as he continued to process her words. How could he not? She knew. 

If she had known from the beginning then he didn’t need to worry that she might treat him differently. That he might lose that trenchant wit that made talking with her so easy, so honest. He’d felt like he could be more than a symbol of justice, so polluted now, more than the expectations that tried to strangle his words and stifle his values. And it wasn’t like she lied; he had just never asked. 

He understood why she’d kept silent about it for so long. He, too, remembered what it was like to be the weak one in a pair. He remembered how incredibly valuable his friendship with Bucky had been for all those years, and how much it had hurt when Bucky left for the front. He lost the one person who’d enjoyed his company for what little he could offer.

He followed, seeing the tension in her shoulders as she braced herself for his response to her admission. She kept her eyes fixed on the small headless statue - as still as her in that moment - like her life depended on it. He could see a faint tremor in the hand resting on her cane. It hurt him a little, but he understood it. He understood bracing yourself for the possibility that you were not wanted.

“The last time I was here,” he started, keeping his voice low, “people were still really excited about the egyptian hippo - the blue one. It came to the museum the same year I was born.” 

Mab’s eyes flicked up to him, blue and green drawing in every word. The waves of her presence drew inwards, but without any kind of forceful pull. That was her way; a presence not insistent, but consistent. 

Steve continued, “but my favorite was Matisse. I liked that, even as a kid, my bad paintings looked as good as something that hung in a museum.”

She nodded, but still stayed silent. Her eyes held the question and a fear he recognized plainly. A deep desire to be invited into something more than just the title of ‘acquaintance’. 

He held out his right hand. “Steve Rogers.”

That broke through the tense fear in her eyes, letting a smile spread there as she took his hand for a gentle shake. “Mab Dumont.” Her hands were cold and calloused. “Nice to meet you.”

She let go and suddenly Steve didn’t know what to do with his hands. He shoved them into his jacket pockets as he followed her into the final room - the Sanctuary - and let her lead him around the space, lingering in spots and moving swiftly through others. 

Something occurred to him and he stopped in place. “So,” Steve realized, “when we sat in that diner and you asked me what I did for a living… you just let me ramble along like an idiot?”

Mab snorted, and didn't have the good grace to cover her smile. “I’ll admit, it was a lot of fun seeing you try and come up with answers on the spot.”

Steve shook his head, thinking of all the ways he’d nearly tripped over himself trying to keep his secret when it had turned out to be ultimately unnecessary. 

Sensing the moment was right to share in return, Mab leaned in, whispering secretively. “I have absolute garbage taste in food. If it’s deep-fried I’ll eat it; Oreos in particular.”

“You also wear socks that don’t match,” Steve added as she leaned away again, and Mab looked aghast.

“By choice!” she defended. “It’s not like I don’t notice. I just like variety.” 

And they were back again. It could barely be called a brief hiccup, a righting of directions with a clarifying check of a compass, and all was well. Everything was still the same.

He followed her out of the Temple with a lightness in his step that he hadn’t felt in a long time. She knew. She knew, and nothing was going to happen. Nothing was going to change. Nothing more needed to be said, but now he had so much more to say. 

If you were to glance through a room, you might miss the easy presence of Mab Dumont. She blended in with the walls and furniture, but not in a visual way. She gave off the same feeling as a heavy morning mist; silencing the busy rumble of the world.

She drew him through halls and past statues, and all the questions and things he had thought to say just didn’t come to mind. He wanted to see what she saw; to know all the things she knew about this delicate world protected by glass and guards. She didn’t argue as he let her lead him around the museum, her stride smooth and steady, but much slower than when she rode on wheels.

In a back gallery, mostly abandoned if the lack of famous paintings was any explanation, it was impossible to notice that she was rapidly losing energy. “Do you mind if we sit?” Steve asked, in lieu of asking if she needed a break.

“Sure,” she chirped. Mab sat down on the room’s singular long cushioned bench, resting her cane against the inside of her thigh. Her breathing was a little rapid for Steve’s comfort; like she was already winded. “It’s funny,” she said between labored breaths, “I love this painting, but I don’t usually get much time to really look at it.”

The large painting wasn’t the highlight of the room, and it wasn’t particularly dramatic or colorful, and nothing about it was especially unexpected. A woman in a fitted black gown, her attention drawn away, rested a hand on a side table for balance, perhaps. “Madame X”, John Singer Sargent (1883-1884), was all the information a side plaque provided.

“I love art,” Mab sighed. “You know exactly what it’s supposed to mean when you look at it, but as soon as you look away it’s just… gone.” She snapped her fingers, letting the sound echo in the empty hall. “You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can’t hold it.”

“What’s that from?” Steve asked. 

“Just something I’m working on,” she answered vaguely. “Just look at it. You know what my favorite part of the whole thing is?” Mab curled her hand against the bench, just like the woman leaned against the table in the painting. “That hand. Is it desperation? Is it exhaustion? Why lean like that, and hold on in such an uncomfortable way? It’s in the shadow of her, a place of unimportance, but it’s where her real personality is hiding.”

Steve didn’t know what to say. As Mab described it, he could see that glimmer of the place of her meaning, but - just as she said - it drifted away as he looked away from the painting. Mab’s cheeks flushed as she caught Steve’s eye. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to ramble,” she muttered. 

“Sargent made her a goddess,” Steve said, ignoring her apology. “The gold bit over her head - it’s a crescent.”

“I think you’re right.” Mab squinted. “I never noticed that before. Huh.”

“Excuse me, folks; we’re getting ready to close.” Steve and Mab both jumped sharply as a friendly voice called from the next room. A security guard peeking in made the low discussion suddenly feel like a very intimate moment.

“Oh my god, what time is it?” Mab cried, pulling her phone out of her pocket and dropping her coat in the process. She groaned in exasperation. “It’s nearly five.”

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, retrieving her coat from the floor.

 “The bus is going to be so crammed,” she explained, taking back her coat. “That’s what I get for playing Museum Curator.” She looked utterly exhausted, and the tremor in her hand as she moved to stand with her cane had nothing to do with fear this time. She wouldn’t have the option of leaning back in her chair for the trip home, and a crowded bus likely meant standing the entire time. 

The solution was obvious to Steve. “Can I take you home? I’m parked on the corner.”

He expected her to refuse him, and he intended to insist, but it didn’t come to that. She stared at him, squinting her eyes a bit, before sighing in defeat. “You know what? That would be wonderful.”

Steve beamed, and Mab’s lips twisted into a mock scowl. “Don’t make that face like you won - I’m taking advantage of you, Steve.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, chuckling as her mock scowl turned into a real one.

Now it was his turn to lead. He drew her back through the halls, the map he’d memorized on first glance spinning in his head to provide the most direct route to the front door, to the outside, and to rest for Mab. She didn’t question his path, didn’t challenge the way he took her through little side rooms that opened up again in large halls. 

He held her cane briefly as she shrugged on her long coat, tucking the edges of her scarf under the collar to keep them from flying away in the rush of cold air that met them on the museum’s steps.

People spilled out into the streets as the museum began to close, each one touched by a stroke of a pen or the click of a camera. Steve was touched by Mab’s hand at his shoulder as she laughed, pointing to a set of parents chasing a child down the stairs with a tiny jacket in hand; fighting the eternal battle of wisdom versus enthusiasm. 

The best moment, that he had hoped for but couldn’t have properly imagined, fell into place as Mab realized where she was being directed. “No!” she cried, her face a picture of delight as they approached the motorcycle. “No way!”

“You like it?” Steve asked, holding out a hand for her cane so she could take a seat. She surrendered it without a moment of resistance and swung her leg over to take a seat, beaming with an enthusiasm that made Steve’s stomach flip.

“She’s gorgeous!” Mab straddled the seat while Steve rigged a makeshift cane-holder between the handlebars. “What do you call this thing? The Cap-Mobile? Star-Spangled Motors?”

Steve hid a grin. “It’s the Flying Avenger.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh my God - are you serious?”

“No,” Steve laughed, pulling on his knots to make sure they were secure; he didn’t want to lose her cane. It felt good, so good, to be able to invite her into those jokes. To be able to poke fun at himself, at the strange title he bore.

He sidestepped an irritated swat of her hand. “Now I don’t have a helmet, so if you fall off and get hurt I’m gonna feel real bad for at least ten minutes.” 

She puffed out her cheeks. “Wow. Ten whole minutes. I feel so special.” 

“You should; I’ve never taken anyone for a ride on my bike before.” She scooted back in the seat as he swung his leg over to sit in front. “So hold on tight,” he instructed over his shoulder, colder for not being able to see her beaming smile.

“Yessir.” She wrapped her arms around his middle and interlocked her fingers, and that warmth returned. A faint scent of perfume wrapped around him; something like warm cotton and a tree-lined street that touched on a long-forgotten memory. 

He shook it off, turning the engine over and feeling Mab’s grip tighten as the bike roared. “Where to, ma’am?”

“Greenwich Village, sir,” she answered. “Sixth avenue and Thirteenth street.”

He pulled away from the curb gently, letting Mab get accustomed to the sway of the machine and the pull of wind through her hair, throwing the tail of her coat out behind them.

Just like the streets opened before his bike, he could feel new avenues branching out. She knew. She knew. She knew from the beginning and he could only feel relieved by it. No more clumsy excuses and veiled descriptions; he would be able to call her and describe his hellish days and sleepless nights and not worry anymore that she might find his conversations lacking. 

He opened up the engine as a series of green lights allowed and Mab cried out in delight and he knew that it felt like freedom as much to her as it did for him. He felt disappointed, then, as they made the last turn onto her street and Mab pointed to her front door. 

He was still swimming in the glory of the bike’s freedom as they pulled up to the curb in front of the brownstone. “Wow,” he said, turning off the bike’s engine, “this place is nice.” A short strip of old brownstones with pristine sidewalks and old trees interrupted the usual parking lots and boutique stores he expected this far downtown.

“It’s rent-controlled,” she said like she needed to explain. Steve wanted to tell her she didn't owe him anything like that but she moved on, slipping off the back of the bike and smoothing away the flyaways in her hair. “Thanks for the ride,” Mab said, head tilted and a broad smile on her face as she stepped up onto the curb. “It was so much better than the bus.”

“Any time.” Steve made himself busy with releasing her cane from the series of knots holding it to his handlebars. “Are you busy this weekend?” The question slipped out without discussing it with his brain first. Although, he realized as he waited for her answer, he didn’t really need to think about it. 

It made perfect sense to ask, to invite her into a place where she would never ask to visit. It made all the sense in the world because she knew. She knew. This odd weekend that had been barreling down on him was something he was certain he could handle with grace if she agreed to stand with him.

“I don’t have any plans, why?” Mab asked, tilting her head with the question. “What are we doing?”

Steve held out her yellow-and-black striped cane, his fingers buzzing as they briefly brushed against hers. “I heard there’s snow in the forecast, so I thought I could take you somewhere warm with me.” 

Chapter Text

Wind whipped through narrow city streets with a bitter vengeance. The windows and doors of the little townhouse whistled and moaned in chorus. Light music drifted through a lonely brownstone in Greenwich Village and a cat observed from the landing as the sole occupant drifted from room to room, humming to herself as she packed a bag.

If Mab had been expecting her introduction to the superhero lifestyle to be relatively smooth, she had been sorely mistaken. By all indications, it was relatively uncomplicated. Steve had told her to pack for a nice outdoor gathering, somewhere warm but with chilly nights. He hadn’t been able to tell her much else, just a flight time for early Saturday morning.

But it was also, somehow, easier now. The tone of Steve’s messages had changed, and while he’d been sadly too busy to call for a few days, she could tell from their limited contact that he was more relaxed, if nothing else.

Mab, on the other hand, was holding her sanity together with both hands. She worried that she might have jumped the gun a bit on telling Steve that she knew all about him. She worried that this was some overcompensation on his part - that he’d only invited her because he felt he owed her something, and not because he genuinely enjoyed her company. 

She sighed in self-reproach, knowing at even the surface level that Steve wasn’t like that at all. She carefully folded the yellow sundress, smoothing out crisp pleats so they wouldn’t wrinkle during the flight. 

The doorbell rang; an ancient, booming mechanism that sent Christine scuttling into the back bedroom, hissing the entire way. Mab frowned as she opened the thick wood door that led to a little tiled vestibule, leaving only a glass door separating her from the stranger. She didn’t recognize the man on the other side of the glass. “Can I help you?” she said loudly, not opening the door.

“Mab Dumont?” He barked over the howling wind. 

“...Yes?” she replied hesitantly. Was she in trouble?

He held up a security badge with his face and a large unmistakable stylized “A” logo emblazoned on it. Happy Hogan. Head of Security, Stark Industries. “Can we talk inside?”

Mab opened the door quickly, ushering him inside before anyone passing by saw the badge and started rumors.

He looked a little uncomfortable standing in the tight vestibule, a large metal briefcase threatening to crack the tile if he accidentally dropped it. “Captain Rogers failed to have you fill out the proper authorization to attend the… event this weekend. We don’t have a lot of time to get all the checks done. Is your uncle home?”

Mab tilted her head. “No, he’s doing a weekend residency upstate, why?”

“Right, he’s the Laureate - as long as you don’t contact him this weekend it should be fine.” He swept past her quickly, moving to the kitchen and setting a heavy metal case on the old kitchen table and clicking open sturdy latches. 

“What should be fine!?” Mab cried, confusion mounting. 

Hogan lowered his voice to something a little less demanding and more on the soothing end of the spectrum. “Miss Dumont, Stark Industries provides the security for all of the Avengers -“

“- the avengers need security?” Mab interrupted.

He ignored her and continued, “-and as the head of security it’s my responsibility to make sure everyone attending the… event is properly vetted. Didn’t Captain Rogers go over the security protocols for this weekend?” The man pulled out a stack of paperwork thicker than a mortgage agreement.

Mab traced the table of contents.

Multilateral Non-Disclosure Agreement
Education Verification
Federal Criminal History Verification
Tri-State Criminal History Verification
Social Media & Internet Check
Credit Background Check
Social Security Number Trace
Photo Catalog Trace
Cellular Block Agreement

Mab rubbed at her eyes, pausing halfway down the list. Just reading the list was giving her a headache. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Hogan?”

“Just call me Happy, please. And I’d love some, thanks.” He sat at the table and started to organize the stack in some way that probably only made sense to him.

“Happy,” Mab said slowly, scooping coffee grounds into the machine and urging it to hurry up, “does Steve know you’re here?”

“I was sent as part of the routine background checks needed for the event.”

“So,” Mab surmised, “no, then.” She walked back to the table and sat down across from Happy. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out without thinking about it, glancing at the notification without really reading it. 

“Gimme your phone,” Happy suddenly demanded. 

“I’m sorry?” Mab asked, recoiling slightly even as he reached for it. 

“Give it,” he demanded, and Mab reluctantly handed it over. 

He looked at her phone, shaking his head, “these things are such security garbage; good thing I brought a spare just in case.” He pulled a rectangle of glass from his inside jacket pocket, bezeled with aluminum. He held it over her phone and the glass suddenly turned into a projected screen. 

Little boxes appeared and vanished at rapid-fire speed, something like holographic code glittering across the perfect screen. It stopped, and Happy pocketed Mab’s phone but held out the little clear rectangle. “There - now it’s not hackable, trackable, etcetera.” 

He fixed her with a stern look. “No twitter, no Facebook, no location tagging during the event or travel to and from. You got it? Friday will send out an alert if you do, so don’t.”

Mab accepted the rectangle, but held out a hand for her phone. “Are you going to give my phone back?”

Happy nodded to the rectangle. “That’s your phone now. Top of the line Stark Tech. Were you even listening?”

Pulling it closer, Mab rolled it from hand to hand, then her attention turned slowly to the impressive stack of paperwork, little colors flags sticking out like discarded confetti where she was meant to sign over and over again. 

The coffee maker beeped and Mab stood reflexively in answer, grabbing two clean mugs from the drying rack. She squinted, processing the odd collection of information as she poured coffee into two cups. “This is the wedding, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” Happy replied, accepting the cup. “Mm- wow that’s good coffee.”

“Add a little cinnamon to the grounds before brewing and you can make cheap coffee taste great.”she chewed the inside of her cheek and a sly smile spread across her face.“It’s the wedding. His best friend’s wedding.”  

“Miss Dumont-”

Mab cut him short. “You got a pen or what?”

She signed as directed. Each initial, each looping cursive stroke, she didn’t even ask to read the document; Happy’s short summation of the contents was fine by her, she kept repeating. 

Happy seemed perplexed at her sudden willingness, but also was likely far too busy to turn down an easier morning. He flipped through the stack as they finished to ensure she hadn’t missed a spot, and satisfied, put the entire thing back in his impressive metal briefcase. 

He stood, moving his coffee cup to the sink without prompting. “Be ready at seven tomorrow for the trip to the airport.”

Mab stood, nodding. “Seven. Got it. Thank you, Mr. Hogan.”

She led him out into the brisk blustery early afternoon, watching the obscenely expensive car she hadn’t noticed before pull gently away from the curb, silent as a breeze. 

She had some scheming to do. But first, she needed better scheming music. Mab flipped through the music on her phone, searching for a feeling. Of course, she thought with a grin, pressing play.

Synth music filled the brownstone as Mab synced to wireless speakers, followed by deep drums and an electric guitar. There was no resisting the urge to bob along to the music as she swept up the stairs. 

Here we stand
Worlds apart, hearts broken in two, two, two
Sleepless nights
Losing ground, I'm reaching for you, you, you

She dove into the mountains of cardboard occupying the room as she searched for a specific dress.

Even when they had almost nothing, Mab and her mother had found ways to track down beautiful clothing at dirt-cheap prices. Andrea was Ariadne of the silks - she could pick them out by smell in piles of yard-sale and estate-sale bins. Running her fingers over the texture of a filthy dress she could tell you if it was Mulberry or Tasar. Letting it float through the air, she could pick out a crepe-de-chine from an organza as easy as breathing.

Feeling that it's gone
Can change your mind
If we can't go on
To survive the tide love divides

Because of that, they collected silks like some people collect stamps. A bit of 20-Mule Borax and elbow grease would take out all kinds of horrific damage. Mab grinned in satisfaction as she found a dress they’d bought for $4 at a flea market that had looked genuinely infected by fleas.

Someday, love will find you
Break those chains that bind you
One night will remind you
How we touched and went our separate ways

Pulling it from protective tissue, no one would have guessed that it was salvaged. Mab’s mother had made Mab model it as she pruned off the bottom eight inches - burned and soiled beyond recovery - leaving a modest tea-length. The zipper was old and sturdy, and a little mineral oil had washed away the threat of rust. Even under mab’s calloused fingers she could feel the little bumps and hills of the dupioni that gave it spectacular depth in the sunlight.

If he ever hurts you
True love won't desert you
You know I still love you
Though we touched and went our separate ways

Yes, Mab thought, wrapping it back in the protective tissue and setting it with satisfaction in her suitcase, that’s the one. At the back of her closet - thrown there with a reckless abandon - she retrieved a set of low black heels. Barely two inches of height, she felt they’d add just that little extra bit to her revenge.

She left the suitcase open to throw her toothbrush and other etcetera first thing in the morning, but could otherwise sleep satisfied with her plans.

The doorbell rang five minutes before seven. “Captain Rogers told me to be early or else you’d try to carry your suitcase to the curb yourself,” Happy explained. “Where is it?”

Mab pursed her lips, wanting to feel displeased but suffering from another set of soft emotions instead. “Upstairs landing.” She shouldn’t have been surprised - Steve was remarkably perceptive. Mab gracefully surrendered the burden of her overnight bag and the heavy weight of her collapsed wheelchair. She hoped she wouldn’t need it, but better safe than sorry. 

Mab stood awkwardly next to the car as Happy loaded her small suitcase and cumbersome wheelchair into the trunk. “Can I….?” she offered, stepping closer. 

He made a straining sound. “Please, I’m the Head of Security for Stark Industries - I can move luggage around,” he replied.

“I’m… not sure what to do with that information, but okay.” Mab tucked her hands in her jacket pockets. “If you’re head of security, why are you driving people to airports?”

“I always drive the VIPs,” he said like it was obvious. He didn’t look like he was joking.

“I’m not-” Mab was quick to correct.

The wheelchair made a satisfying thunk as it finally settled into the trunk, and Happy closed it with a swift thud. “Right,” he clapped his hands together, “let’s not be late.”

“Which terminal am I leaving from?” Mab asked as she slid into the remarkably solid vehicle’s backseat. She vaguely remembered there being decent sushi in the Delta terminal.

Happy closed the door for her before Mab could even touch the latch. Mab wondered if it was just her overactive imagination, or if the doors and windows were really thick enough to be bulletproof.

“You’ll be using the Stark terminal,” he replied, equally casually as he sat in the driver's seat and turned the engine over, pulling away from the curb with suspension so smooth you couldn’t even feel the car move. 

“Cool,” Mab mumbled, repeating: “Cool, cool cool cool.” She tapped her finger nervously against the side of her new futuristic phone, wishing she had asked for an instruction manual because she couldn’t figure out how to turn the damned thing in and she really would have liked to be able to text a certain someone in that moment. 

She hadn’t had many opportunities to talk with Steve since their afternoon at the museum, but it was impossible to miss the change in the air. More than the changing of the colors in trees or the smell of the wind, it had been easier than breathing to see the relief in Steve’s face. Not exactly the reaction she’d expected. Mab had expected contempt, anger, disappointment, disgust… relief had not been among them. 

She could see it in the words he chose when messaging, or the smugly secretive tone he was taking about the weekend trip. Mab had no reason to distrust the old soldier - probably the most trustworthy man in America - but the impulse to trust so readily made her nervous.

Tapping at the side of her phone with her thumb as the car dipped down into the Holland Tunnel, diving into darkness punctuated by fleeting yellow lights, Mab could barely trace the moments in time leading to this moment. Such an odd chance of fate had introduced them and repeatedly threw them together until it wore away at her resistance like water over stone. 

It had been, what, a month since they’d met? If any other ordinary man on the planet had asked her after only a month to blindly fly across the country to a secret wedding where she didn’t know a soul, with absolutely no information to leave for relatives in the event they turned out to be a serial killer, Mab would have laughed in their face and called the police. 

But, Mab shook her head as the car rose from the tunnel, squinting at the bright light that followed as they entered New Jersey, Steve isn’t any other guy, she thought. Leaving the superhero part aside, he just wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. Sure, she’d tried dating - sometimes serious, sometimes not - and of course there was always the odd duck that behaved in some appropriately chivalrous ways, but not like this. 

Steve talked like he’d walked off a pulp-paper novel sometimes, but you just didn’t notice because of his earnestness and intensity. He meant what he said - every word, every time. It was an honesty and openness that begged for reciprocation; no games, no runaround, but an open window of soul.

Don’t wait until it’s raining to call me again. Her cheeks spontaneously warmed at the memory of it. Did he even know what he sounded like? Pride and Prejudice with a mild Brooklyn accent, and unfairly kind. 

Mab couldn’t fathom why he kept reaching out for her; why he’d decided that she was worth his immeasurably valuable time. She had very little to offer, and an inversely large burden to bear. Maybe, a small voice inside her heart whispered as the car pulled off the highway and towards a large hanger hidden behind Newark airport, a hero could help.

Pulling off the access roads into the wide private hangar was… behind surreal. The jet looked like something from a futurist’s wet dream: a vision of steel and sleek lines. 

Feeling conspicuously underdressed to board the sleek jet waiting in the hangar, Mab hung around the side of the car while Happy grappled with her wheelchair again. She was waiting for someone to say it was all a joke, terribly sorry, but she was in fact going to be flying JetBlue. 

Happy breathed heavily as he finally managed to get her chair out and on the concrete. He looked at her funny. “What are you still doing down here?” He asked, and pointed to the narrow stairs up to the plane. “Captain Rogers is already on board, head up and I’ll get this stowed.”

The treads of the stairs were coated in some gritty material that scratched the bottom of her shoes as she ascended. The metal handrail was cold to the touch as she skimmed her fingers on the rise, distracting from the flush on her cheeks she would forever claim to be a reaction to the chilly air and definitely not because Steve stepped into view in the jet’s open door with an eager grin on his face.

The size of the terminal shrank very suddenly, the universe spiraling shut into a very narrow tunnel. There existed a few tight breaths between Mab and Steve, and a distinctly warmer air. 

Troubled times
Caught between confusion and pain, pain, pain
Distant eyes
Promises we made were in vain, in vain, in vain

Mab took Steve’s hand for steadying balance as she ducked her head slightly to enter the cabin. “So we’re stealing a Stark Industries plane because…?” she asked in lieu of a typical greeting.

“I don’t fit into commercial seats very well,” Steve admitted. “And we’re not stealing, we’re borrowing.”

Mab nodded somberly. “Yes, it’s so tragic that superhero shoulders don’t fit into Economy.”

“You’re taking this very well,” Steve commented, following Mab through the cabin as she sat across from him, facing the rear of the plane whereas Steve preferred riding facing forward. 

She waved her hand in vague dismissal, but accompanied it with a smile. “That I’m a guest at a superhero wedding in California? I can swoon and faint if you prefer.” She stretched out in the seat, the tips of her shoes not quite reaching Steve’s. “Wow. This is nice. Superheroes get nice stuff.”

“Say ‘superhero’ one more time.” Steve covered his smile with a hand as Mab stuck out her tongue in an adorably childish response. 

He’d been worried - and he’d been wrong - that exposure to his working lifestyle might have been too much. Bringing her with him for the weekend would bring her into the alien glamor of it all, but also give Mab an idea of the world she was stumbling into.

This new ground between them confused him. He’d gone from what he felt was a fairly even advantage to a distinctly disadvantaged one; everything worth learning about him could be read on the walls of a museum. Steve didn’t know where to begin. He had no more stories left to share that she wouldn’t already know, right?

But Mab cut right through his doubt and insecurity with an odd prompt: “Tell me about your favorite childhood breakfast,” she said with surety, getting more comfortable in her seat, taking a glance over her shoulder as the cabin door sealed itself and the engines began to hum slowly. 

He had to really think about it. “Growing up, since my dad died in the trenches, we were more careful than most about money. Then, in ‘29, it got a lot worse. I was a skinny kid, and it was all my mom could do to keep food on the table. We ate a lot of oatmeal - you could get two whole weeks of breakfasts for a quarter - but I dreamed of having a huge bowl of cream of wheat, slathered in butter and brown sugar, all to myself. Cooking it in milk, and all the other ingredients that were worth their weight in gold… it was a dream.”

Steve paused, wondering if him talking about milk and butter as luxuries might be losing Mab in minutiae, but she seemed genuinely interested as she waved a hand for him to continue. “One real cold winter, I got pneumonia for I think the third time, and even through the awful stuff coming out of my face… I could smell it cooking. I could smell the milk and the brown sugar melting in the butter.”

He could still smell it. “It was amazing. Best breakfast of my life.” He took a deep breath reflexively, getting recirculated air and a hint of whatever Mab’s perfume left in the air instead of butter and sugar. 

A faint ping reminded them to put on seat belts right before the plane tilted at a steep angle and launched into the sky. Smooth, swift, and silent, the Stark jet aimed West.

Mab was grinning around her hand; not in any way that suggested his story was somehow funny, but something else entirely. “...what?” Steve asked hesitantly. 

“This is ridiculous, I can’t believe we both-” she coughed a laugh, patted her chest to clear it, and shot him a beaming smile. “Okay, so… when I was growing up, I was obsessed with these children’s fairy tales on cassette tape - ‘Let’s Pretend’. I listened to them every morning, and every night going to sleep. Obsessed. Anyway - they had one sponsor, and only one, and they had this jingle they would sing for it at breaks. I still know it by heart.”

Mab’s singing voice was thready and soft and quavering as a young bird’s song. “Cream of wheat, it’s so good to eat, yes we have it every day…” She coughed as if embarrassed, clearing her throat before continuing. “So, after months of listening to these tapes, I begged my mom to buy me a box of cream of wheat. Now my mom, being the astute creature she was, wanted to teach me a lesson in advertising. She didn’t like the idea that an ad could turn me into a consumer-zombie, so she bought it. She took it home and prepared it for breakfast in the morning.” She paused for emphasis. “Plain.”

“Oh no…” Steve groaned, seeing where her story was going. 

She laughed at her own childhood suffering. “Oh yes! She cooked it in milk, but no sugar or salt, no butter, just plain cream of wheat and let me tell you… I’m pretty sure that’s what wallpaper paste tastes like.” She spread her arms, tilting her head with a shrug. “So there you go; in its own strange way, history connects us.”

It caught him off-guard for just a moment; leaving him behind in empty sky as the plane surged on through the clouds and Mab’s attention drifted elsewhere in the cabin. Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to find someone with shared life experience. He’d said that, hadn’t he? 

Had he missed it entirely until Mab had pointed it out? Because it wasn’t just the one story; they already had a collection of strange little moments that they seemed to share. Suddenly he was desperate to know more, to ask her the questions and dive deep, deep into the waters of her history in search of a shared ocean he never thought he’d live to see again. 

“Does this plane not have a captain? Because I just realized I didn’t see anyone else board and it’s weirding me out,” Mab asked, oblivious to Steve’s existential crisis.

“It’s flown by A.I.,” Steve explained, “Mab-“ he started the question without having properly prepared the ending. 

“Yes?” she asked as he trailed off into nothing. 

“What’s…” he thought about his own childhood, about the collection of specific sensations and experiences that stood out there. “What’s the most uncomfortable piece of clothing you had to wear as a kid?”

“Oooh, that’s a good one,” Mab said appreciatively. She chewed on the side of her lower lip, thinking hard. “Okay, I’ve got it. I think I was maybe five or six. Couldn’t have been older. School picture day - of course - and my mom pulls out this… Elizabethan monstrosity. It’s purple velvet with a white lace collar. The kind of dress only a mother could love. I wanted to wear my little red skirt and yellow shirt, but no; this thing.”

She scratched at her neck. “I can still feel that awful lace.” She shuddered. “Whoever made that dress clearly didn’t think about the fact that a child was going to wear it. It wasn’t lined on the inside, so you just had the back side of velvet - which feels like upholstery backing - scraping and scratching against my skin all day. Awful. Why are you making that face?” Mab asked abruptly, cutting off her story. 

Steve jerked in his chair, not even realizing he was making a face. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I just…”

“No,” Mab pointed at him accusingly, “No way.”

“Well,” Steve started, hardly believing it himself, “ I grew up catholic, which may or may not be in museums. And, as a good catholic son, I had my hand at being an altar boy. We had these long red robes, and over it this white shift, and ours had this incredibly itchy lace along the sleeves.” 

He shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the services of his childhood in… nearly a hundred years. Thinking about it now he could feel his feet pinched in shoes he’d long outgrown but couldn’t replace, and the smell of thick incense in the air threatening to make him sneeze in the middle of services. 

Mab looked out the window, thinking something that didn’t read on her face. She whipped her head toward him. “Okay,” she said, “Tell me about the meanest animal you’ve ever met.”

It went on. Through challenges of obscure memory and incredible specificity they battled the grand gestures of the universe and grappled to see the faint threads of fate that bound them. 

It went on. Like a challenge, a battle of memory and storytelling at its finest, they threw down stories that might otherwise never come up in normal conversation like chess pieces on a board.

It went on. Wit for wit and laughter giving laughter ground to grow, time flew as swiftly as the plane cut through a clear morning sky. 

The plane descended and warned them of imminent arrival, so with begrudging acknowledgment they called a truce in their odd competition.

“Thank you, computer-bot; you did a good job,” Mab complimented the plane as the cabin door opened and the steps automatically extended. She patted the side of the plane like one might pat a puppy. 

“After you,” Steve insisted gently, and Mab didn’t argue.

The first thing that struck her as she stepped down the narrow steps from the plane was the smell in the air. It wasn’t salty - not like standing on the Long Island beaches and thinking about the graininess in the air - but a light form of jasmine mixed with something that must originate from far out at sea. 

She turned to ask Steve if he got the same impression, only to find him still at the top of the stairs, his bag and hers gripped easily in one hand, and the carry strap of her wheelchair moving it with far less struggle than Happy had displayed. 

“Don’t make that face,” Steve chided as he joined her, “this is nothing compared to work.”

“Is that so?” Mab asked. “And how much might you have to lift regularly at work, Captain Rogers?”

“More than a suitcase, I’ll say that much. That’s our ride,” he nodded his head across the tarmac to where a sleek sporty car was waiting. 

Mab blinked. “Of course superheroes don’t just use Enterprise or Hertz. I don’t know what I was expecting. Who arranges all this stuff, anyway? It always just seems to be waiting.”

“I think there’s a small army of assistants and secret workers, to be honest,” Steve said as he loaded the luggage into the car’s back seat.

Mab climbed into the passenger seat with a laugh and without question. She turned slightly in her seat with a trickster’s twinkle in her eyes as Steve slid into the driver’s seat. “So,” she got comfortable, “tell me about this wedding. I know it’s for your friend, but I don’t know which one. I’ve been whisked away to the Land of Nod and can’t tell a soul, so tell me everything.”

“Well,” Steve breathed a light laugh, “I’m not sure we’ve got enough time for everything.”

“Why not?” Mab asked, the wind already playing pretty pictures with her hair. 

“Because it starts in 1943,” Steve began.

“Stop.” Mab held up a hand, squinting one eye shut. “Just gotta recalibrate my brain for the absurd. Okay - start over.”

It was interesting to try and define what exactly Bucky and Alice were to each other to a completely fresh mind, Steve realized. For all intents and purposes, it sounded like Alice truly loathed Bucky for most of it. It was hard to describe the bonds made in war, or the literal star-crossed nature of their… everything. 

Mab, interestingly, didn’t interrupt at all as he spoke about them. No questions, no commentary, just a rapt attention that never wavered to the blindingly beautiful scenery. 

He got all the way to their runaway years in Iceland, but they turned off the main road onto the little estate’s winding drive and Mab caught a glimpse of the house. She sat upright in her seat, pushing wildly blowing hair out of her face and her mouth dropped. 

A masterpiece of glass and steel, it was almost small in comparison to the many homes that littered San Bernardino’s mountainsides. But what it lacked in square footage it took back in a precise form of grandiosity that involved the perfect view and the perfect architecture. The property oozed ‘Stark’. 

“This is the venue?” Mab asked incredulously as Steve pulled up to the front of the home. 

“Uh… no,” Steve corrected. “This is a guest house. We’re heading to the venue at two and I thought you might want to freshen up and change first.”

Mab stopped short. “Shut the front door,” she deadpanned. 

“After you, ma’am,” Steve gently, very gently, guided her to the gleaming doors that opened on their own as they approached. 

‘Welcome to Santa Barbara, Captain Rogers. Welcome, Miss Dumont,’ Friday greeted from above. 

Mab froze, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. “The house knows my name.”

“That’s Friday - another Stark A.I. Say hello, Mab.”

“... hello, Friday?”

‘Please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you need.’

“I would like a new heart, please,” Mab muttered under her breath, “just about done this one in today…”

“I think you’re in the sunset room, which is-?” Steve asked, open-ended. 

‘To the right, Miss Dumont. End of the hall.’

“There you go. Take a look and I’ll get your things.” Mab seemed uncertain, perhaps unwilling to venture through the house alone. “It’s okay, I promise. I’ll be right behind you.”

Steve walked quickly, doing his best to keep that little promise. He didn’t need reminding how much of a shock the transition to this lifestyle could be - he’d lost ten bucks the very first day on just the thought that nothing could surprise him anymore. And it surprised, and surprised, and surprised. 

Mab’s suitcase weighed basically nothing, as did her wheelchair. He’d learned some time ago that he has to give at least the illusion of weight when lifting things as it made people visibly uncomfortable to watch him heavy equipment without breaking a sweat. 

Not quite a jog, but faster than simply a long stride, Steve paused only to gently knock on the open guest room door. 

Mab stood before the wall of windows, hands pressed to the glass, staring at the sea. The house, situated precariously at the edge of a steep hill, had a perfect view of crashing waters over broken stone cliffs cascading into the Pacific. 

She turned only halfway toward him, clearly unable to tear her gaze away. “Glory of purple and glint of gold; Tenderest greens and heavenly blue, Shot with the sunlight through and through,” she whispered. If the house had not been perfectly silent Steve wouldn’t have heard it at all. “It’s beautiful.”

The awe in her voice tightened something in Steve’s lungs, and he had to clear his throat briefly before speaking. “I’m glad you like it. Where would you like these?” he asked, lifting her things.

“Suitcase on the bed, chair just over by the wall, thanks.”

“I recommend a quick blanket drill to help keep the jet-lag away.”

“A wh- ah; a nap. Yes, probably. When should I plan to be ready?”

“Three at the latest.”

“I should set an alarm.” Mab pulled out a familiar glass phone and fiddled with it like she had no idea how to work it. “Wish he’d given me a manual…” she grumbled, confirming his guess

“Here, let me show you,” Steve offered. “He usually hides a switch… there.” The phone flickered to life instantly as Mab pressed the hidden button.

“Saved!” Mab exclaimed, holding the phone aloft like a trophy. 

“That’s the job,” Steve joked. 

“I-” Mab looked up at him, phone clenched tightly in both hands, perfect clear sunlight running through her hair. “Thank you.”

He hadn’t done anything. “Get some rest. Three.”

“Three,” Mab confirmed.

He left her in the room with the magnificent view, sure that the moment he left her eyes had returned to the sea. There was a reverence to her actions that left him feeling strangely… ashamed. None of this excessive splendor was his; it was a world he had been invited into by virtue of the power given to him. None of it was his, but he was allowing Mab to associate it in that way.

Steve’s room, at the opposite end of the house, lacked the streaming sunshine of Mab’s. He sat at the edge of the bed - the mattress as firm as a board confirming it had been placed there just for him - and stared at a similar set of cliffs, shrouded in late morning shadows, with ocean waves beating endlessly against stone.

What could he claim as his? There was a small footlocker, stored in a closet in upstate New York, with a collection of pictures, a threadbare blanket, and a handful of his mother’s old jewelry he’d managed to keep despite poverty. The few times he’d tried to branch out - to establish a place for himself, to make this world his own - it hadn’t gone well. SHIELD always followed. Secrets always followed. Destruction, a shadow in their wake.

Steve watched slow fingers of sunshine break at shadows. To tear them apart with love. Deep black fury glittered with green and turquoise. Steve watched, stared without reason, as if by watching alone he could inspire the sun to keep traveling across the sea. To make all the dark places glitter with green and gold.

‘Captain Rogers,’ Friday interrupted, ‘you wanted a reminder when it was two-thirty.’

“Yeah, I will, thanks.” Steve lay back on the bed, closing his eyes and trying to relax.

‘Captain Rogers,’ Friday said again, more insistently.

“What is it,” Steve sighed.

‘It’s two-thirty.’

Friday’s control over the house was absolute. The temperature of his shower was exactly right, ready and waiting when he entered the large bathroom. His suit was already in the closet, not a wrinkle in sight. Yet more aspects of his life that he couldn’t complain about because they were perfect, but still remained elements beyond his control.

Waiting near the front door with repeated glances down the hall at Mab’s closed door, Steve took a moment to check his watch. It was his - an ancient timepiece he had to remember to wind, and would likely need to replace the leather band in a few years, but it was his. A relic. 

He heard a crisp click of heels on the perfect wood floors approach and something tightened in his chest. He looked up slowly, time flickering in the space between him and the splendid vision of shimmering green. He could hear a band playing, see the twirling of skirts and the snap of starched uniforms.

If you must go, I wish you love
You'll never walk alone
Take care, my love
Miss you, love

Mab’s ankle wobbled and she crumbled slightly. It broke the spell and Steve shot forward, catching her at the elbow and steadying her. “Thanks,” Mab flushed, “it’s been a minute. I’ll get the hang of these shoes again.”

Her arm slid out of his grip as she stepped back, clasping her hands gently together as she gave a brief spin. A high modest neckline and delicate cap sleeves somehow accentuated the arch of her throat and the rippling hem just below her knees made her feet look so small, where a fluttering white shawl hid the careful turn of her wrists with a texture lighter than swan feathers.The green of her dress shimmered in the light spilling through the huge windows, casting off hints of blue and gold in a way Steve didn’t know fabric could contain. 

“Am I presentable enough for the super-friends?” she asked, drawing his attention up again. She’d done something to her hair with a gold clip that kept it out of her face, but still left long branches of oak-brown draped over her shoulders.

Steve didn’t think he’d ever like green and gold again after Loki’s siege on New York, but he wouldn’t trade this vision for anything. “I think you should probably stay here - wouldn’t want you giving the groom any second thoughts.”

Mab laughed. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the neat grey suit.

“Suit number six, straight off the rack,” Steve joked, checking that he hadn’t accidentally left his collar lopsided under the jacket.

“Liar,” Mab accused, “I know a tailored 10-ounce worsted when I see it. All kinds of fancy pricks flounce through my office trying to look important.” She swatted his hands out of the way around his jacket collar. “You’re making it worse - let me.”

She traced calloused hands around his collar, picking out little bits of lint he hadn’t felt and smoothing out wrinkles that couldn’t possibly be there. The air smelled like cotton and flowers around her, and Steve could scarcely breathe.

After a few long moments, Steve wrapped her hands in his and pulled them down from their little dance around his collar. He could feel the rough calluses caused by her wheelchair on her palms and fingertips, but the feather-soft skin of the backs of her hands captivated him.

Someday, love will find you
Break those chains that bind you
One night will remind you
How we touched and went our separate ways

Mab’s breath caught in her chest as Steve slowly ran his thumbs against the back of her hands; once, twice, back and forth. Even his gaze upon them was soft; a gentle gaze usually reserved for serene moments of peace. 

‘Captain Rogers, it’s time to leave.’ The A.I.‘a interruption made them both start slightly, Steve releasing Mab’s hands in a flash. 

“Thank you, Friday.” Steve offered Mab his arm. “Shall we?”

Mab nodded, uncertain of the power of her own voice. She snagged her cane from where it rested next to the door, just in case. Back to the sporty car, but Steve thoughtfully put the top up so her hair wouldn’t be ruined, back along winding roads that went up, up, up into the California mountains. 

Silence, thick and unbreakable, hung between them. Flashes of perfect color growing on the side of the road kept distracting her, pulling Mab away from thoughts of conversation. Mountains, monoliths of time, loomed high overhead, not a cloud in sight to obscure them.

Roads grew progressively narrower as they ascended, finally pulling off onto what would likely better serve as a single-lane road shrouded by trees. Steve slowed and turned to the left into a little parking lot, mostly empty as signage indicated ‘closed for a private event’. 

“We’re here?” she asked, breaking the silence as Steve turned the engine off.

“Seems so,” he said. 

“I’ve got to say,” Mab said as she followed Steve to the little pagoda entrance of the Santa Barbara Botanic Gardens, accepting a small map and directions across the street in about thirty minutes for the wedding, “I think the guest house was more impressive than this. I- oh!” she exclaimed as the trees parted, opening her view and taking her breath away.

Dappled sunshine, captured in flowers and drifting bees. Acres of yellow and orange and purple and white, tall stalks and happy shrubbery; chaotic mastery of color and wild nature reaching for distant mountain peaks. Dizzyingly fantastic, the wind grazed over her face and carried with it a near taste of that color.

Steve caught her arm as she reached out for balance, gaping openly at the kaleidoscope of color in the meadow before her. “Well,” Steve started with a smile, “if you knew Alice, you would know this is exactly her thing.” He squeezed her hand. “Want to walk around a bit? Get a good look?”

“Yes please,” Mab replied instantly.

Whoever had designed the gardens truly loved what they did, Mab decided. A love of color, of scent, of shape. Whoever had designed the walkways, however, clearly had never so much as twisted an ankle in their life. Loose stone and uneven ground taunted Mab as she tried to look in every direction but down at the ground, it left her in constant need of breaks on convenient benches to catch her breath or nurse a weak ankle.

“I think we should head up,” Steve said as Mab eyed a set of log stairs descending into a deep valley of the gardens with apprehension. “Don’t want to have to rush it, and don’t want to be late.”

“Yes,” Mab agreed, turning away from the broken ankle just waiting to happen, “let’s shall.” Back through gardens planted with love and back over broken ground interrupted by roots and stone, back to the road.

Crossing it, going up a poorly-conceived set of stone steps, Mab was taken aback to find two Iron Legion suits flanking the path. She didn’t freeze, of which she was quite proud, but gave them an odd look as she and Steve passed. “Is someone paranoid?” she asked under her breath.

“You have no idea,” Steve answered.

The path spread out as the ground flattened, leading to a collection of white chairs arranged in rows at the edge of a beautiful green meadow. A simple wood arch, draped with gauzy white fabric, would leave the couple with their backs to a cliff overlooking a distant view of the sea. 

Little orange flowers bobbed and nodded in the wind, petals too delicate to stand up against the slightest breeze. Their color reflected the orange glow of the sun dipping towards the sea, and Mab knew she’d never see another color like it. 

“Which side do we sit on?” She asked. “Groom or bride?”

“I don’t think it matters, or someone would have said something.” Steve waved back as someone with long reddish-brown hair waved. Lots of people, it seemed, we’re excited to see him. 

Mab suddenly felt exceedingly out of place. She was very obviously one of the only outsiders, if not the only one. Had this been an impulsive mistake? Was she going to make a fool of herself?

“I’ll introduce you to everyone later,” Steve promised quietly as they sat near the front. He glanced around, frowning. 

“Something wrong?”

“Just don’t see a face I thought was going to be here. I’m sure he’s around.”

They didn’t have long to wait. The wedding party would be reserved and small, it seemed, as the chairs were about two-thirds filled when a man in a suit strode down the center aisle to stand at the center of the arch. He shuffled through some papers in his hands, as if uncertain of the order. 

“Is the officiant someone you know?” Mab asked Steve in a quiet tone. 

Steve leaned in, whispering. “Alice’s father; William.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Mab gushed. Steve have her a look - the same look that had accompanied a few of the tidbits about the bride - a look that said you don’t know the half of it.

A dark-haired man soon emerged from the modest conservation building that she supposed was serving as their preparation space. He tugged on the sleeves of his jacket, and in doing so the metallic glint of his left hand caught the light. 

He spotted Steve and burst into a broad smile as he walked down the aisle, stopping to exchange a laugh, and a handshake that ended in a swift hug. Both seemed oddly lost for words, their broad smiles enough for the moment. 

“Bucky, the groom,” Steve said, sitting again. 

“I gathered,” Alice smiled. “No best man?”

Steve shrugged. “They wanted something simple.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” William announced with a rough clearing of his throat. He had a faint accent Mab couldn’t place, and she knew it was going to bother her forever. “If you would, please silence cell phones and unruly friends, we will begin momentarily. We will be skipping the objections, and I will direct the complaints to the Iron Legion helpfully providing security for my only daughter’s long-overdue wedding.” An amused chuckle rumbled through the crowd, and people dutifully checked their phones. 

“How do I-?” Mab asked, holding up the still-puzzling device for Steve’s help. 

“This one,” he answered, turning it to silent for her. 

Music began to play, and while it definitely wasn’t the usual wedding march, Mab still recognized it. Easy, light, beautiful: Clare de Lune.

A dark-skinned man emerged first from the building, carrying a small basket. Mab was confused until, at the head of the aisle, he reached into the basket and withdrew a handful of flower petals, tossing them into the air in the damned most serious fashion. Steve laughed loudly beside her, as did many others. 

“You’re all just jealous,” the serious flower-girl exclaimed. “Laugh it up, but you wish you were badass enough for this.”

“Flower falcon!” Someone yelled. 

He threw up his last handful of flower petals and struck a pose. “You better believe it!”

“Sam Wilson,” Steve explained once he stopped laughing, “Alice’s best friend.”

Mab knew even before William told them to stand that the bride had emerged. She could see it in Bucky’s entire body; a straightening of the spine, an opening of the soul, an awe that bordered on tears. 

She carried a bouquet made of sunshine so vibrant the color could be seen reflected in the perfect white of her gown. Long blonde hair was pulled back at the temples into floral clips, but otherwise allowed to flow freely in spirals of corn-silk. The only adornment that threw Mab for a loop was Alice’s necklace - a copper bullet strung on a thin gold chain. 

A woman her senior escorted her, hair the same color of white-blonde that betrayed familial bonds. They exchanged a few quiet words and a kiss on the cheek at the head of the aisle and Alice continued alone. Her eyes never wavered from the groom. 

Mab understood the joke at last, one she had participated in but could not have guessed the accuracy, that no force on earth might sway the bride or groom from choosing this moment. They would choose each other over any other soul on the planet, over food, over air. One could feel the gravity between them as the distance closed, making it a relief when she delicately took his hand at the altar, handing off her bouquet to Sam. 

William’s words were routine, so common as to be quotable by children: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today…” 

Time let go of the meadow as solemn vows were exchanged. The bride and groom said very little, but their eyes spoke volumes. Whatever needed to be said aloud had been said a long time ago. 

No pomp, no circumstance, could compare to the unfettered love that filled the air as William called for the rings. The crowd laughed as the bride accepted the groom’s right hand instead of his metal left.

There was laughter at jokes Mab didn’t understand, and sober nods to serious matters Mab had never heard of. But, even with that limitation, it was impossible not to feel somehow… proud. It radiated from Steve in intense waves, and as they finished exchanging rings, Mab took gentle hold of Steve’s hand for a gentle squeeze. He looked grateful. 

William lifted the joined hands of the bride and groom, exclaiming with certain joy: “May I present, for the first time, Mister and Missus James Buchanan Barnes!”

They all stood, applauded as the emotion of the moment continued to wash over them like the sun’s orange waves drew out from the sea. There were whoops and cheers of a shared joy, like a touch of sacred happiness. The bride and groom retreated first, chased by a sunset too beautiful for words. Brief moments like this, of pure joy and delight that touched on the divine, were almost more than a weak heart could bear. Moments that she should never dream of claiming for herself lest she be left bare and exposed on the shores of disappointment.

“Alright, boring part’s over!” Alice’s friend Sam exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s party!”

Following the little crowd, smiling at the happy chatter, taking Steve’s arm for support when offered, Mab drifted through the veil of time that had returned to settle with somber weight. A reminder of things beyond her reach had been long overdue, she accepted. 

Acceptance, the taste of it lingered even as a beautiful dinner was presented to the wedding guests, keeping the taste of it just beyond her senses. Wistful longing, tinted with an old and futile fury that had long simmered into bitterness, haunted the corners of her smile as the bride and groom made their grand entrance at the reception, their joy too much to bear for a split second. 

Laughably, it wasn’t the presence of groups of superheroes that made the evening a reminder of the sharp scissors reaching wide jaws around the thread of her life, but the absolute and pure celebration of the triumph of new beginnings. The opening of new pages of a blank book with a partner and settling down to write a story of us. 

Music poured over a wide dance floor, the bride and groom cut a sharp rug together, further telling of a togetherness and practice at shared things beyond words. Mab lowered her gaze to her plate, berating herself for feeling anything less than happiness for them. It was not her place to sour the taste of the evening with self-pity, no matter how justified.

So as the song finished, and the dance floor opened to the rest of the guests, Mab applauded as loud as the rest and put on her best smile. It was the hardest smile for her to maintain as she made sure it reached her eyes. It was the bet mask she owned.

Steve looked like he wanted to join his friends, his foot tapping gently on the floor as the music washed over them. So, her best mask firmly in place, Mab leaned over to speak under her breath. “You should ask the bride for a dance before she runs away for the night.”

Steve looked surprised at the suggestion. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to leave you alone.”

“No way to be alone in a room full of heroes. Go, go go,” Mab insisted, shooing him to the dance floor. “I think there’s a little extra dessert calling my name.”

She had to insist a few more times before he would actually go, and Mab stood slowly, intent on getting said cake and actually tasting it this time. Just her luck, as it would happen, in standing she managed to bump into a solid figure doing their best to walk around her and Steve’s table without incident.

“Beg your pardon,” he said immediately in a crisp, classic English accent. 

“My fault entirely.” Mab returned.

He straightened, looking at her for a moment, and offered an open hand and a mild smile. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced; I am Vision.” HIs appearance was a little dissimilar from the red-skinned one she associated with the hero name, but Mab figured that might make going out a little difficult at times. She wouldn’t begrudge him a disguise while wearing one herself.

She took his hand in a quick shake. “Mab Dumont.”

He looked intrigued. “Any relation to the Poet Laureate, David Dumont?”

“My uncle,” Mab said, her smile tightening.

He paused, contemplating. “Would you mind terribly if I joined you?”

If he ever hurts you
True love won't desert you
You know I still love you
Though we touched and went our separate ways

“On your left,” Steve said, whisking Alice away from Sam with a twirl of the laughing bride.

“Very funny!” Sam yelled, stepping aside.

“Hi, Steve.” Alice practically glowed with joy. “You brought a friend.”

“I did.”

“Is she nice?”

He’d managed to avoid an interrogation from most of his friends up until that moment. “You’ve got to stop worrying about me, Miss Alice,” he replied gently. 

“Of course I worry.” Alice made a sour face that didn’t make any impact on her glowing features. “You’ll always be one of my boys.”

“Mab can be nice when she wants to be,” Steve surrendered the tiny tidbit of information, adding; “but it’s better when she’s just herself.”

Alice’s grin turned into something devious, and as she opened her mouth to say something suggestive, Steve shook his head. “We’re just friends.”

Her teeth clicked shut, but she took another spin to glance around the room, eyes as shrewd as ever. “Is that why you flew her across the country in a private jet to be your plus-one for a wedding?” Alice’s eyes sparkled with knowing mirth. “Because you’re just friends?”

“I would have never heard the end of it if I’d come alone.”

“And now you’ll never hear the end of this. Look; she’s even getting along with Vis and Wanda.” Alice nodded her head in the direction of their table and Steve’s head whipped around.

Exactly as she said, Mab was seated at their little table and Wanda and Vis sat to her left, the latter talking animatedly. Mab crossed her small feet at the ankle like a princess, nodding along with slightly less enthusiasm.

“Excuse me,” Steve said to Alice, letting go of her hand without looking back again.

“You can cut all the flowers, Steve,” Alice replied, which he didn’t understand in the slightest. 

Mab looked good. That was to say; she looked right, so right, sitting at that table with Wanda and Vision. She said something with a turn of her hand and Wanda laughed. Vision looked between the two women with a mild concern, as though he clearly didn’t understand whatever comment had just been made. Mab set a hand on his arm, leaning in conspiratorially as she explained. Vision nodded, his expression serious, and Wanda laughed louder. 

Steve made the briefest detour, just to give himself an excuse for interrupting. Tea with a hefty portion of cream seemed right, even though he’d never seen her take anything other than coffee. 

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long.” Steve announced himself as he approached Mab from behind, offering the tea. “I thought you might like something to drink,”

“Perfect timing - thank you,” Mab accepted the cup of tea gratefully. “How did you know I take my tea with milk?”

“Lucky guess.” He drew a chair close to Mab’s open side. “What did I miss?”

Mab took a sip, humming appreciatively. “We were just discussing how the evolution of a language can be tracked through their use of color in historical literature.”

Vision perked up. “It’s quite fascinating, Captain; the Greeks described seas as ‘wine-dark’ because-”

“Come on, Vis - let’s dance.” Wanda interrupted tactfully. She shot Steve a look with a wink, returning to the floor Steve had just left. 

“Did you have fun?” Mab hid some of her expression behind the teacup, but the idle tapping of her foot betrayed her real desire. Her fingers tapped along the table, always within reach of her cane. 

“I did, but,” Steve stopped, searching for something in Mab’s curious expression. He stood, chair scraping against the floor with his swift motion, drawing several questioning looks and one of surprise from Mab as he offered her a hand. “Would you care to dance, Miss Dumont?” 

She hesitated, for obvious reasons. “You might throw out your back, old man.” She was trying to gracefully turn him down, for fear that she might embarrass him. Don’t you dare take pity on me, her mild frown seemed to say.

But Steve had been the weak one - short of breath but full of spirit - and he knew that he had wanted more than anything else to be asked to dance. “I’ll risk it.” He left his hand there, open and inviting, and she took it hesitantly. 

He led her ahead of him, afraid she might vanish if he took his eyes off her for even a moment. That she might prove to be a cruel fever-dream was a possibility he would never be able to accept. 

The faint perfume of her hair, wafting behind her, smelled like warm cotton and fresh flowers. It was also oddly familiar, but something that lingered far back in his memory. “What’s your perfume?” he asked as she turned into him on the dance floor, swaying to catch up with the tempo of the music.

Mab blushed. “It’s called Jermyn Street.”

A street lined with trees bearing a green cherry-like fruit and nearly awash with the smell of starched cotton of the shirtmakers nearby. A lingering taste of a beer that had done nothing for him, but several pints had done in his companions. 

Steve laughed. Yet another way that history had oddly connected them. “You won’t believe this, but I remember that street from the War.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories,” she apologized instantly. “It’s what my mom wore, and I didn’t have anything else-”

“Mab,” Steve cut in with a comforting smile, “Please don’t.” True, it pulled at the painful parts of his memory, but overwhelmingly his memories of that street were positive ones. Growing into a new confidence and a new frame, exploring London late at night and breathing in the new smells had been a brief slice of excited wonder in an otherwise dark time.

Mab chewed on her lip and nodded meekly. But that just wouldn’t do, so as the music swelled Steve wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her into the spin, the seemingly coarse texture of her dress unexpectedly soft against the back of his hand. She tilted her head back as her world spun around him, exposing all the vulnerable parts of her soul. 

Better, much better; not a curling inwards but a branching outwards. She pressed against him - for balance, of course - as he lowered her back to her feet and the song transitioned to the next, breathing quicker than before. 

Something hot and smooth ran through his chest, lingering in all the places she touched. Deep, dark blues of her eyes in the dim evening light and sweet, warm cottony floral scents spinning around her; it was all a hauntingly perfect reminder of something he’d never found the time to explore before.

“I think,” Mab panted, “I could use some air.”

Oh
Someday, love will find you
Break those chains that bind you
One night will remind you

The air outside the reception hall was distinctly cooler, Mab wrapping her thin white shawl tighter as they walked out into the evening breeze and strolled casually over the lawn. Someone had already taken down the wedding arch and put away the chairs, leaving the open expanse of grass and clifftop the perfect invitation.

“So,” Steve started, using the question as an interlude, “why did the Greeks call the seas ‘wine-dark’?” 

“Because the language hadn’t yet developed a word for ‘blue’.” Her gaze tilted away from him for a moment with a brief distraction, but returned smoothly. “We create words as the need demands in literature, as we reach the limits of our ability to communicate perfect meaning.” 

The cheering of the drunken revelry barely drifted out onto the dark lawn, not reaching so far as the clifftop as Mab and Steve paused just before the edge, looking down at the twinkling lights of homes and streetlamps, growing dim and distant before land plunged into the sea.

Mab accepted Steve’s jacket gratefully as a chilling breeze whipped up from the distant sea. “Can you even imagine what it must be like to live up here?” she asked. “Just… seeing this every evening.”

Standing at the edge of the gardens, looking down at the valleys that dipped low into a distant city and reached gentle arms into the sea, Steve stood suspended between time and the stars. Behind him, across a continent and facing a different sea, all his past decisions and the lives he’d surrendered with each choice called with distant summons. Before him, this universe of decisions he hasn’t been able to see until this moment silenced those voices and left him with an eager peace. 

He’d been walking backwards through time, he realized. He’d been focused on those past lives, those past choices, those roads not taken; so focused on what might have been that he was refusing to see what could be. 

“I’ve got an idea,” Steve said with a thoughtful grin. This was the future. A scene so completely other that he could scarcely comprehend the possibilities. An arm, reaching into dark waters with branches he could not yet imagine.

A gentle tilt had brought him here. Standing at the edge of this garden, staring out at the future. Ocean waves, drifting through the hills. Ocean waves, coasting between library aisles.  

“Hello? You still with me, Steve?” He turned to look at Mab, amused concern written in the arch of her brow. “What was your idea?”

His idea. The concept of how his life had changed, the design of his world tilting on axis to reveal a future he’d been unable to conceive. This notion of a life worth exploring, of a future that wasn’t entirely constructed of the past, wasn’t a place he would be without a few days spent waiting on the rain.

He had so little time anymore - to think, to sleep, to process the rapid-fire pace of the world - but he’d found that time spent waiting for rain were the moments he felt had meaning again. He wasn’t just waiting for the next fight, for the next war, for the next mission. He wasn’t waiting for someone to give him a purpose; it was time he’d given meaning on his own. Waiting on the rain meant waiting for a bright sign pointing him towards the meaning of the universe to light up again. The ways and waters of ocean tides, calling him across aisles, calling him into a place where he was known. 

Time was the only thing that had meaning. Time, the only commodity that no amount of gold or tears could buy. He’d told Mab not to wait on the rain; he’d made the mistake of letting time get in the way of brief moments of happiness before. Learning to be selfish took time and an ocean of patience. Steve wanted, needed, to show Mab that he had been worth her time.

He held out a hand. “Do you trust me?” 

With eyes full of trust Mab slipped her hand into his.

Chapter Text

Mab’s hands trembled as she re-packed her suitcase. The thin tissue paper crinkled somehow much louder than it had back in New York as she tried to carefully pack away her green silk tea dress. She wondered idly if she’d ever get a chance to wear it again.

Of course she wouldn’t, Mab knew. It would forever be wrapped up in a dizzyingly fantastical memory of orange flowers and a vibrant sunset and Do you trust me?

In her haste to tuck away the possibilities, Mab dropped her pill sorter and the contents clattered in irritation against a perfect tile floor.

She wanted more sleep. Mab wanted to lay down on the mattress, wrap herself in the softest sheets she’d ever slept on, and wait to be awoken by the dawn. She wanted coffee and breakfast in this architectural perfection of a guest house and pretend, just for a morning, that it was her real life.

The pill case rattled as she picked it up. Mab popped open a few compartments, palming a careful selection of medication. One for the shakes, and one for the exhaustion in her bones. Another for the headache lumbering to life in her brain, and two more to suppress the cough flaring into hot irritation in her chest.

Doubling up was never really a good idea and Mab was well aware of the price she’d likely pay at the end. It would be so much smarter to just go back to sleep. It would be so much smarter to rest and recover from the ordeal of pretending to be healthy in a world that demanded perfection.

Do you trust me?

They had quietly excused themselves from the reception and retreated to the guest house. A quick change and a nap of maybe two hours, and now she was packing in the deep of night.

Mab sighed and hung her head. “Who talks like that, Steve?” she muttered to herself.

The collection of pills in her hand pressed into her skin, reminding her of that moment of silent acceptance. They went down easily enough with a quick swig of water, but sat heavily in her empty stomach in solemn reminder. Mab didn’t need more reminders. She needed more time.

A knock at her open door halted the beginning of a cycle of self-pity. “All packed?” Steve asked, looking frustratingly well-rested in comparison to how Mab felt.

Mab zipped the suitcase closed. “I am now.” She didn’t have to ask Steve to carry it to the car, or stow away her wheelchair, allowing her to settle in the passenger seat with her striped cane resting against the outside of her thigh and the far edge of the footwell.

She cast a last glance at the guest house as scant night insects chirped a peaceful goodbye. Moonlight made mirrors of the glass and cast deep and angular shadows along scrub brush. Beautiful, alien, and new. A place she would likely never return to see again.

“It’s a long drive, so get comfortable,” Steve interrupted her though and the roar of the engine drew her back into her seat, settling her back into her body as her attention had wandered.

“Any hints?” Mab asked as she pulled the seatbelt into place.

“No ma’am,” he shot her a surprisingly roguish grin, and she couldn’t help but stick out her tongue childishly in response.

The California night swallowed up the house and the hills as they descended towards the main roads. The air itself seemed to be holding its breath, albeit badly, as they drove into darkness. It was almost like an unwinding of tension; a slow and reluctant release of breath simply for being unable to hold it any longer.

No great catharsis had led to a gasp of revelation or a burst of realization; it was simply time to let go.

Clenching of the spirit could hold on no longer, the impatient night and the cold air could not keep them, and the silence made less eager by time became a comfort.

It drew Mab down into her seat, curled her arms up against the breeze, and tucked her into a light and easy sleep. No great dreams of the ocean, none of dancing and none of loss, Mab drifted like the waves in the space between resting and waking.

It was the stopping that woke her. Mab woke sharply, her head coming off her chest with a snap that pulled something in her neck. “Ow…” the moaned, stretching slowly. The top of the sporty car seemed to start retracting on its own, further startling Mab.

“Morning,” Steve greeted with a chipper note, appearing at the side of the car as the top fully disappeared into the back of the car.

“Is this the first we’ve stopped?” Mab asked around a yawn.

The pump thunked and Steve hung up the nozzle. “First we’ve needed gas. We’re almost there, too.”

“Almost… where?”

He didn’t fall for it. “Just a little bit longer.”

“Mean.” Mab rested her arms on the car door and set her head down as Steve pulled back onto Highway 1. The whipping of wind through her hair and the barely distinguishable smell of salt combed through her senses.

A heavy fog covered her view of the ocean, but she could still hear the faint roar of waves beating against rocky shores. A tireless and endless battle of the only truly unstoppable force of nature. The world moved in flux; new lands born from within and pushed to the surface only to be jostled and worn down into tiny grains of sand and silt by a furious sea.

Mab closed her eyes, letting the beating air currents run new trails through the fine hairs on her arms and ripple softly at her skin. She could feel the motion of it, the waves of air that followed the motion of oceans, fractured over mountains, and skimmed the underside of stars.

Steve took an exit off the coastal highway and Mab idly examined the inland surroundings. A vague sense of deja vu solidified quickly into certainty.

Mab sat up straighter in her seat, pushing wildly messy hair out of her face. The outline of a building she never thought she’d see in person loomed over evergreens. “I know where we are,” she breathed excitedly. Tall white pillars wrapped around a low building, arms reaching sphinx-like towards the sea.

“Mm, I don’t think so,” Steve tried and failed to hide his smile.

“Bullshit,” she said. “Bullshit,” she said again.

Steve pulled into a front parking spot and Mab scrambled to unbuckle her seatbelt, barely able to contain her excitement and failing to control her suddenly trembling hands. “Bullshit,” she whispered as Steve began to laugh.

“Ma’am,” he offered, opening her door and giving her a hand to help her stand. “I’m going to take that as a ‘yes, this is the place’.”

“Rogers,” Mab breathed, “I’m gonna punch you in your perfect teeth.” She grasped his hand shakily, but the tremors reduced quickly. “... never told you what it was called.”

“I work with some very smart people.” Steve released her hand as Mab leaned against her cane. “You gonna stand there all day staring at it or should we go in?” He turned to appraise the white marble museum. “I mean it is a really nice building…”

Mab's stunned look began to transform into her usual sly smile. “Okay, smartass - lead the way.”

The Legion of Honor stood as an impressive temple perched on a cliff above the Pacific. Not-so-distant red cables suspended a bridge over the Bay and low mountains hid the Muir Woods from view. Cypress trees and star jasmine separated asphalt from thin clifftop grasses, and could not conceal the distant roar of the sea.

They strode at a casual pace up shallow marble steps and across a vast courtyard guarded by a well-patina’d The Thinker, contemplating universal truths atop a perfect pedestal.

Mab craned her head in every direction, trying to take in every detail but finding each successive moment nearly too much to bear.

Steve had to remind her of a few steps between them and the front gate so she wouldn’t stumble, and in her overwhelmed state Mab didn’t even comment. He was more than a little concerned that he’d made some strange misstep - that he’d made a wrong move, but couldn’t explain exactly how it had ruined their dynamic.

“Two, please,” he asked the attendant, and something on the counter caught Mab’s attention.

“Is that a scavenger hunt?” She asked, reaching for the stack of brightly colored half-sheets.

“It’s meant for children ten and under-” the attendant started to say, but Mab was not to be deterred.

She nodded, ignoring the age recommendation. “Do you have the little…” she made a scribbling motion in the air with her fingers, then spotted the tray of mini golf pencils. “Yep, thanks!”

Steve grinned and shrugged at the confused attendant in a ‘what are you gonna do?’ and trailed after a heavily-distracted Mab.

“Scavenger hunt?” He asked, holding out her entry pass.

She held up the half-sheet proudly. “They’re great, just you wait. And look! If we find all ten items we win a sticker!” Mab stopped just inside the entry hall, basking in the right ambience. “You must think I’m silly,” she admitted, “getting this worked-up over an art museum.”

“No, I-”

“And I get it, because I mean - who picks up scavenger hunts for kids in an art museum,” she rambled.

Steve frowned. “Just-”

She flapped the paper in one hand as she swung her cane in stride a little haphazardly. “And if that’s a problem, I-”

“Mab,” Steve interrupted her, seizing her flapping arm as gently as he could. “Relax.” He could feel the tension in her wrist, a shaking fury that she was building like a defensive wall. “I get it. You don’t have to justify it.” He took the scavenger hunt out of her hand, scanning the page. “Where should we start?”

Mab relaxed. Or rather, the wall she was building went unfinished. There was still a little tension in her frame - a disbelief or hesitation to trust, maybe - but it wasn’t quite so sharp. “How about ‘a statue playing a game’? We can start in the sculpture hall.”

“Okay,” Steve agreed, giving back the page. “Lead the way.”

Brick by brick by painting by painting, the wall came back down. Steve could almost hear the unspoken apology in the air; withheld only for the understanding already established. Steve could almost hear the story that would be associated with such defensiveness; a frustrating moment repeated too-often and always defeating. In the air, it rang clearly, the wish that maybe this time would be different and the fear that it might not be.

They crossed off the boxes in their scavenger hunt as they moved slowly through the museum. Steve could see why she liked them - it made for a different kind of path through the exhibits. Different from their meanderings through the Met when she’d revealed she knew his secret - had that really only been a few days ago - Mab would read the clue and they’d puzzle out the best hall to hunt through.

“Ah yes, the renaissance painter says to his patron,” Mab declared, gesturing at a painting as they strode past, “I absolutely know what a dolphin looks like. No, no problem at all.”

“Is that what those are?” Steve glanced at the placard.

Mab gestured with her striped cane at another painting. “Those and ‘I have totally seen a baby before’ portraits of baby Jesus are just the best. What’s next?” she asked.

He checked. “This one is interesting: ‘not a high five, not a handshake’.”

She considered it for a moment. “I think I know what that one is. We have to go back to the sculpture hall.”

The scavenger hunt was clearly designed to tire out over-eager children, leading them to and fro in the large building, up and down stairs repeatedly, and back through well-trod halls. It was a mounting concern in the back of Steve’s mind that all of this would be too much for his companion as she had begun to lean more heavily on her striped cane.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mab began, leaning in to keep from disturbing other guests. It was hardly necessary; the museum was mostly empty, the spacious halls giving great weight to the dappled paintings and lonely statues. “What exactly was your plan for today? I kind of hijacked it with the scavenger hunt.”

“Well,” Steve began, trailing off into a thoughtful hum. It had seemed the perfect thought in the moment, staring off over the sea at distant cities and futures. He’d looked up the museum she’d mentioned on the phone idly one afternoon, and the coincidence of presence had been too coincidental to ignore. He’d needed to bring her here - a place she’d dreamt of and had longed to go.

Mab didn’t press him for a plan. He could see the understanding in her face, and she nodded slightly.

She directed their path to a large sculpture stationed in the middle of the room of two hands, somehow intertwined without even touching, making a cupped space between them. Not a high five, not a handshake. Steve watched as Mab checked off the box.

“I’ve only seen reproductions of this piece,” Mab said. “It’s funny.” Mab tucked her cane under one arm to cradle her hands, imitating the piece. “In all the miniatures, the hands are touching at the apex like a perfect delicate arch. But this one…” she separated her hands slightly. “They just barely miss each other. It’s…” she let her hands drop, leaving the thought incomplete.

“I think we’ll have to avoid coming back here if we want to finish a thought ever again,” Steve said as an easy joke.

Thankfully, Mab laughed under her breath. “Right? Last time you couldn’t get me to shut up, now I just trail off into nothing all the time.”

“Jet lag,” Steve said helpfully.

“And what’s your excuse?”

“Give me a few minutes, I’ll come up with something.”

Mab’s lips twitched in a smile, but she seemed to be still yet entranced by the sculpture. The Cathedral, its respective placard read. “It bothers me, a little, the way they reduced it in the hunt. This piece isn’t something so simple. It’s full of longing and this… indescribable sadness.” She paused for a moment. “That feeling of just barely missing something.”

Silence bore down on them, the air heavy with implied stories. Mab turned away from The Cathedral. “Let’s take a break in the sun. All this symbolism is starting to get to me.”

“Why can’t a lighthouse just be a lighthouse?” Steve asked, gesturing to a painting with one as they passed.

“I guess it could be, but no one ever leaves anything like that alone when a painting can be worth ten bucks as a lighthouse, or ten million as The Lighthouse.” Mab smed wryly. “After the artist is dead.”

Manicured lawns and winding paths surrounded the museum, feeling somehow rugged and wild when compared to the pristine white marble of the museum’s ancient residents. In the breeze, the green neighboring cypress trees swayed and danced, bridging the sea-salted air and the richly tailored earth.

“But anything can be a symbol,” Mab said, picking out a perfect spot on the lawn and sprawling out in the shade. “I mean isn’t that what heroes are? Sure, there are the one or two instances where you truly just do things that we just can’t - the Incident, for example - but on any given Tuesday what are you even up to? Kissing babies and selling war bonds?”

She made a good point. And she definitely wasn’t wrong. Now more than ever, Steve was feeling the weight of that symbolism settling around his shoulders like dust on a forgotten heirloom.

“That was the original idea, I think, but it just didn’t sit right with me. The thought of just sitting… or being used as a dancing, smiling monkey; it felt like such a waste. People died so that I could be like this.” He paused. “And because of it.”

The weight of that thought nearly ruined the sunshine. Mab ran her hands across the grass. She picked up a leaf and examined it, tracing the veins with her fingers like roads in a map that all branches from a single origin. Or led to an inevitable destination.

“It’s kind of crazy, if you think about it.” Mab twirled the leaf between her fingers. “I think almost all the stories I’ve heard about you and the others… they all happen over like… three or four really bad days, just spread out over a few years. Like… once a year you have a day that just sucks, but you power through and bam- you’re a hero.” She spun the leaf in her hands, strikingly reminiscent of the flickering tail at the end of a film reel. “But what’s it all for? Those bad days, they stick with you. Give you nightmares. Give you scars. What makes it worth it?”

Steve didn’t need time to think. “This,” he said.

Mab stopped twirling the leaf. “We’re not doing anything.”

A warm breeze played through the tall evergreens, bringing with it the faint hint of salt from the sea and a strong indication of jasmine and orange blossom. Somewhere in the distance, children were laughing as they ran along well-maintained paths. A boat was turning into the bay. A bird called above.

“Yeah you are. You’re laying in the shade, playing with leaves, and thinking deep thoughts about what it means to be a hero, all while deeply contemplating a need for ice cream.”

Mab propped herself up on her elbows. “You’re right. We are in dire need of ice cream. And cookies. Help up?” She asked, reaching for a hand to assist up from the grass.

Steve hadn’t been quite prepared for the intensity of Mab’s undivided attention. The sweet laughter, the bawdy smile, all those things seemed familiar. But the piercing analysis of the world around her to slice apart neatly adhered understandings was distinctly uncomfortable. It felt too much like being analyzed by Natasha with nowhere to hide; like getting a dressing-down from Bucky after a back-alley beating; like being nearly bitten by Alice for slighting her sense of honor.

Mab seemed to be made of all the things in his life that refused to be ignored or smoothed over in a prettier way. Uncomfortable, like stepping into cold water. Uncomfortable, like a sudden shot of sunlight from the dawn. Uncomfortable, like being alive.

Steve couldn’t bear to ask her to stop.

A whirlwind of topics, of feelings, subjects and tones; it took all of his focus to keep up. Refreshing, in that it absorbed his attention in a way that limited the grabbing reach of the outside world. Pulled him out of the suit and away from the shield and kept his shoes on the polished floor.

But as the act of her presence drew him to normalcy, even just waiting in line for snacks Steve could feel the judging eye of the world settle on Mab.

She ignored it, seemingly indifferent to the stares at her garishly-striped cane and the sidelong glances following her wobbly steps. If anything could be a symbol, as she had so simply stated, what kind did the cane represent?

They chose a table and garden chairs out in the open air of the museum’s cafe, scaring off a couple of birds searching for lingering crumbs. Mab leaned the cane against the armrest of her seat as she sat down, pulling her selection of sugary snacks close while leaving the incomplete scavenger hunt on the table between them, tucked partially under the plastic tray they’d carried their food in to protect it from being blown away in the wind.

“So,” Steve asked, pulling open the cheap plastic packaging around his institutional cookie, “what’s the story behind the stripes, anyway?”

“Fhtripes?” Mab mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.

Steve nodded to her cane, and her eyes lit up.

“Oh my gosh, I forgot I said I’d tell you that story!” She patted crumbs off her hands. “Alright, so please don’t make too much fun of me.”

“Cross my heart.”

Mab seemed amusedly dubious, but launched into a story. “So… I’m terrified of bees.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

She waved her hands mildly, smiling at herself. “I know, just… so anyway; I’m terrified of bees, and I was downright phobic when I was younger, so when I got my first wheelchair my mom painted it in yellow and black stripes, which I instantly hated for obvious reasons.”

“So I said ‘what gives, mom? Are you trying to scare me to death?’, and she said…” Mab smiled at the memory, “she said ‘bees won’t sting one of their own’.”

Steve had to cover his mouth with a hand to keep from laughing out loud. Once he’d composed himself he put his hand down. “That’s very sweet.”

“It’s very ‘please stop crying about the little bug that won’t kill you’ of a mom to try. But it worked!” Mab broke off another piece of her cookie, contemplating it.

Mab started suddenly, jerking back in her seat. “Is it-?” She held out a hand, catching the next raindrop in her hand instead of on her nose.

And then the heavens opened up above them, from single drops to a torrential downpour. Mab shrieked as ice-cold water drenched her in an instant, blasting away any lingering warmth from the sun.

“I’ve got it!” Steve called as he collected their already-soggy scraps of food and waste, “you get under cover!”

Mab didn’t try to argue, just ran for the overhang with one hand uselessly over her head and the other clutching her bumblebee cane.

Steve snatched the scavenger hunt from under the tray and stuffed it in his pocket for safekeeping. The rest of their food was completely ruined by the downpour, so it wasn’t worth trying to salvage it.

A quick pile on the tray and a hasty retreat to cover still left Steve’s jacket soaked through. He dumped the soggy garbage in the trash can immediately inside, feeling wasteful but left no other option.

“Well, sir” Mab remarked, giggling manically and twisting water from her hair, “here we are again.”

“Here we are again,” Steve agreed, shaking water from his jacket. 

The other museum visitors who’d been caught in the sudden rainstorm seemed either as amused as the two of them, or furiously upset by the situation.

A disembodied voice spoke from an array of speakers in the ceiling. “Ladies and gentlemen; would those attending this afternoon’s performance please make their way to the rotunda, thank you.”

“That’s us,” Steve said, turning and offering her his still slightly soggy arm.

Man took it without question. “It is? What’s the performance?”

Steve tilted his head to the side a little. “Where are we again?”

“We’re…” Mab paused in place. Her head snapped up, eyes bright. “Oh!” She let go of his arm to flap her hand wildly in excitement. Her energy returned in spades, and any shake in her step evaporated with a wave of excitement that radiated from her like sunshine. “Really?” she asked, her stride nearly a jog.

“Yes, really,” Steve laughed. “It’s what you wanted to come here for, isn’t it?”

Mab laughed giddily, on the verge of euphoric hysteria. “Yes.” Steve could read her smile from head to quick-walking toe.

That was it. That was what he’d brought her here to do. That was the plan, the purpose, the meaning.

Mab practically vibrated in her folding chair as the large hall filled with other concert-goers. The organ stand sitting flush against the wall didn’t look nearly impressive enough to make the music that inspired Mab to dream of traveling cross-country, but Mab had already revealed its spectacular secret to him.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” a museum curator addressed the gathered audience, silencing low chatter. “I want to thank you for joining us for our concert series, and please thank you for taking this moment to silence your cell phones and small children.” The crowd laughed.

“While our little setup here may not look like your typical church organ, let me assure you…” the curator dove into the instrument’s secrets.

The stucco walls of the exhibit hall were in fact, not stucco. They were thin fabric covering pipes ranging in length from half an inch to thirty-two feet, powered by lungs running on forty-eight horsepower and designed to awe.

“First for our pieces today, we ease you into the grandeur of our organ with a piece by Bach: Come, Sweet Death.”

The organist nodded at the cue from the curator, spun on the bench, and rested old fingers on older polished ivory and ebony keys.

The room held its breath, and then the room began to sing.

Gently at first - barely a whisper that even Steve strained to hear - the music rose like light sinking deeply into dark waters and straining to reach the seafloor. Sadly, tragic like lost toys in childhood and lost love in old age, the room sang with regret.

Deeper tones began to rise from that dark watery place where light struggled to illuminate. Ancient agony, sharp and biting like a hundred-year wound that still bled freely.

The organ’s music swelled into something terrible and great. Steve could feel the pressure against his chest, the extra effort it took to breathe when the music was moving through him. Those thirty-two foot pipes shook the air around them in a song so deep it wasn’t audible but tangible; an inflicted sorrow.

He glanced at Mab, her hand on her chest and clearly feeling the same resistance. He moved to put a hand on her arm - to check on her, to ask quietly if she could breathe alright - but she caught it in the air.

She caught his hand, squeezing it fiercely, holding it and silently begging him not to speak. Steve lowered his hand but Mab continued to hold on.

The cutting sadness in the air trailed off. No fantastic resolution saved them, no cheery chord, just a drifting away. A surrender to sorrow. Peace in the dark. Acceptance.

The organist lifted his hands from the keys, letting the air settle into stillness.

Thunder rumbled overhead as the rainstorm outside continued.

“The best compliment I could hope for!” the organist proclaimed. The audience laughed.

“We move now to-” the curator described the next piece of music, and the organist played, and the cycle continued. Beautiful harmonies or dissonance, terrible authority over sound and air, and lingering feelings sitting in the spaces between the end of a piece and enthusiastic applause.

Some of it sounded familiar - surely something played at church, or at least written by the same composer - but so far back in Steve’s memory he would have struggled to place it exactly. It would have been in his time before.

The music carried him back and forth through time without ever settling him ashore on specific memories. He would catch sight of them, almost like a mirage on the horizon or shapes in rain, leaving him with the wistful sensation of nostalgia before carrying him over the crest of a wave into a new moment.

Again and again and cresting ceaselessly into new moments, he held Mab’s hand as she held his like a storm-tossed sailor fixing their eye upon the lighthouse ahead.

And then it was over. The curator gesture to the organist who bowed slowly at the waist and the audience applauded heartily. The audience was reminded of the location of the museum’s gift shop, and that donations and sponsorships were always welcome. It was over, but Steve didn’t really notice until Mab let go of his hand.

She sat in silence, staring at the pipe organ sitting so innocuously against the wall, barely larger than an upright piano. The audience around them stood and left in waves, but Mab stayed seated, just looking at the instrument.

It wasn’t until they were all but alone in the large hall - guests having moved in the discussing statues in respectfully low voices, and some crew beginning to take down the collection of chairs from the concert - that Steve decided to interrupt Mab’s moment.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“I think…” Mab breathed, “I think I’m really tired.”

Not quite the reaction he was hoping for. “Okay,” Steve said, “let’s head to the airport. Do you want me to get your chair?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I can make it to the car.” She stood, somewhat shakily, accepting the offer of Steve’s arm for additional balance. “Let’s just go slow.”

And slowly they went. Mab was doing her best to hide it, but she was clearly exhausted. A pang of guilt ran through him. Steve knew very well about accidentally over-exerting one’s self but not wanting to bother anyone about it. He could’ve kicked himself.

“How long is the drive back down?” Mab asked, derailing his self-flagellating thoughts.

Steve checked his watch. “The plane should’ve transferred to SFO by now.

“What, by itself?”

“So I’m told.”

Mab shook her head. “Superheroes.”

Steve grinned, and so did Mab. He felt a little better.

The bad feelings returned when they reached the car, sitting in the parking lot with the top still down. They stared at the rain-soaked interior together.

Mab spoke first. “Whoops.”

“Shit…” Steve sighed.

Mab used a hand to wipe water off of the leather headrest of the passenger seat. “Superheroes know people, right? I’m sure Happy knows a detail shop that can get this fixed up.”

Steve sure hoped so. “I think there’s some shop cloth in the flat kit in the trunk.”

The expensive leather interior of the car definitely seemed ruined. Water sluiced out of darkly-stained seams and panels on the seats and Steve was seriously concerned that the car wouldn’t even start. Newer technology seemed to be irreversibly damaged by even the briefest contact with water.

Steve was still patting down the seats and almost missed Mab’s comment, offered conversationally as he worked.

“I didn’t want it to be over,” she said.

Steve looked up at her. “What?”

She waved a hand across the parking lot to the museum. “The concert. I didn’t want it to end. I kept hoping that there would always be a next piece, and I could just… sit there forever.”

“I’m glad,” he said, “I was worried I’d upset you.”

“Why?” Mab asked.

“Well,” Steve waffled, “the statue, the concert-”

“Ah,” Mab sighed, seeming to understand the reference being made to the seriousness of her demeanor. “I’m afraid that for someone so invested in words, that I am absolutely terrible at remembering to use them. As a result,” she shrugged, “I’m told I can seem… cold.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Steve tried to backtrack, but Mab waved it off.

“I know how I come across. It’s something I’m working on but clearly I need more practice.” She tilted her head as she leaned in the cane, smiling at Steve in a way that seemed happy, but also so very sad. “I promise I’ll be more verbal about it once I’ve had time to process, but I don’t know how to begin to thank you for this weekend,” Mab said.

“It’s nothing,” Steve said, folding up the damp towels and throwing them into the car’s open trunk. Hopefully he’d been able to get enough standing water out to prevent them from arriving at the airport more damp than when they had left.

Steve opened her door for her but Mab paused for a moment. “It’s not nothing - it was… it was everything.” She looked up at him with something beyond simple earnest meaning in her eyes. “You have to know that, don’t you?”

She broke off the intense eye contact to slide into the car, making no mention of whether or not her seat was fully dry. She let the question hang in the air, more pointed than Steve was prepared for.

But that was what time with Mab seemed to cost. It cost him that comfort of familiarity; of hiding in the stereotypical pleasantries and repetitive social niceties. Mab cut right to the quick without drawing blood.

The hum of the car’s ridiculously overbuilt engine saved him from needing to immediately reply. By the time he had gathered his thoughts Mab was fast asleep in her seat.

Chapter Text

A clear sun rises on red sandstone looming over sandy beaches between Tiznit and Sidi Ifni. The weather is perfect for the Moroccan tourists as a cold front is pushing away seasonable rains for a mild and sunny day.

The cold air rushes down the African coast, through Western Sahara and Mauritania, searching for the Tropic of Cancer. The Canary Current warms the sea and the air as it travels south before splitting at the equator. In the Atlantic Ocean, warm air spins in an endless cycle, and the humid air is picked up by a Northern-traveling Gulf Stream.

Rushing for Europe and the Arctic Circle, the air screams up the eastern American Coast. A Polar Vortex sweeps down from Canada, mixing warm currents and frigid air. Chaos ensues.

Rising warm air lifting from temperate seas slams into a freezing ceiling in the atmosphere. Churning air rumbles and crashes in fury at the restriction. Storm clouds roll and grow, growing, growing into a maelstrom barreling down on a city preparing for Christmas. A wintry mix of rain, sleet, and hail scrapes over the city that refuses to grind to a halt.

Out at sea, a volatile prison closes huge steel hangar doors against the weather, preparing to sink below the waves for protection. A one-foot thick gasket lines the edges of this set of doors, intended to provide a tight seal against water intrusion while the apparatus is submerged.

Ginny Ellis sat at her usual table, flanked on one side by Miguel and on the other by a twitchy Lukas who insisted on sitting on the table itself, bouncing a nervous foot on a bolted-down bench.

"Phoenix is taken," Lukas ticked off names on his fingers.

"Blue Phoenix?" Miguel proposed.

"What the hell would that even mean?" Lukas countered, then snapped his fingers. "Human Torch!"

Miguel shook his head. "Also taken - where is your originality? Where is the beauty?"

Ginny sighed. "You could just call me by my name."

"Thank god, we're saved; here comes Ma Ellis!" Lukas gasped dramatically. "Nope, it just doesn't work for me."

The neoprene gasket material, designed for over a thousand pounds per square inch of strength and formulated to be especially resistant to oil intrusion and combustion, was ordered from the manufacturer as a part of hundreds of classified orders issued to hundreds of distributors. Redacted content would have clarified for those making the material that it was going to be used in a submerged environment and would need the additional additives to make it appropriately resistant to saltwater intrusion while submerged at pressurized depths.

The order, however, listed the request as being specified for a submarine hangar. An appropriate cover, it would ordinarily have provided an apt description of the conditions under which the Raft would require the gasket to operate, if not for the pressure.

Unlike a sea-wall submarine hangar, which operates at the breakwater line and contains both submerged and above water portions, the Raft is a submersible, plunging to pressurized depths to ensure prisoners do not escape.

As the order seemed to clearly lay out the desired properties of compressive, combustion, and petrochemical resistance, the manufacturer asked no further questions. The requested additives would already increase the cost of the order by some magnitude and no one wanted to risk a possible retraction by asking questions.

A young guard, his arms heavily laden with a plastic bin piled high with personal items, didn't see the water hazard on the floor. His standard-issue boots were designed to prevent loss of traction on the textured metal floor, but not for traction on wet surfaces. He slipped, the box was launched high into the air, and personal items were scattered everywhere.

Raucous laughter spilled from almost every witnessing inmate, save a steady and calculating few. A supervisor, watching like a hawk from the catwalk above, slammed his nightstick against the metal rail, howling "be quiet!". The nightstick's electric component crackled along the metal bar, adding additional authority to the command.

A few snickers of amusement still lingered as the young guard scrambled to return the items to the bin, packed a little less neatly than before.

"Hey! Eighty-six!" an inmate yelled, the owner of the items in question, "you better be careful with my shit, eighty-six! I want it all back in one piece when I get out of here!"

"Back up, 36-92!" The supervisor called down, enforcing authority where none was really necessary. "Unless you want some time in the Box?"

The inmate sneered in disdain but backed down. Time alone in the quiet dark is not an enviable place.

The gaskets were delivered two weeks late and five thousand dollars over budget. In a project marred by bureaucracy, that wasn't too bad. They were installed by the lowest bidder that maintained a security clearance on the first day that delivered decent weather, and put into operation three weeks before the Raft accepted its first inmate.

The neoprene gasket performs perfectly under on-site testing, with multiple inspectors failing to find even the faintest trace of water intrusion. The inspectors confirm acceptance of the material to a grateful distributor.

The distributor supplies all records to the State Department upon successful installation, specifying composition, results of extensive testing, and maintenance requirements to ensure the material met or exceeded its three-to-five year serviceable life. These documents were filed with sixteen-thousand additional pages of records for the construction of the Raft, each page stamped with a red-inked 'TOP SECRET' stamp, and filed in a locked cabinet.

For the next six years the neoprene gasket is compressed and released repeatedly over a multitude of inspections, admissions, site visits, and shift changes as helicopters and quin jets come and go at ever-increasing volumes. With every wave-topped storm, the inner portion of the gasket is coated with a fine film of saltwater, which is then pressed between the two layers as the doors are closed. As the Raft sinks below the waves, those gaskets are subjected to increasing pressure, and the water begins to move.

The saltwater sits stagnant between the two neoprene gaskets and at a steadily-increasing rate the water begins to move through the thick material, carrying crippling electrolytes to massive stainless-steel plates. Due to the gasket's tight fit and thousand-pound pressure in place, no adhesive or sealant was designated at the polymer-metal interface junction. The manufacturer's recommendation would have held firm, if not for the sea. If not for the

"Inmates caught concealing personal items will be punished accordingly!" the Supervisor barked. "All personals are going into storage!" For all the power in his threat, the inmates waiting below seemed hardly bothered.

"Don't," Ginny warned Lukas, seeing the dirty joke just on the tip of his tongue. Today felt different; it wasn't a good time to be pushing boundaries. They could act cool and casual as you please, but even Miguel seemed to be lingering on edge.

Lukas pouted, but kept his dirty joke to himself. "I wonder what this is all for."

Ginny glanced at him, restraining a concerned question for his health. He seemed more pale than usual these days, but they all did after months without sunshine. So she played along with his attempt at normal gossip. "I heard Secretary Ross is making a visit and they want to pretty us up for him."

"I heard they're going to start putting us two to a bunk," Miguel added, notoriously bad at gossip for his desire to avoid petty conflict, he seemed to be trying to help Ginny calm down the increasingly edgy Lukas. "Need to make more room."

"Well I heard that they're just spiteful bastards," Lukas sighed. "Made me give up all my pin-ups. I don't give a shit if they get a little moldy around the edges, I still want to enjoy them while I can."

"What do you think, Mr. Volkov?" Ginny asked as the older man strode by.

He maintained the perfectly mild smile on his face, but the two gargoyles that followed him everywhere seemed far more sour than usual. "Mrs. Ellis," he greeted with a nod, "I will hold my speculations closely guarded until evidence proves me correct."

"How droll," Lukas sighed, "how boring. Crawl down into the muck and gossip with us, Ivan."

Ivan smiled at Lukas with identical warmth and banality that he had offered Ginny, but it seemed somehow menacing for a moment. "Mr. Russo," he sighed like a disappointed grandfather, "the pieces moving in this board make far more complicated moves than your addled brain could process."

The edgy twitching nearly exploded into violence as Lukas snarled with an animalistic rage. "Don't pretend like you're better than us, Ivan. We're all wearing the same boring shade of blue." Maybe it was the low threatening tilt of his head, but his eyes seemed darker than before.

"Pretense is for the unimaginative," Ivan replied, unconcerned.

Miguel clapped a heavy hand on Lukas's shoulder as he made a move to stand, probably to fight. "My friend," he said with false humor, "you are so good not to make a scene."

Ivan seemed unperturbed by either Lukas's threats or Miguel's suppression of it. "Mrs. Ellis," he said in a hushed voice, taking a half-step out of the orbit of his gargoyles in order to keep the comment private, "were I in your shoes, I would hide any photos of my children from this… crusade of acquisition."

"Uh," Ginny was taken aback, "thank you, but isn't everything just going into storage to prevent water damage?"

"Is it?" Ivan replied. "Have a good day, Mrs. Ellis."

"You too," Ginny mumbled.

Over the course of six years, the slowly-moving saltwater carries corrosive electrolytes to that smooth, unprotected junction. A tight crevice along the northernmost section of the hangar doors takes damage first. Decomposition begins at the molecular level, but that is the only foothold that water needs.

Had the water pushed through the tight seal only six inches further down the line, it would have fallen onto the hangar bay floor and been discovered immediately.

The water drips first onto a vent.

This material is not sealed at any junction, so the water quickly corrodes a path through and into the never ending maze of ductwork.

As the Raft tilts at fractions of degrees port and starboard, the surface tension of the puddle releases and it forms a small stream. The stream meanders down a series of branching ducts, tilting port and starboard, forward and aft, lazily choosing the path of least resistance. The water eventually comes to a dead-end and begins to pool. Corrosion sets in with increasing speed, and this water begins to grind a hole at the most vulnerable point - a corner.

As the Raft sinks beneath the waves to protect itself from a Moroccan storm, the ocean pressure increases outside, pushing more water through the corroded gasket junction. The water stream increases down through to the duct panel, into the never ending maze, and down to the most vulnerable corner in a compressed wave. The corroded corner cracks in a fissure, finally yielding to the water, and begins to drip onto the floor below.

Ginny tapped her fingernails on the metal table. "Why do you think he said that?" She had of course hidden her photo as soon as he'd mentioned it. None of the guards seemed to enjoy the prospect of feeling up an older-and-wiser-mother-of-two so her bra had seemed a safe enough hiding place.

"Who, Ivan?" Lukas sighed dramatically. "Old man just wants to be important and so mysterious."

"Geneva," Miguel's tone alone implied the rest of his warning. Do not invite trouble where none is present, he would say.

"What was the number on your bin?" Ginny asked Miguel in lieu of responding to his warning. "Your storage number?"

"Seventy-nine," he replied.

"Yours?" she asked Lukas.

He flicked some dirt off the table. "Forty-two." He seemed to have calmed down from his moment of rage earlier.

"Mine's sixty-two." Ginny tapped her fingernails on the table again. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

"Something is bothering you." Miguel stated it as a fact, not a question.

"Yeah, Ginny confirmed. "Can't put my finger on it."

Water dripped from the ceiling onto the metal floor. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

Once the water has penetrated the vent and drips out into the floors it is far too late to stop the slow onslaught of the sea. It is beyond tracking back to the source, as each new spot on the floor seems to appear in the strangest of places.

The water drips down through steel layers of prison and confine and sorrow, traveling down, down, down; searching for the sea from whence it came.

The water drips down onto huge incinerators, filling the room slowly with a thick steam. These machines are running hotter than usual, filled with more kindling than usual. A steady stream of hands throws a steady stream of papers and small objects into roaring fires. A hand-carved chess set. A photo. Half a page of a magazine, folded two times. The belly of the Raft gurgles with steam, and as the hot steam comes into contact with cold metal walls it condenses.

Little streams of water run down the walls, finding new avenues through holes in the grated flooring and running further down, in search of the sea.

What belongs to the sea will always return.

Ginny tapped her fingernails on the table. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Water dripped from the ceiling onto the metal floor. Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap.

Ginny stopped tapping her fingers on the table. She tilted her head slowly to one side. "Why not use our inmate numbers?"

"For what?"

"For the storage. We have four-digit inmate numbers, but two-digit storage?"

As the shifts changed mid-day and the guards rotated through their ranks, some of the newer guards came on shift. One in particular caught Ginny's eye and she leaned slightly forward in her seat as if closing a few more inches of distance would make a difference.

He stood in the corner, staring at the bin in confusion. He spoke to another guard but Ginny couldn't hear what he said. He turned slowly, tucking the bin under one arm awkwardly, the body armor's thick shoulder pads making the act of lifting his arm enough a difficult one.

"You know who has two-digit numbers?" she murmured, almost to herself.

In crisp white, the embroidered identification patch on the guard's uniform seemed to almost glow in the light. He was new, and his uniform had yet to pick up the fine film of grime that came from working in the humid conditions and never seemed to fully wash out. Even the prisoner uniforms had lost some of the industrial blue hue that wasn't supposed to come out. Everything had taken on the tinge of solemn depression.

"The guards," Miguel supplied.

Sixty-two, the young guard's patch read. The same number as Ginny's supposed storage locker for her precious few belongings. For the books Steve Rogers had brought her from the public library in New York. For the cellophane-wrapped cookie she had been saving for herself as an early Christmas treat.

The answer is suddenly obvious. She doesn't want to say it out loud; letting it out is impossible but also necessary because it would remove the last bit of hope that she and her friends would be treated as human.

"What a cruel lie." She could barely whisper it. "The bins are from their lockers."

"What?" Lukas asked. He shot to his feet though it meant he was standing on the table. "What?!"

"Lukas, shh-" Ginny tried to calm him, raising her hands placatingly.

Miguel took a stronger stance, seizing Lukas around the wrist as if to drag him down by force, but he didn't move swiftly enough.

"Seven-three-nine!" the supervisor barked from above, "sit your ass down!"

And that was the last straw.

Lukas turned a seething glare to the man stationed above - watching on the catwalk like some kind of malevolent god that dished out cruelty and hate - and the suppressor band around his wrist began to screech a violent warning.

The pitch increased at an alarming speed; faster than Ginny had ever heard it rise as the mysterious technology suppressed the abilities of every prisoner in the Raft. The supervisor was barking some kind of order to the guards around them but they seemed unwilling to approach as the pitch rose almost out of the audible range.

With a pop of circuits run past their limit, something broke in Lukas's band. The noise stopped. Lukas stared down at his wrist and slowly flexed his fingers. The band stayed silent. A slow malicious smile spread across his face and he lifted dark eyes to the catwalk above. "Got you now."

Someone began to scream in alarm tinged with terror. "Breach! Breach!"

Deep, deep in the Raft, where fresh air must be pumped by some force, lies the Box.

It is quiet there.

It is dark.

There is no conversation in the Box. No fury or outrage or explosions of power. Few prisoners sit in the Box as they wait for the days to lumber through them, and banks of power suppressors line the walls to ensure that silence is maintained. In the box, the little suppressor wristbands are not necessary. The walls themselves ensure the silence.

It is dark, but with the slow descent of water it is no longer silent.

Tap-tap.

Water drips down from above, in search of the sea.

Tap-tap.

Deep, deep below the tunnels and walkways and hidden places of the Raft, huge tanks of pressurized air provide a perfect ballast for the steel behemoth's rising and settling in the sea. An uncaring ocean falls onto sealed steel cases of explosive charges adhered to the sides of the ballast tanks, those violent ends sitting in patient wait for a call to fall to the ocean floor.

Tap-tap.

Water drips down from above, in search of the sea.

Tap-tap.

Chapter Text

Steve stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows staring out at a city under siege by sleet with a vague smile on his face. It had been raining all day, and while the weather seemed to be taking a turn for the frigid worse, he was sure it would turn to snow by nightfall. In one hand he idly spun his phone, waiting for it to vibrate with a notification but he kept his gaze fixed out on the tall skyscrapers around the Avengers tower in a poor attempt to hide his eager impatience. 

The phone vibrated gently and he lifted it immediately to see the notification. He grinned at Mab’s attempt at a sassy joke, and was working on composing a reply when Natasha appeared next to him. 

She didn’t bother trying to seem uninterested, but instead grinned like the cat that had caught the canary. “So,” Natasha asked, “how was your weekend?”

Steve couldn’t help the little smile that spread across his face in return, tucking his phone away to avoid a further prying gaze. “It was nice.” He could still picture the green lawns outside the Legion of Honor and smell the ocean on the wind. Blue-green eyes glancing up at him from a reclined sprawl in the shade, and fingers tracing the veins of a captured leaf.  

She raised an eyebrow. “That all I’m gonna get out of you, Rogers?”

“She’s pretty,” Sam yelled across the kitchen, as he dropped his bag onto the counter. “And they dipped out of the reception early .”

“Did you now?” Natasha pressed, her tone strongly suggestive.

“Mmhmm,” Sam confirmed, “And I had to fly commercial back to New York because someone had the jet transferred to SFO that night.”

“We went for a drive,” Steve said, stubbornly refusing to give in. He would have to remember to avoid the shift change hand-off if he planned on escaping regular interrogation from his fellow Avengers.

“Come on, leave him alone,” Rhodey chastised, pausing in his perusal of the fridge. “Don’t you have private lives you’d rather keep private?”

“No.” “Nope.”

Steve couldn’t help but be reminded of a time when he and the Howling Commandos had similarly interrogated Bucky over a few pints of beer regarding a certain blonde-haired nurse. His mind lingered on that thought for a moment like a skip on an old record. But this one played in tandem with another song now, another set of smiles and another moment he would fix in his memory forever. 

He could hear the songs of two bands playing, see two different sets of stars, taste two drinks and see two wicked smiles. There was none stronger than the other, or trying to remove an enemy with an intensity not balanced with present or past. 

Steve walked slowly to the kitchen, tracing the edge of the counter briefly with his hand in an attempt to ground himself. Too easy, it would be too easy to lose himself in two generations of joy. He couldn’t linger there for the knowledge it would soon be spoiled with both memory and forethought of grief. 

Dragging himself out of those memories too late, Steve caught the last of Sam’s question. “-installed today,” Sam said, “wanna check it out?”

“Sure,” he agreed, following the modern soldier to the elevator. 

“Wait up,” Natasha called, sliding off her perch on the back of the large leather sectional. “Check it out, stake a claim and all that.”

“Gym, Friday,” Sam called to the controlling intelligence and the doors slid smoothly shut.

“So when’re you going to bring her by to let the rest of us say hello?” Natasha pressed.

Sam crossed his arms, appearing comically offended. “What, you can’t take my word for it? I thought you trusted me, Nat.”

“Or maybe we can just pretend to have private lives?” Steve asked as the elevator doors opened to the gym level. 

Sam had been right that the gym equipment was being installed that day - the taped-off spaces where equipment would be placed were now crowded with discarded shrink-wrap, cardboard packaging, and even a few electrical components that probably were meant to be left in place by the manufacturer.

Tony was crouched on the floor with a screwdriver in one hand as he poked around an open access panel “That’s called ‘being greedy’ and we won’t stand for it, Cap.” He pulled out a small computer panel and replaced it with a larger, more complicated one from his pocket. 

Steve smiled at the familiar antics. “Hey, Tony. What are you doing all the way down in the city?” He seemed more comfortable these days up in the Compound, though he could be counted on to visit Alice’s farm for Sunday dinner more often than not. “I’m pretty sure what you’re doing voids the warranty in about ten seconds,” he joked. 

“Pep wants to bend my ear in person about acquiring some medical company; something about lawsuits and malpractice, I wasn’t really listening.” Tony snapped the access panel shut and hopped up from his crouch, slapping the machine for good measure. “Have to make a few modifications to spec if they have a chance of surviving you lot.” he flipped the screwdriver in one hand and gestured threateningly with it. “Now,” he ordered, “I want these to last at least a week before I need to come back and do repairs.”

“Ooh, a Kinesis machine,” Natasha crooned over a setup bolted to the wall that looked suspiciously like a torture machine hooked up to a wood ladder, either distracted or just quickly extracting herself from the accusing mechanic. 

“I’ll spread the word,” Steve promised.

“These things come with manuals for proper use!” Tony called after Natasha, who waved off his warning entirely. Tony moved to the next machine, popping off the main control panel with his screwdriver and seemingly ripping out components with little regard.

Steve knew from experience that Tony knew exactly what he was doing. In some ways the casual disregard was a carefully constructed front to make others comfortable; the sheer processing power of his brain and breadth of compassion didn’t match with their perception of him as a person, so he let others simply continue believing what they believed. It made no difference to him, really. 

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“Haven’t been in the mood for a deeply irritating philosophical argument lately.”

“Ah.” Steve shifted awkwardly in place, glancing over to Natasha and Sam who seemed to be caught in a disagreement on how to operate the Kinesis machine. “Even if everything we do is for them,” Steve said, turning back to Tony, “and for all the others, too, I won’t just keep quiet if I see something that’s not right. I can’t.”

“I know.” Tony closed the panel and tapped it in place with the butt of the screwdriver. “And, I swear, I’m the only one who does. Did the U.S. Government even bother reading your record back in 1943? You’ve always been just a heap of trouble.” Tony made a gesture with the screwdriver. “You start a fight to protect a smaller kid, Barnes breaks it up, you start another fight to protect some lady’s honor, Barnes saves the day - are we sensing a pattern here?”

“And here I thought those were supposed to be top-secret.”

“If there’s a digital copy, nothing’s ever really secret.”

“Since you’re in the habit of digging these days, what have you found about the Raft?”

“Nothing,” Tony dug the screwdriver into a new panel. This one cracked as he pried it off. “And it’s pissing me off.”

“They knew you were going to try to dig.”

“Seems like.” Tony glanced at him with a rueful twist of his mouth. “And I really wanted you to be wrong.” He flipped the screwdriver from one hand to another. “I’m working on it.” Not an apology, but about as close as one might get from the flippant genius. 

He didn’t owe Steve anything. Honestly, Steve also wished he had been wrong. The implications seemed endless even as they stretched out into a distant concealing fog. They couldn’t wait until it was too late to repair; they had work to do.

“Tony,” Steve tried to start an apology in return, to make up for the secrets he’d felt he needed to keep, when a new alarm blared overhead. 

If the normal alarm could be described as ‘shrill and annoying’, this took the concept and cranked the dial past capacity. Glass panels rattled and huge machinery shook in place as the alarm screeched through every speaker on every floor. 

Tony instantly turned to the nearest access panel and with a swift wave of a hand assumed control. Blinking alarms and fourteen types of data flickered in quick succession, too quick for even Steve to follow. “The hell is this one?” Tony barked at his computer.

‘Confirmed breach,’ Friday reported. 

“Well,” Tony nearly sighed, silencing the loud alarm with a flip of a digital switch, “time for you to go to work. Suit up, Cap. We’ll get back to sedition after you’ve tucked the kids into bed.”

Lukas raised his hands slowly, languidly, leaning into the motion. Something creaked in the walls and the floor and shadows in the mess hall lengthened and deepened, thick like fog and yawning widely like hungry mouths. 

Power. Frozen in place in awe, Ginny now understood the guards’ checking and re-checking of Lukas’s suppressor band. Without it, shadows leapt to his call; growing into the very monsters you can feel tickling the back of your neck when you look away from dark corners at midnight.

Miguel seized Ginny by the arm and hauled her out of the reach of shadows emerging under Lukas’s control. They spread out in flat, textureless arms that anyone would struggle to perceive as two or three-dimensional as they absorbed every ray of light that threatened to define them.

Lukas laughed and it sounded both gleeful and relieved. “Got you now!” he yelled, his voice easily echoing over a barrage of alarms. The shadows grew larger; the tendrils thickened into shapes further across than Miguel’s shoulders. They moved out of rhythm to Lukas’s direction, either in advance of command or lagging behind Ginny couldn’t be certain.

He didn’t seem to notice, finding dark delight in the panicked commands the guards were yelling, nearly screaming. There were supposed to be safeguards, right? There was more than just the suppressor bands to keep everyone safe, right? Whatever was meant to act as a second step of safety clearly either wasn’t working or simply didn’t exist. 

Ginny was lost in her terrified wonder and Miguel again had to pull her back and out of danger as the shadowy threat was realized. She had thought that a flat black arm of shadow was growing larger, when in fact one of them had begun to flail in their direction. She only fully realized it as it slammed down onto the steel table she’d been standing next to only moments before, turning it into a crumpled heap of scrap.

Now people began to scream. Shadowy arms whipped through the air with the swiftness and silence of an owl’s midnight strike. Seemingly flat against the texture and depth of a light-touched world, everyone around them struggled to keep out of the range of their fury. 

Up on the catwalk, screams of terror were swiftly extinguished as the arms slammed down, leaving only a wet crunch of bones or a gurgling whimper from those who couldn’t escape in time. Ginny was vaguely aware that Miguel was pulling on her arm as a new siren sounded.

“ Geneva!” he barked, trying to pull her out of the room as blast doors started to lower at the edges of the mess hall. Whoever was still in the mess when those doors came down would be trapped in here with the shadowy monster Lukas was creating.

But Ginny felt a powerful urge to stay.

“What is it like,” Hector asked, his ear pressed to her growing belly in search of any sign of movement, “being a mother?”

Well into her second pregnancy, Geneva had plenty of experience to draw on already. “I read somewhere that a mother’s brain literally reorganizes itself after you have a baby. Helps you bond, connect, things like that.” 

She rubbed a hand in her stomach, checking the baby monitor to ensure their conversation wouldn’t disturb the sleeping toddler. “I believe it. Literally makes you a new person.” 

She could so easily categorize her life into ‘before’ and ‘after’ motherhood. There were things she knew about her child that defied explanation, a knowledge of one cry from another, releasing logic to allow generations of instinct to take control.

“I don’t know,” Hector said, smiling as a feather-light kick responded to his voice, “not everyone who has a kid is like that.”

Miguel positioned himself under the nearest blast door and grunted with exertion, planting his shoulder under the heavy machinery to keep the door open for her escape. “ Geneva, we need to go!” Miguel roared over the screech of his own suppressor band. 

Ginny did not respond, staring still at the young man who stood at the center of chaos and the shadowy arms moving more out of sync with his controlling gestures. She pulled her arm out of Miguel’s grasp as Lukas doubled over, crying out in pain. 

“Lukas?” Ginny cried.

Even though he was no longer moving to control the shadows they continued to move on their own, moving faster and more furiously beyond even what Lukas had been directing. He had been crushing tables and beating on those who had threatened him - a powerful but childish tantrum at best - but now those arms thrust into vents, seeking deeper shadows to draw on. 

“Lukas, it’s me!” Ginny tried, calling out to him even as she had to duck under that dark force that sought to crush her into wet pulp.

“Stay back!” Lukas cried, clutching at his middle. But his eyes spoke with fear as he looked at her from across the room. He opened his mouth to warn her again and shadows came instead. Darkness poured from his eyes like empty tears. 

Metal groaned behind her as the blast door sought to crush Miguel alive. “Geneva!” he bellowed. Ginny turned, seeing the metal was starting to warp under his grip, and a furious concern flashed in glittering gold eyes. She couldn’t hear it, but she could see his mouth form the words. 

Don’t do it.

Ginny knew what he meant, but had trouble finding the right words for her response. There were countless parents who never wanted kids, or had one too many, or found out afterwards that the experience wasn’t for them. They might not call themselves a ‘mom’ or a ‘dad’, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. 

“Maybe, but…” Ginny rubbed at a stitch in her side. She had forgotten the part of pregnancy where little feet could kick you in the ribs. “You become a mom, and suddenly all the world’s children are your children, too. You feel them crying deep in your gut in a way that never hurt you like that before.”

Boots rang against metal, sirens blared overhead, water and swirling darkness beat a rhythmic drumbeat in tune with Ginny’s heart. At the center of chaos Lukas locked terrified eyes with the only figure standing her ground.

He reached out for her, and Ginny took an involuntary step forward. 

“ Ma!” Lukas cried, terror filling his plea. 

Hector rolled over to go to sleep but Ginny couldn’t sleep yet. Her second child was a wriggly one - sure to be a troublemaker from birth. She wondered what this next step in motherhood would change in her again. Parenthood not being a fixed mark she was always changing, always learning. 

Parenthood. Not just the act of birthing a child or having one in your care, but the intense dedication to highs and lows and challenges and failures of just trying to avoid fucking up. So for the Mothers and Fathers, the ones who lay on the floor and cheer when the baby rolls over for the first time, who stay up all night before the first and second and third and tenth Christmas, it was just so much more than just having a child. 

That incredible evolutionary process of caring for a child would change you - science could confirm it but mothers had known all along - so that nothing would ever be the same. Any time a child cries, you hear it, no matter the age.

So when a child cries for a mother, you answer.

Ginny’s shoes pounded against the metal floor and she took a wild leap over a shadowy tentacle that tried to trip her. Her shoes were on the table before her brain caught up. She’d crossed the open floor faster than seemed possible when that child had reached for her. Because he was young - too young for this place, barely older than her eldest, too young to legally drink - and he had called for her. 

“I’m here,” Ginny soothed, wrapping her arms around him. 

Lukas clung to her with the desperation of a drowning man. He was so cold - bone-chilling, soul-sucking cold. It was silent around him. Pressing against all her senses, a deep and quiet hunger.

Inside her, a warmth answered. The shadow pulled at it, drew it out of her, hungry beyond satiety. With a quick pop of circuits, Ginny’s suppressor band crackled and died a swift death as that thrumming heat grew. Like cool water on hot oil it danced through her, or falling stars plunging into deep lakes but somehow in reverse. Glittering power rising from darkness. 

Ginny wrapped herself around Lukas, tucking his head under her chin as she rocked slightly back and forth. “Shh…” she soothed into that quiet darkness, “I’m here.”

She knew chaos reigned outside of that dark and quiet place but somehow none of it reached into the orbit of Lukas’ power. The thought of it filled Ginny with sorrowful pity; how terrifying it must be to be so isolated by your own power. 

Humming gently, rocking him like one of her own babies, the familiarity of that combination kept Ginny calm for her friend. The humming, the soothing, the rocking; this was just another tantrum to a mother, just another late night with a crying baby cutting a tooth.

Less familiar, massive hands appearing on her arm and hauling her out of darkness. 

If Ginny had thought that she had descended into chaos before she was wrapped in darkness, she was wrong. That is, if the hellscape she emerged into was any reference.

The mess hall had been transformed into a ribboned nest of shredded metal barely accessible by two grinding metal doors that seemed to have been mangled into a permanent open position. 

Guards in tactical gear swarmed the room, brandishing what looked suspiciously like heavily-customized fully-automatic rifles and not the electric stunners Ginny was used to seeing.

A familiar shape in red, white, and blue stood at the other end of the mess, giving firm orders to some of the guards. As one raised his rifle, Steve grabbed it by the barrel and yanked it out of the younger man’s hands entirely. He removed the magazine, ran the action to expel the round in the chamber, and tossed both parts in opposite directions.

The hands that had pulled her out of darkness belonged to Miguel - no surprise there - but it was surprising that as she was pulled back, back and away from reaching shadows, a woman in red stepped forward from Miguel’s side and used bright red light to control, surround, and compress the shadowy cocoon. 

Other Avengers, less recognizable to Ginny, scattered through the room, seemed to be engaged in similar acts of de-escalation.

“Geneva, what were you thinking!?” Miguel seized her by the shoulders, spinning her away from the chaos so he could show her the golden fury in his eyes. 

“Move, Aztec!” A guard ordered, approaching Ginny with what looked like a suppressive collar in his hands. It looked much more menacing than their usual armbands. 

“I will not,” Miguel all but snarled, moving to completely shield Ginny from the guard’s view. 

“You wanna end up in the Box with her? Move!” He may have been giving orders, but his tone sang with fear and lacked conviction. 

The band around Miguel’s wrist crackled as the circuitry fought against his power. “Child,” Miguel hissed, “should I wish to change, this little machine could not stop me. I am a prisoner here only because I continue to allow it. I suggest you find other actions to occupy your attention.”

Whatever expression had spread across Miguel’s face seemed to convince the guard that, whatever the value of his paycheck, it wasn’t worth it. The guard lowered his voice. “Move to B Block.”

Miguel kept one hand on Ginny’s shoulder and promptly marched her out of the door he’d mangled to keep open. “It would be best to keep your head down,” Miguel shot her a look, “but I can see you have no intentions of doing so.”

The sounds of the ensuing- but diminishing- chaos followed them. Miguel’s firm hand on her shoulder was all the kept her from going back. “He’s not even old enough to drink, Miguel. And all of that… I don’t think it’s his fault. There’s something wrong.”

The walls felt tighter than before; narrow hallways, floors and corners dampened with intruding seawater, tightly returned their rapid steps with harsh echoes seeming to applaud that violence. 

“Things are going to change.” If they had thought the Raft was oppressive before, Ginny was sure it was about to get a lot worse. 

Miguel hummed in agreement. “I doubt they’ll let us speak to any of your friends on the outside again.” He pulled Ginny around a corner and towards B Block, the Raft’s auxiliary unit. “It was bound to happen eventually. It is in their best interest to keep their secrets silent. It always is.”

Ginny was half-listening. “This isn’t… we’re not…” she mumbled through the beginnings of the thought. “This place isn’t what we think, I don’t think.”

Miguel hummed in agreement again. “Which is why you should strive to be invisible, rather than at the exact center of trouble.”

Ginny nodded, but along with her own thought instead of Miguel's warning. “Right.” She nodded, her gaze locking on a small group sitting at a table in B Block as thr security gate opened. “Yes.”

Miguel caught on immediately, stopping them short at the main gate of B Block. “Geneva,” he warned sharply. “Absolutely not.”

“You can join me, or you can go count ceiling tiles, but I’m not letting Lukas sit in the Box for the rest of his life.”

The guard at the gate for B Block barked an order as the open security gate began to buzz alarmingly; “get a move on!”

They lurched into motion, Miguel falling into step behind Ginny as she walked into the crowded Mess Hall. She moved with a vivid intent, and the monster of a man walking behind her helped to part the crowd as she bee-lined towards her goal.

“Mr. Volkov,” Ginny greeted the older man, flanked by his gargoyles, “we need to talk.”

Chapter Text

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. 

Chapter Text

Mab: woke up this morning to all the snow cleared off our stoop

Steve: so strange. Who could have done that

Mab: an invisible brigade of assistants, methinks

Steve: but who on earth could have sent them

Mab: who indeed

Deep, deep in the Raft, where fresh air must be pumped by some force, lies the Box.

It is quiet there.

It is dark.

There is no conversation in the Box. No fury or outrage or explosions of power. Few prisoners sit in the Box as they waited for the days to lumber through them, and banks of power suppressors lined the walls to ensure that silence was maintained.

Tap-tap.

Well, almost silence.

Lukas held out his hand, letting the slow drips of water collect in his hand before overflowing and continuing their descent. He knew from counting his meals that he'd been in the dark for more than a week, but beyond that time seemed to blur at the edges. Blurring together, blurring apart into separate ideas and moments and thoughts, lost in darkness.

It was also comforting, somehow. Lukas couldn't hear the darkness in his head whispering those wordless commands. He couldn't feel the anger that wasn't his rise in his chest, couldn't smell that strange copper in the air, wasn't forced to remember every poor decision he'd ever made that led to agreeing to be a test subject.

Down, there in the silent darkness, the lonely dark -

Tap-tap

-the almost-silent darkness. The almost-darkness. He could still see his hands, holding water. He could see the walls lit by dim red lights straining to glow through thick acrylic panels. He could see, in his memory, the look of determination on Ma Ellis' face as she reached to embrace him.

"Are you still proud of me, Ma?" his voice scratched slightly, barely breaching the silence, interrupted by tap-tap.

I'm-here, the water tapped, I'm-here.

Steve: Is funnel cake still around?

Mab: Funnel cake is definitely still around.

Mab: Could probably get it at Coney Island.

Steve: we should get some.

Mab: It's like negative twenty degrees outside

Steve: It's only negative three

Steve: I checked

Mab: I'm willing to bet Coney Island is still closed due to it being December

Steve: you have crushed all my hopes and dreams

Mab: It's better if you steer clear

Mab: for a bit anyway

Mab: I picked up a cold so David's on the warpath

Ginny sat down heavily on the metal floor, chest heaving with exertion and skin slick with sweat. Hot panting breaths weren't enough to cool the fire in her blood, churning inside her body, demanding freedom. The tight quarters of the storage room didn't help; the hot uncirculated air seemed to get stuck in her throat as she prayed for a cool breeze. She knew better than to hope on that prayer. Hot, humid, thick air was all the prisoners of the Raft could expect these days. No one bothered to tell them if any repairs were forthcoming.

Her companion for the middle of the night seemed unbothered. The larger of Volkov's gargoyles, Valentin, leaned against the door with his arms crossed, waiting for Ginny to catch her breath. A whisper of the knock made Ginny flinch in alarm, but not Valentin. He waited for the second knock, then opened the door.

"Good evening," Mr. Volkov greeted, slipping into the already crowded room and quickly shutting the door, "or is it good morning?"

Ginny waved a hand, still too out of breath to properly reply. Ivan Volkov and Valentin exchanged words barely above a whisper. They spoke in Russian, so the whispering would have been unnecessary if it was for privacy against Ginny's ears, but it was all a part of the secrecy. The middle of the night, the small storage room, whispers against any echoes down long, damo hallways or along vents.

Mr. Volkov nodded to Valentin, who took that as a sign to step outside. The smiling older man offered Ginny an unbranded bottle of water, a godsend, procured from who-knows-where. "You're making good progress, I hear."

Ginny gulped down the water. Lukewarm, not cold, but better than dehydration. "Haven't managed to do much since we started."

He seemed unbothered. "It takes time. And we cannot ignore that there are significant obstacles to practicing." He lifted his wrist to jiggle his suppressor band. "Complicates things. We're not in a rush."

Ginny took another long draw of water. "We're in kind of a rush."

"Then let me clarify; we cannot rush that which takes time. You are making progress, and that is what matters." He didn't flinch at the knock at the door, even though Ginny did. "That's the hour-mark; all done for today."

Ginny didn't think she could take much more of the burning itch of the suppressor band anyway. Definitely milder at this late hour, as the Russian had reported when he'd drawn her into this insane plan at her insistence, but near-unbearable all the same. "Great," she said, forcing herself to stand. "Bedtime."

"Until tomorrow, Mrs. Ellis."

"Until tonight, Mr. Volkov."

Steve: Are you feeling any better?

Mab: I remember smelling smells once

Steve: Is there anything I can bring you?

Steve: or have the invisible assistants bring by?

"I just don't understand why the kids can't go to the museum," Janice huffed in irritation as she set down Paul's morning coffee at the table.

Because it was too damned expensive. Because their savings account was nearly empty and it had taken so long to save up everything that was now almost all gone. But they only had to make it a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer and he'd get that big check from the study, and then maybe he'd be able to buy himself more time to find real work again.

But Paul gave a more understandable reason to his wife. "Everything's too crowded with the weather still being so bad, and it's almost Christmas anyway; we need to save money if we're going to get them good gifts." He just needed more time.

Steve: Is there anything I can bring you?

Steve: or have the invisible assistants drop off?

The message delivered but sat unread for the entire day, and a full 48 hours later he was beginning to panic.

Steve had given up several hours prior to his worries and tried calling. Mab didn't pick up. He then tried calling the home line, the landline number that she'd given him in case she forgot to charge the smart Stark Phone and lost contact. No one answered.

Steve had contemplated throwing the phone out the window. But it had to be nothing, right? It had always been nothing; all the times he'd worried something more serious, more sinister, might be going on it had always been nothing.

No falling snow or rain on the window was remotely necessary to make him think of Mab, to feel the pull of the universe clawing at his heart. It tugged against even the memory of his fragile bones.

It took measured breaths to calm himself, staring out those perfect glass windows at the lingering afternoon sun already headed to an early winter's night. Because it had to be nothing. Because he couldn't overreact to something that had to be nothing. It was always nothing. Mab was a normal person and only normal problems happened to Mab.

Sam stepped into his view, pointing to his watch. "You coming, Cap? Alice is making those rolls from scratch and they're not to be missed."

"Yeah," he said, tucking the phone in his pocket as if he could just as easily put away his mounting fear. "Sorry to make everyone wait on me."

Sam was still talking and he did his best to listen, did his best to try and focus on this moment, and not the endless possibilities that inspired flares of panic. It was a short flight on one of Tony's choppers; they nearly qualified as jets but he claimed that keeping them as helicopters meant he could fly them in and out of the city at his leisure.

So it would be fine to just go to Sunday Dinner. It would be fine to travel out of the city and be further from a short ride to Greenwich Village because Mab would answer him and tell him that she'd tripped and dropped her phone down a sewer grate and avail him of the heroic recovery efforts of a street sweeper.

It would be fine.

Steve was not fine.

He'd lasted through the enthusiastic greetings as they'd landed on the expansive lawn of Alice and Bucky's new farm; how had he convinced her to move to New York, Sam had asked. Long Island isn't New York, Tony had quipped sharply. And Steve had barely heard it. He swore he could feel every individual part of the phone in his hand screaming in protest as he gripped it tightly, unable to put it down in case he missed the relief he repeatedly needed from Mab's reply.

It had only been 48 hours. 50 hours now. Much too soon to panic. He would be able to sit through the Sunday Dinners that Alice loved to host, be able to enjoy the return to the routine now that she and Bucky were back from their honeymoon. He would ask engaging questions and gracefully accept second and third helpings of her food.

He sat down at the table, penning a quick and pleading text just to appease the worry in his stomach.

Steve: Mab please answer me so I know you're okay

The message bounced.

A rushing, roaring, pouring sound filled his ears, blocking out all other noises. Cold iron seized him around the ribs and tightened with each breath like a huge and menacing snake. The world narrowed entirely to the warning message on his phone: message undeliverable.

Steve's chair screeched as he stood up forcefully from the table. The world was tilting and he needed air. The new house had a beautiful wrap-around porch that went all the way around the house; the perfect place to have a full-blown panic attack.

The late December air smacked him in the face as soon as he opened the door. The dark chill and jagged wind shook the frenzied heat from his face but did nothing for the iron dread. He knew, he knew, deep down in his soul that all was not well. And the damn phone wouldn't help him.

The phone taunted him. He knew from experience that if he gripped it any tighter it would break in his hands. The delicate metal frame, the perfectly clear glass, and the smart display that would appear if he simply raised to phone to check his screen. But it couldn't deliver a damn text message.

"You alright, Spangles?" Tony had followed him out into the cold, still pulling on a coat to defend against the bitter winter. The conspicuous lack of pop-culture references or smart comment was his way of showing he could sense something was deeply troubling Steve, he was sure. This was not his first, second, or third rodeo.

"I'm…" Steve clenched the phone tightly, to the point that the superhero-resistant casing started to creak slightly, "I need a minute."

"Stepford Wife said rolls were due out of the oven in three, so take three."

"Got it." He tried to ease his grip on the phone. He wouldn't be able to get any messages if it was broken.

"And go easy on that thing," Tony added from the threshold, "Stark tech can do a lot of things but it can't put itself back together."

Steve complied, but as he went to put it in his pocket - he couldn't break it that way - he froze.

The phone.

The Stark phone.

"Tony," he blurted out, looking up faster than any hesitation could catch up. "The Stark phones, are they really untrackable?"

Tony searched Steve's face, reading the shifting expressions and the building hope. "Why?"

"I need you to find one for me."

Chapter Text

"You seem tense." Sam had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the strong wind and buzzing machinery. "And a little broody. It's scaring the locals."

Steve wiped grime from his face with a rag, trying to get off the combination of motor oil, mud, and sandy grit. It more smeared around than anything else. The construction site in uptown Harlem where they'd been called to contain an Enhanced was all but destroyed, and Steve hoped that the owners had decent insurance.

The kid had developed some wild power of mixing mud and sand into a manipulatable slurry. The kid. He'd been barely twenty, by Steve's estimates. He'd seemed so scared, trying to yell something over the scraping-grinding-sliding sounds of his own power; nothing they'd been able to hear.

News crews swarmed the street, each trying to get a slightly better angle for their broadcast showing the Avengers, or the transport Helo, or the destruction. Sam had positioned himself between Steve and the news crews, a slight flare of his wings blocking the tired soldier from view.

"It didn't use to be like this," Steve said.

"I know," Sam replied.

"We could be doing…" so much more. So much better. Steve wiped a smear of mud from his cheek with the back of his hand, which didn't seem to do much since that was also coated with mud. This wasn't how he imagined his life going. This wasn't the legacy he wanted to create for himself and for his friends; attacking and containing frightened children. He felt so trapped, unable to see or hear beyond his reach, unable to see, it is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen -

"Sam," Steve began, "your goggles record everything?"

Sam crossed his arms. "Cache clears every month or so, but yeah. Why?"

Steve stood, a new resolution clear before him. "Put the video through Friday's processing, would you? I want to know what that kid was so desperate to tell us."

"You got it," sam agreed, already setting up the file transfer through the computing processor on his arm.

There it was again, Steve thought. Following a feeling, some gut instinct, towards one hell of a fight. He'd followed it a few times before, into the belly of the Helicarrier in search of secrets, into dark tunnels, and to a final stand against a friend. Had he been ignoring that feeling, or had he just been too confused to hear it?

Friday spoke in his ear. "Captain, Mr. Stark has sent you a message marked 'urgent'."

Steve ducked his head, "Go ahead, Friday."

"I found the phone. You owe me one."

For overnight shifts in Mount Sinai's Intensive Care Unit, there was nothing quite like that third cup of coffee. The downside was having to make it and drink it all in one go in the break room while it was still piping hot. Roberta had gotten used to it over time, and understood that it wasn't a good idea to carry hot coffee into the patients' rooms and either spill it, or potentially unnecessarily tease a patient in delicate condition with something they couldn't have.

No family members lingered in the halls, snapped their fingers to get her attention, or brought in large bouquets of flowers that were sure to be confiscated immediately for fear of contamination. So, when Roberta came across a tall figure in a suit leaning over the counter of the nurse's station, peering at the coded whiteboard with patient info, she was ready to call security.

That is, until she realized she recognized him. "Mister Hogan!" Roberta cried happily, catching his attention. "You look so much better than the last time I saw you!" He'd been her patient the last time she'd seen him.

He started, grinning at the greeting instead of a harsh warning, happy to see a familiar face. "Thanks, Birdie. Listen - I'm looking for Mab Dumont's room, but I'm a little turned around."

Roberta cocked her head, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "Is she a relative?"

He waffled. "She's… my niece?"

She snorted. "Nice try."

Happy sighed. "Look, Birdie…"

"Don't you 'look, Birdie' me, mister! That didn't work to get you extra pudding cups and it won't work now!" She waggled a finger at him. "You should know better than anyone that my patients get privacy, and just because you work for-"

"Come with me," he spoke through her rant, directing her with an arm towards an access door just next to the nurses' station.

"What? To the stairwell?" she protested.

Happy wouldn't take her resistance as any kind of answer, ushering her quickly. "You'll see, come on."

She was ready to crack him a good one with her stethoscope, but as the emergency door clicked shut a figure rose from the concrete steps. Roberta's mouth dropped open, then she clicked her teeth together quickly.

Captain America. In uniform, a shield slung on his arm and a look of weary concern in his eyes.

"He's here for Mab," Happy explained unnecessarily. Roberta understood.

She examined the man carefully. She'd seen hundreds if not thousands of boyfriends and lovers and ex-husbands turn up at the nurse's desk demanding to see women they had no right to visit. She'd turned them away by the thousand, a steadfast monolith of iron as they spewed all sorts of vitriol with furious spittle.

She'd seen a hero turn up once - just once - for Happy. Nothing fancy, just reminding her to keep his favorite show on and make sure all the staff wore their security badges. She'd learned something new about heroes - real heroes - that day; that for all the glamor and pop they seemed to emanate in the news, there was something unspeakably tender about how they cared for others.

Captain America took off his helmet to better look her in the eye, and opened his mouth as if to attempt to plead his case, and Roberta sighed in defeat. "I can't let you in the ICU like that - you'll give her an infection in no time. Come on," she beckoned him to follow, "we've got to get you a shower and a change of clothes."

The Avenger shared a brief glance with Happy, but wasn't about to argue. She took a look out of the stairwell to make sure no one else was doing rounds, then walked swiftly towards the nurse's locker rooms. They were abandoned in the middle of the quiet night, just as she wanted them. She seized a set of scrubs in the largest size she could find in men's, plastic-wrapped slippers, and a generic bar of unscented soap.

The Avenger followed her without a word, only speaking when prompted. "Have you had a fever recently?" Roberta asked.

"No, ma'am."

She pressed, just in case. "Any coughs? Sniffles?"

He shook his head. "I don't get sick, ma'am."

Of course not.

She ushered him into the men's showers with strict instructions to shower, scrub, and change. Again, he didn't protest and followed her instructions swiftly. The pure compliance should have shocked her; she'd never really experienced a lot of blind faith from men before. He trusted her to steer him right, out of some respect she wished she could bottle and wear every day.

Before she could rethink her decision to smuggle him through the hospital he emerged from the showers. He'd wrapped his muddy uniform in the over-bleached towels, both concealing them and keeping any contamination contained. Smart, she thought. "I'll put these in my locker. They'll be safe; my friends don't snoop."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, surrendering the uniform without an ounce of resistance or hesitation. It was something truly humbling. He didn't complain about walking around in the cheapest slippers the hospital could buy in bulk, and kept his head ducked respectfully as they walked past other patients' rooms, not craning his head to so much as read the nameplates, let alone snoop.

"This is her," Roberta whispered, opening Mab Dumont's door for him. "I'll come and get you before the morning shift comes."

"Thank you." Steve stepped inside and the nurse shut the door behind him. The hall was silent again; no hushed footsteps and secreted soldiers. Roberta stood outside Mab Dumont's door, her mind and her heart full of questions she knew she'd likely never understand. A fondness, too, for being so lucky as to know these tender secrets of those who lived to protect and defend.

She turned on her heel, pulling her stethoscope from around her neck and grasping it tightly. It did something to help with the pinpricks of emotion behind her eyes. Simply wouldn't do; she had other patients to check on.

It took Steve no time at all to adjust to the darkness of the hospital room, but far longer to accept what he was seeing, and how contradictory it felt to the image he had held in his mind.

Curled up on one side, leads adhered all over her body and an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, Mab occupied such a small space in the clean, white bed.

"Mab?" he whispered quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was sleeping.

Her eyes flickered, caught in just a light doze, maybe. "Steve?" Her voice was so raspy, but the note of confusion was clear. "What…? How…?"

She tried to sit up, and Steve rushed over to stop her. "Hey, don't get up for me."

"But…" she wheezed, "what are you doing here?" She seemed almost panicked.

Steve pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. "You stopped answering your phone. I got worried."

Mab pressed her palms to her face, rubbing her skin to try and wake up. Steve could see a bruise around the intravenous line in the back of her hand. "I'm sorry - I think it's in the box with my personals - they took everything when I was admitted, I don't really remember it." In the dark hospital room, covered in wires and draped in pristine white sheets, she seemed small and frail. "That cold really got the better of me," she smiled poorly, clearly trying to make him feel better. Mab reached out a hand for him and he clung to it.

God, he thought, he prayed, not yet. Holding the back of her hand to his forehead as he dipped his head in prayer, in supplication, he would have traded anything. But Mab wouldn't have it, apparently. She pulled her hand from his prayer and laid it against his cheek.

It made Steve look up as she pulled the mask away from her mouth to speak clearly, even though it clearly made breathing more difficult. "Are you sure you don't have somewhere else you should be? You are a superhero, after all."

As if he needed reminding. To Mab, he just wanted to be Steve. The only person who seemed to have no expectations of him. "I'm right where I need to be." He leaned into her touch, that desperate form of comfort he'd been seeking.

Mab frowned, seeming to remember something. "I don't want to get you sick."

"You… you can't, sweetheart." The term of endearment just slipped out, but Mab didn't seem to notice.

She slipped away from him, a wave of exhaustion forcing her to lay back against the raised back of her hospital bed once more. "I can do…" she replaced the mask over her face, taking advantage of the oxygen again, "whatever I want."

Mab was quiet, catching her breath, fighting against what seemed to be a deep struggle she'd been fighting for days. Curiosity burned at Steve, but not greater than his worry and concern.

Her hand moved for his again and he caught it immediately. "I'm glad you're here." She squeezed it. "Best birthday present ever."

A different kind of horror washed over him. "Today is your birthday!?"

"It is - or it was if it's after midnight."

"I didn't bring you a present."

"Yes, you did."

"Breaking into your hospital room doesn't count."

"Well, then can I ask you for a favor?"

"Of course?"

"The lever on the side of my bed is stuck, and it's twisting the lift all crooked on the bed. Could you… I don't know; manhandle it into not being stuck? The nurses tried everything except a plasma torch, and I just can't sleep at this angle."

Steve had to actively try to avoid ripping the lever out entirely. One good twist to the side and it cracked into motion. The head of the bed lowered significantly, and Mab sighed with pleasure, rubbing at her lower back with one hand. "So much better…thank you."

He gave her another minute to catch her breath, settling back into his chair. "How old are you now?"

She smiled weakly. "I'm a little old lady; I'm thirty now."

"Wow…" Steve feigned awe, "we should get you a wheelchair."

"Funny, that," she wheezed, "I came prepared."

"Mab," he broached gently, "how… how sick are you, really?" She was holding it back, of course. She'd given him the shortest version he was certain she'd told a thousand people before. But this felt different.

"It's… serious. But it's always been serious. I just should have been taking better care of myself." Not really an answer, but Steve knew what that meant. He'd been an expert in his time, and he'd learned from his mother. Direct answers mean that there's hope. Indirect answers are meant to be a comfort, to leave room for Angels and God and prayers.

"Steve," she asked quietly, changing the subject, "how strong are you, really?"

"I don't know." It was mostly the truth. He hadn't reached his limit yet, as far as he could tell.

"Bullshit. Every man I've ever met has measured his dick with a ruler."

Steve laughed quietly. "Last time I spot-checked, I could lift three thousand pounds."

"So… a small car?"

Holding it against gravity, against plummeting against the rising earth of Sokovia, screams in the air - "Yeah. Something like that".

"You're beautiful when you fight." She seemed to be losing her grip on the waking world. "I've seen some clips… on YouTube. You're more graceful than you have any right to be."

"Well," Steve said quietly, watching the lazy bat of her eyes as she slowly drifted off, "I did train with a Russian ballerina the last few years."

"Whozzat?" Mab slurred, her eyes staying closed this time. Her breath gently fogged the inside of the oxygen mask, and it cleared slowly with her weak inhalations.

"Natasha. If I wanted to stop kissing the floor when we trained I had to pick up a few tricks."

Mab snorted, smiling even though her eyes stayed shut. "The great… Captain America… floored by… a ballerina…" Her breaths lengthened, evened, and the last of some tension in her face eased away. Sleep, at last.

Steve kissed the knuckles of Mab's hand, the oft-scrubbed skin cracked and healed over and over into a thick and angry texture. "You're beautiful, too." Under the artificial and sterile scent of the hospital, the warm smell of Jermyn Street still clung to her skin.

Roberta was sure she was going to caffeinate herself to an early grave. But after stupidly agreeing to run a double shift to cover a coworker, she'd probably deserve it. The Avenger had been gone before the early light had started to creep over the horizon, and his uniform from her locker as well. She was surprised she hadn't seen him go but figured it was probably par for the course.

But now it was morning, and now families were coming through to see their loved ones, and they always had questions. Mab's uncle, David, was one who didn't seem to have enough questions. He was, if nothing else, at least observant.

The bearded man sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair outside Mab's room, nursing a cup of burnt cafeteria coffee. "She's taking a long time to get better this time," he remarked as Roberta leaned against the wall next to him.

"That's heart failure for you," she said, wishing she could be drinking more coffee. "It takes a little more of that ability to compensate away every time. It doesn't help that Mab said she was trying to overcompensate with her meds."

David nodded solemnly. "Her doctors want to put her on hospice care. She's only thirty years old…"

Roberta had seen the note in Mab's chart. David was hesitant and was drawing out the decision. He was looking for reassurance, for someone to explain it plainly in a way that didn't feel like giving up on his niece. "Yes, and she's already well outlived her initial prognosis."

"I don't understand why she can't get a transplant!" he said sharply, confusion and anger muddling together.

Roberta'd been on the receiving end of misplaced anger and didn't take it personally. "Without being able to pinpoint her diagnosis, the transplant committee doesn't feel there's enough of a guarantee of it providing a meaningful recovery or improving her quality of life ."

"David," the nurse slowed her tone and measured her words to try and slow the speed of David's frustration. "I need to make sure you understand what hospice care is. We're not saying Mab is going to be pulled from her medications, or if something comes up that shows promise that she won't have access. Hospice care is about making sure that I'm the time she has left she is able to do what's important to her, and that's the priority. If she doesn't want to die on a ventilator, she won't. If Mab will suffer through any amount of pain so long as she can eat chocolate ice cream and watch the Mets, then we'll do that."

"Mab has been in here three times in four months, and this time she had septic pneumonia on top of everything else. She's in her chair more than ever. She's at the max dose for most of her medications and her body is just starting to give up. David… we're there. Honestly, from reading her chart she should be well into congestive heart failure by now. The time you've gotten so far has been precious but unexpected."

Birdie paused. Taking a moment to think about it, Mab didn't really look like any heart failure patient she'd seen before. She didn't have the bulging neck veins, the distended abdomen, or the pulmonary edema expected in either left or right-side failure. No angina pectoris either. Doctors flowed in and out of her room, patting her on the leg and scrutinizing the chart, but when was the last time anyone actually looked at her? To look at her and see the real human that lay in the bed, refusing to die?

"But she's so young," David repeated.

"No one's going to force you, David," Roberta promised, "they're just letting you know that… it may be time to start thinking about the end."

"Her mother would be ashamed of me." Tears slipped down his cheeks, quickly swallowed by his beard. "She sacrificed everything for Mab."

"Here," Roberta said, pulling out her last-minute birthday present for her patient from her pocket, "why don't you take this to her? Have a good laugh." It was a book of joke-poetry; plays on words and quick limericks.

David nodded, taking the offered book without really looking at it. He retreated into Mab's room, the heavy door closing on well-maintained machinery.

Roberta stared at the closed door for the second time, on her second shift. This was the way of the ICU. Frequent fliers on her floor weren't long for the world, and Mab was there so often the staff knew just how she liked things. Knew her by name. She'd written little poems for some of them. She knew all of them by name, too.

It just sucked. It sucked that those nice people got shafted with shitty diagnoses - some since almost birth, in Mab's case. Some stupid rare heart defect that scanners and surgeons and cardiologists alike just couldn't nail down or wipe out, so they medicated it into oblivion until the body couldn't take it anymore. Someone would write a lengthy post-mortem on it after slicing the defective heart into tiny slices, and point to all the failures that could have saved her. But that always happened afterward.

For now, it would leave Roberta standing in the hall. It left the Avenger coming and going in the night. It left her uncle weeping quietly into his coffee.

She turned, stethoscope in hand, to check on the rest of her patients.

Chapter Text

Mount Sinai Hospital, Intensive Care Unit, Fourth Floor 4:15 p.m.

Roberta pressed her hand against the hand-sanitizer dispenser a few times, collecting a generous amount of the sanitizing foam before rubbing it vigorously into her hands. 

“Hey, Max, how you feeling tonight?” she asked her patient, an elderly man who’d taken a nasty fall at home and had picked up an infection during surgery to correct the broken arm he’d collected. He had rotten luck, basically. 

“I’ll give you three hundred dollars if you bring me a beer.”

“No dice, Max.”

“Four hundred.”

“Max, you’re gonna be out of here soon enough that you can have a whole six pack at home. Think of all the money you’ll be saving!”

“I ain’t going to the pearly gates sober.”

“I hear you, Max. I keep a fifth in my purse for exactly that reason.”

“Five hundred!”

The door clicked shut on his pleading and Roberta moved to the next room, collecting a generous amount of sanitizer and massaging it into her hands as she entered. “Hey, Mab, how’re you doing tonight?”

“I’ve been better,” she rasped. All of her medications were at maximum and she had developed an unhealthy gray coloration. Organ failure seemed imminent.

“I see you’ve been writing - anything good?”

“I wrote something to give to Steve.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet.” Roberta pulled on her gloves.

“Maybe, I don’t know. It’s a little different.”

The vastness of the world calls out with violence
Empty places between our held hands
Atoms of air keeping us apart
But the world seems so small when it snows.

“Yeah, maybe I just don’t get poetry.”

“Birdie,” Mab asked, calling Roberta by the tender nickname she only shared with her favorite people, “if something happens, can you make sure that it gets to Steve?” Mab patted the sheaf of loose papers on her tray. Loopy crawl, half-cursive and half-print, Mab’s handwritten poems had been scrambled in with the hospice paperwork waiting to be signed.

Roberta wanted to comfort her, to reassure her that she’d leave the ICU on her own two feet, but she also knew Mab was intimately familiar with her reality. 

An alarm went off. 

Roberta’s head snapped up, the high-pitched keening alarm not anything like the ones she remembered. Not a paged alarm from the nurses’ station, calling out a cardiac arrest or infection control, but a whining, keening alarm that just continued to rise in pitch. What the fuck is that?

A deep, rumbling tremble wobbled Roberta’s balance and sent her scrambling for something to hold. Earthquake? In Manhattan?

“What the hell?” her patient asked, then paused. “...do you smell that?”

There wasn’t time to make a decision. Roberta’s body moved without her needing to think about it, grabbing Mab and hauling her with a power Roberta hadn’t known she possessed out of the bed and down to the floor.

The walls exploded and fire poured in.

Avengers Tower, 90th floor, 4:17 p.m.

Tony was trying to be good. He really was. Pepper had threatened to cut the electric service for the entire building if he didn’t sit down and go through the stack of legal paperwork for the upcoming purchase. Boxes upon boxes of financial reports, legal nonsense, and nearly a pallet of deposition records. Those, at least, could get interesting.

The moral of the story, which Pepper had long understood better than Tony, was to never let a CEO actually speak, and especially not in front of lawyers. And especially not when anyone was recording. Depositions had a lot of both. The nearly thirty-year-old deposition was about as entertaining as they came.

Q: So you agree?
A: I disagree with the characterization.
Q: CareStar’s Cardiothoracic scanners fail spectacularly to achieve this 99.9% reported accuracy, and you disagree with the characterization of malpractice?
A: Yes.
Q: How would you characterize it?
A: It is a training failure, not a failure by CareStar or its equipment.
Q: A training failure.
A: That’s correct. When used correctly the scanners use a combination of ultrasound and 3D imaging software to diagnose perforations and structural abnormalities with a reported 99.9% accuracy rating.
Q: You mentioned the software. How often would you say CareStar sent out software updates to equipment?
A: I don’t know.
Q: The system keeps a log. On average, a new software update is pushed via Wi-fi about once a month. How often does CareStar host formal training sessions regarding those software updates?
A: I don’t know.
Q: That’s okay, there’s an archived calendar. CareStar hosted annual training sessions, but hospitals could also attend an online session semi-annualy, but it was voluntary. The exact language regarding training is listed on the informational site, can you see that?
A: I can.
Q: Can you read it for me?
A: Technicians are recommended to attend semi-annual training, or whenever the software is updated.
Q: How are technicians made aware that the software on CareStar’s scanners had been updated?
A: The touchscreen had an informational display.
Q: Did an alert pop-up to inform users that the software had been updated?
A: No.
Q: A warning light, then?
A: No.
Q: I’ll repeat my question - how are technicians made aware that the software had been updated, and they would need to attend a training session before using the system with a patient?
A: Technicians are not required to attend training before using an updated system. It’s a recommendation.
Q: What about maintaining their certification?
A: An initial training certification is all that is required to be certified to operate the diagnostic equipment.
Q: What role does the operator play in operating a CareStar Cardiothoracic scanner?
A: The technician positions the equipment according to prompts given by the machine, confirming readouts on measurements taken via ultrasound, and applies them to a selection of options presented by the machine.
Q: When the software is updated, are new selection options and measurements required added to the machine’s steps?
A: Sometimes. Not every time.
Q: Would a technician that was trained on one version be able to follow prompts to accurately measure the new dimensions presented by the scanner?
A: A sufficiently trained Technician should be able to follow all prompts by CareStar equipment.
Q: Even for dimensions or organs that they weren’t trained on, and may not have seen at all before?
A: If the technician has questions, CareStar had a hotline.
Q: Is a hotline a substitute for recertification requirements? And is that hotline staffed 24-7 by doctors and nurses? Clinicians?
A: That’s a matter of opinion.
Q: A nurse is a matter of opinion?
A: You’re being argumentative.
Q: Clinical results from these devices show that, due to severe training deficits and outright guessing by technicians who didn’t have the leave to take voluntary training, CareStar’s cardiothoracic scanners had only a 27-46% accuracy rating, depending on the severity of the training deficit.
A: Those allegations are unfounded.
Q: The March Cohort says differently. Which is why we’re here.

The March Cohort. Or, as Tony would call it, the Bane of CareStar’s existence. A collection of families whose children had been diagnosed with horrific and incurable heart defects that no one could confirm without those exact scanners, then subjected to years of painful and invasive treatments. 

The company had been smart, though, and settled out of court as quickly as possible before swiftly removing the scanners from the market and recalling any still in use nearly thirty years before their records had landed on Tony’s desk. If the families had wanted to go public more than they wanted to crawl out from under medical bankruptcy, there wouldn’t have been anything left of the company for Stark Industries to buy.

He threw the deposition back in the box. Or just a random box. He wasn’t much for organization. “Just buy it. Bury it. I’ll fix their terrible tech later.” It wasn’t exactly what Pepper had asked him to do, but it was as much mental energy as he could bring himself to devote. 

“Shall I run a conflict-of-interest check first, Boss?” the computer program asked, the not-so-subtle way of reminding him he’d skipped a few steps.

Tony waved a hand dismissively. “Sure, have at it.”

An alarm went off; piercing and unnecessarily loud, Tony nearly ducked under a table. “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, is that the usual one or a new one?”

“Same but different, Boss. It’s reading as a panic button for the research station at Mount Sinai.”

“Get Spangles and the Fight Club suited up -” he stopped mid-order. “Why does Mount Sinai Hospital have an Avengers panic button?”

Avengers Tower, 87th floor, 4:18 p.m.

Steve sketched a long shape in his notebook. It was just a rough thought, something that would definitely need to be polished and run by a few more mechanical minds, but he couldn’t shake the idea. If he got it right, made it from the right materials… it would fit right in the palm of Mab’s perfect hands. 

A very belated birthday present, he would say with a smile. Maybe Natasha could help him - her hands were about the same size. 

He glanced up as a knock on his open quarters door interrupted the train of thought. It took a second take, Steve dropping his pencil at Sam’s face. “What is it?”

Sam’s expression wavered between concern and a slow anger. “Friday finished the processing.”

He didn’t expect it to be good. “What was he saying?”

Sam had to force it out. “They promised I would be okay.”

An alarm went off, and they both started slightly; it was always so damned loud . It sounded just like the usual Sokovia Alarm, but Tony’s voice quickly replaced it. “Alarm is coming from Mount Sinai - some kind of breach on their research floors.”

Mount Sinai?

Sam shot him a fiercely worried look. “Steve, isn’t that-?”

On his feet before the thought could finish processing, towards his gear, towards the transport already warming up, not yet, too many things left unsaid, not yet-

Mount Sinai Hospital, Research Sub-Basement, 4:00 p.m.

Paul shifted nervously in his cheap plastic seat. He’d been used to seeing nurses that looked like nurses in scrubs, not nurses dressed like soldiers. The ceiling seemed really low in this basement-below-a-basement at the bottom of the hospital. If he held his breath he could almost hear the Subway rattling by. He wanted to leave, but he really needed the five thousand dollars.

What kind of medical research pays out five thousand dollars? It was the question he’d been sort of avoiding asking, but at that moment something kept throwing up red flags faster than he could ignore them.

The waiting room wasn’t so much of a waiting “room”, but a collection of felted cubicles with a single cheap plastic chair. After the brief check-in and confirming his medical history and supplement intake hadn’t changed, he was sent to the boring space to wait. He heard other people come and go, but couldn’t see them at all. It was very private. Very isolated.

A woman in dark military fatigues stepped into his cubicle, reading off her clipboard. “Brennan? Paul Brennan?”

He raised his hand awkwardly as he stood. “Me.”

“Follow me, please,” she turned and walked without waiting for him. “My name is Nehir, I’m going to be your nurse for today.”

The hallways were empty as she escorted him, though he could hear muffled conversation through every exam room door they passed. The nurse seemed sure of where she was going even though none of the doors or hallways were marked. She led him into one of the unmarked rooms and invited him to sit in a plush-looking chair with almost a table-like extension on one side. “We’re just going to take some blood and run it through a quick test. Did you sign all the forms? Any questions before we start?”

“Yeah, the ‘nondisclosure of source material’ threw me off a bit.” The room was throwing him off, too. Starkly white, no informational posters or collection of pamphlets. Just a room with his single chair and a rolling sample cart. The room smelled so strongly of bleach Paul was worried it might take the color out of his clothes.

Nehir nodded as she pulled on gloves, snapping the wrists a bit. “It’s just standard stuff about not disclosing that you gave samples today. If your sample is viable, and you keep to the nondisclosure, you could be invited to participate in the more involved active study, which pays a salary.”

“And that’s paid by…?” He couldn’t see any insignia on her uniform, now that he was close, military or otherwise. But the nurse was definitely giving off ‘I’m in the service’ vibes. 

“It’s a government-backed study,” she said vaguely, before offering a smile. “Lots of nondisclosures attached, you understand.”

He didn’t, really. “What’s the button for?” Paul asked, feeling nervous. The button on the wall had been bothering him from the second he sat down.

Unlabeled, innocuous, but nearly a fluorescent red sealed behind a plastic covering that looked nearly sealed shut. A thin zip-tie held the paneling shut and he imagined it would take a pretty significant yank to get it open. But it didn’t have any markings, not even a ‘lift with force to open for alarm’ or any of the usual text written on it.

“We’re in a hospital - it’s a cardiac alert button. You know, ‘code blue, code blue!’.” She waved her hands mockingly.

Paul kept his mouth shut, pursing his lips to keep the argument inside. When he’d worked on the bus systems there had been a near-obsessive tendency by the regulatory folks to label everything. Typically, both the button and the area surrounding it were both labeled, just in case.

But he really needed the five thousand dollars - for Janice, for his kids, to pay the rent - so Paul kept his mouth shut.

The nurse laid his arm on the little desk attachment of his comfortable chair and strapped the usual elastic around his bicep, pulling it tight in search of a vein. She found it easily and set up her blood-draw set. The plastic vials she set out in preparation had neon orange caps on them. He hadn’t seen that color before.

“Little pinch,” she said, the common lie. 

But the rest seemed normal. She took a few more vials than Paul thought was necessary, stripped off her gloves, and reported that she’d be off running a quick test in another room but she’d be able to tell him right away if he was eligible to apply for the salaried study.

So Paul waited. It took almost no time at all, oddly enough before Nehir was back, a new set of gloves on and a beaming smile on her face. “Good news, Mr. Brennan! With your blood markers you’re eligible for the salaried study!”

Paul should have been relieved, but he was distracted by something sparkling on her sleeve. He thought it might have been some broken glass, so he helpfully reached out. 

“Hang on, you’ve got something on your sleeve,” Paul said, reaching to pick it off on some stupid impulse. It was like a purple splinter, barely visible against her dark uniform. It was the kind of thing he did for his kids, not something to do to a stranger or medical staff, but something about that sparkle drew his attention in a magnetic way.

Nehir glanced down at her sleeve as he reached. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, trembling, in abject horror as Paul plucked it off her sleeve.

She nearly flew backward, but it was too late.

Paul looked down at his thumb, the little shining sliver of flawless blue-purple gemstone. It kind of looked like a bit of, what was that gem Janice liked again, Tanzanite. Beautiful, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. 

Nehir flung open the clear panel over the red button, slamming it with her palm. 

An alarm went off. Paul jumped, dropping the little piece of gemstone. It shattered on the floor, atomizing into a mist of hazy glitter. He sneezed.

Nehir was screaming something over the blasting alarm, but the door had been locked, it seemed. 

Then things seemed to slow. He was having trouble moving his feet, and Nehir was sobbing, and as he tried to step back he felt slower and slower, like he was turning to stone. And as Paul looked down, he could see he was turning to stone. Or, stone was creeping up him like some horrible cocoon.

It was dark. Dark, and he was burning. 

And then he came apart. 

Fractured.

Splintered and grew into a thousand, ten thousand, an uncountable number of selves. 

He was…

He? Who was he?

The thought trundled along down new pathways, new collections of thought and memory that, newly formed, were still collecting sensations and form and structure. 

The old ways had been lost, scattered along the many copies of himself that were trying and failing to act in proper coordination. 

Copies. 

Sibling selves, each small but mighty. 

They could feel themselves warp and twist over themself, each little mind working together to create this larger sense of self, rustling and whispering into a cacophony of information.

A coarse but writhing, undulating, wrapping, a mess of sensation slipping and sliding over itself, a new texture they couldn’t remember being their own. Their own. As each part moving over another had its own part of the collection that made… them.

And suddenly the cocoon was a prison. It was a box too small for all the pieces of them. They and all of their selves bunched up against the walls of it, writhing and twisting into ropy balls of power until the stone cracked against them, crashing outwards, and they were free.

The freedom and sweet air ran over and through the mess of them, the richness of breathing in suddenly pure energy and fuel, rushing into action to build, to expand, to grow. 

More sibling selves splintered off as they grew, and in mere moments that sweet-scented room was also too small. No room to grow anymore, the branches and vines and tiny budded leaves cried out against the building pressure of trying to grow in containment. 

Grow. They were  a green thing that needed clean air and sunshine. All of their selves that lived in all the green and rooted parts of them, moving to make some measure of shape, ached for pure sunshine. 

The ache became rage, trapped there with no place to grow, so they roped themselves into power again, pushing out and up, through the walls and steel and concrete, reaching for the sun. 

Grow. They just wanted the sun. To feel rainwater slide across wide leaves and chase it down the vines of his arms. To quench dry roots. 

The walls rumbled and the air spoiled with a slippery, sweet, acrid poison. They recoiled, swatting at it with a spread of wide, coiled arms, like they could catch it from the air and contain it.

Something metal and heavy crumpled under their wrath. The poison spilled out, thick and rich onto dark halls. The lifeblood of a machine. They swung at it, trying to push it away from their tender roots, to keep from choking on it. 

Metal groaned and crushed in on itself, sparking in protest. Then-

Light, heat, burning. 

They were burning.

They fled, spinning against themselves to snuff the fire eating them whole. They fled into the dark places, seeking sanctuary and silence over sunshine. 

They fled, the alarms blaring overhead for fire, for panic, for them.

Chapter Text

Mount Sinai Hospital Security Desk, 4:15 p.m.

Christopher “Chip” Marshall was new to the job, but not new to the job, if you knew what he meant. He’d worked security since the early nineties, and had seen just about everything one working security could expect to see in their lifetime. Too far from retirement to relax, and too close to retirement to still be eyeing a career ladder, the comfortable chair and easy hours made for a pretty nice change of pace.

Chip hadn’t much liked bank security, and really hadn’t liked getting rescued by some pre-pubescent in a red and blue spider mask that one time, and had decided it was time to get better pay with less standing. So, hospital security. 

The chair squeaked a bit when he leaned back, but the coffee was kept pretty fresh, and he just had to watch the fancy system to alarms, sending the younger and fitter guards to respond if anything came up. Two weeks in and he was about as comfortable as could be. 

Chip checked his watch - a nice old watch, lovingly restored from his father’s time - almost time for another cup of coffee. If he was lucky, maybe the cafeteria was working on the morning’s muffins already and he could get a fresh treat. Some younger folks might get bored in a gig like this, but with his knees and his back being what they were, he was more than happy to let them chase the alarms and chase the runaway patients while he enjoyed coffee at his desk.

Back in the day, the monitors had been so small and so grainy, you could hardly see a things. These new stations were so bright and crisp, with some automated program scanning each face that went by, especially down near those research floors - the cameras themselves didn’t go there, but he could see the alarm display for those floors, all green- 

Chip leaned close to the monitor, debating switching to his readers. What the hell is that? It had looked for a moment like the alarm panel for the research basement had -

Faster than he could track, the display screens rolled through a series of flickering alarms, each more vibant than the last, until the entire screen was obscured with competing warnings. Every hair on his body stood on end while his chest tightened. 

Chip grabbed the daily task binder, reconsidered, then grabbed the red one instead. Emergency Operations Plan , emblazoned in stark black letters.

The building rattled with a resonant boom .

Chip froze, binder barely open in his lap.

Another louder, closer, boom , and all the lights went out.

Sitting in the dark, Chip clutched the EOP binder to his chest like a lifeline. The whole building held its breath, and as he began to wonder why the emergency lights hadn’t come on, the room was bathed in red light. The monitors struggled to come on, flickering on and off like the room was haunted.

He stood in a jerky motion, arms around his red binder, chair toppling back. There had been an explosion. He would need to evacuate the building, right? Chip took short, rapid breaths, trying to remember his way back through the winding hallways that led to his remote workstation.

Trying to focus on slowing his breathing, avoiding hyperventilation would be key, Chip tried not to let his imagination run away with him. What if it’s a plane again? Terrorists? Aliens coming down from a hole in the sky-

He let the thought pass over him, through him, gave it its time and space. I won’t know until I know. For now - he opened the EOP binder, quickly finding the tab for “explosion”. 

Explosion 

• If an explosion occurs without warning, take cover by lying on the floor.

• If the explosion occurs within the building, or threatens the building, staff should immediately evacuate the building.

• Move to an area of safety, and maintain control. Hospital evacuation zones include the ambulance bay, and areas indicated in map (11a)

• Check for injured persons. Render first aid if trained.

• Confirm transfer and redirection of patients and closure of hospital to intake.

• Notify Building Security. Building Security will notify other agencies as needed.

• Fight fires only if trained and without endangering yourself or others.

• Staff should not return to the building until Fire Department officials declare the building to be safe for occupancy.

• The Hospital Director will direct further action as required.

Ok, Chip thought, evacuate to a marked zone. I can do that. The maps in the back provided clear routes for him, he just needed to get moving.

It felt wrong ot just leave his station. Chip grabbed his badge from the desk, his radio from the docking station, but still felt a haze of misdirection. Gathering reflex, some evacuation training echoed in the back of his head, fight through it. Leave. Get out.

His knees didn’t hurt as he walked swiftly through the back hallways. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug. Chip beat on office doors as he passed with a smart fist, unsure if anyone was in them but unable to at least bark out orders to evacuate. 

In a rolling cascade so fast it was like walking into a thundercloud, one turn into the wider occupied hallways plunged Chip into smoky darkness. The red emergency lights barely came through as he dropped to a crouch, covering his nose and mouth with a sleeve. His eyes burned. 

But he recognized the smell, and it was almost a relief. It wasn’t the burning plastic of a building on fire, or some strange acrid poison. 

It was diesel.

Even clouded in thick, sweet smoke, relief flooded through him. The explosions had to be the diesel generators. Strange to feel relieved about that, but he knew from enough diesel derbys that it was all flash, no true substance or danger to the structure of the building. Not more than a complicated fire alarm, and some warnings about making sure exhaust pipes remained clear and generators exercised on schedule, and everything would be okay and boring a few weeks from now. Good old diesel engines.

The urgency felt like little more than a complicated fire alarm - no, he would have been more concerned if there had actually been a fire. Diesel was all flash, one big boom and a lot of dark smoke, not like terrorists or alients or any of the other catastrophes he could imagine.

Panic leaving him, Chip found himself easily navigating towards the main entrance and the ambulance bay. Consider his terror, then, when his hands found a solid wall of collapsed wall obstructing his path.

Some fancy water-feature wall had been installed near the front entrance in the last remodel, but this didn’t feel like that. This was just a weird pile of rocks where a hallway was supposed to be, and some old tree roots mixed in. 

The tree roots moved slightly, long vines caressing his curious hand with equal curiosity. Chip snatched his hand back, the terror following after the reflex. Some of the diesel smoke was clearing, and he could see the rubble just a little. 

He could see it shifting. 

Chip could see the vines flowing through the stone, pouring like slow-moving rivers over and through the broken concrete. Some larger chunks were seized in its grip, and with an almost effortless squeeze of attention it cracked and crumbled further. 

More vines, more roots, more terrible horrifying green poured through broken places, advancing towards him. Something in the building groaned, not steel or stone or concrete but much larger, more alive.

Chip stumbled back, all surety and calm lost. Someone was screaming. Panic coursed through the crowd that had been following him to safety in rippling screams and scrambling bodies. 

Tony’s right foot bobbed on the floor, his left planted on top of a rolling chair wheel, his eyes moving smoothly from one screen to the next, tracking the information as it flowed into his systems and the news provided nothing important in the background but noise.

“We’re seeing the overhead view of the hospital now, and it looks like the evacuation is going well. As you can see, there’s been a collapse of the building’s structure around the ambulance bay. It looks like the city owes yet another thanks to the Avengers for- “ - just noise. Nothing important. Nothing like what he could track with the tiny monitors each member wore.

Little dots of light showed the exact positions of each Avenger. They were color-coded, even though Tony didn’t need that to know who was who. Wanda would move at a smooth, breakneck speed in straight lines as she flew, while Falcon would weave a little. Rhodey took doors and corners slowly, while Cap-

“Taking detours, are we, Cap?” Tony murmured to himself. He tapped a comm link. “Cap, get back on the route,” he chided, “patient rooms were already cleared out.”

There was a lingering pause, and a snippy reply. “Copy.”

“Someone’s pissy today,” Tony replied.

“Boss, I’ve got an unusual call from a registered line,” FRIDAY interrupted. 

“That sounds like a whole lot of not-a-good-time-right-now,” Tony replied.

“You should take this one,” FRIDAY insisted, “the line is registered under Captain Rogers’ personal associates.”

Registered lines were always Stark Industries phones.

Stark Phone + Capsicle = phone that Happy registered prior to the Barnes wedding. 

Cap panic + phone tracking = Mount Sinai location.

Mount Sinai + Stark Phone + Unusual call + current FUBAR = nothing good.

“Put it through.”

I was supposed to be off today, the orderly thought to himself. Fucking Johnny on a bender calling me at three a.m. to swap, and here I am, in the middle of a fucking alien invasion. Shouldn’t have been his shift, shouldn’t have been his problem, the orderly was more used to dealing with combative drunks than mass casualty events and wholesale redirects of patients.

The list of patients was endless. Patients, staff, visitors, all had fled to the four corners of Manhattan, outer boroughs even, and everyone on the planet seemed to think he would know where their precious great-grandmother had gone and give them a free bus pass to get there.

Not fully mobbed, but always searching for another name, half fruitful and half not. Critical patients may or may not have told staff where they were going - just bundled up and hauled ass to the next trauma center or ICU. That left him holding a shitty tablet, hopelessly scrolling through list after list of names, trying to keep up.

“I’m looking for Mab Dumont,” someone said, the tone of restrained fear so familiar it was almost becoming background noise.

Chip didn’t answer, still trying to find that one person, some ancient cardiac patient with a funny-sounding last name, their great-niece had a shrilly voice and appeared every five minutes asking for an update.

“Mab Dumont, she-”

“Look, buddy,” the orderly snapped, “there’s a lot of people missing right now, you’re just gonna have to wait your turn, and-”

The orderly had never been lifted by the back of his neck before. 

He didn’t particularly enjoy the sensation as his feet left the ground and he spun, abject terror washing over him.

Blue eyes burning in the flashing hazard lights, white teeth gritted against barely contained fury, “ You need to find Mab Dumont,” Captain America snarled.

His belly turned to water.

“Steve!” another voice barked, a warning or a reminder. 

The hero let him go.

A hand at his elbow turned him away, voice calmer. “My friend is really worried.” Steel wings shifted, subtly blocking the two of them from view. Blocking that blazing blue fury. “I’m sure a lot of people are asking you to do more than your job description tonight, and it’s going to be a long few days.” Hands put the tablet that he’d dropped back in his trembling grip. “I’m just asking you to look up one name and point us in the right direction.”

The orderly’s hands trembled. “Dumont?” he asked, starting from the beginning of the list and working his way down.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

Birdie’s hands did not shake around the Ambu bag. 

This much was familiar. 

The quiet hiss of oxygen through the system of hoses and valves. 

The comforting pink returning to her patient’s cheeks now she had a proper airway. 

Counting a respiratory rate and heartrate. 

Medicine. 

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

One… two… three… four… five… squeeze.

Her hands and cheeks burned. Heat, or adrenaline, she couldn’t be certain. Sitting in the back of the open ambulance, one of dozens parked in a random configuration around the rubble that had once been the main entrance of Mount Sinai, some of the adrenaline was starting to wear off.  Birdie could really feel what she’d crawled and run through, dragging her patient in a knotted sheet. One patient. She’d had five patients under her care that day, but she only had the strength to carry one.

The focus, an absolute certainty that this one person in her care could not and would not be allowed to die, was almost frightening to her now. Mount Sinai’s backup generators had spit flaming diesel onto the walls as they died. The explosion cascaded up the building, following oxygen lines set into the walls. It blasted away chunks of foundation, of reinforcing steel, diesel and fire and oxygen mixing in the worst combination. 

And Birdie had survived. She’d carried and dragged Mab Dumont through smoke-dark hallways and sirens and screams of panic. She’d heard the movement through the floors as some great hand shifted the building, moved through the walls, climbed- 

A paramedic appeared at her side, small silver and red portable ventilator appearing from under a concealing jacket. “Got it,” he reported, jumping into the back of the ambulance and slamming the doors shut, “let’s go.”

The portable ventilator took over Birdie’s job, and suddenly her hands were free. Her ears buzzed with quick pulses of blood, one of the few sounds actually coming through against the blaring of the siren. Sirens. Every siren in the city must have been going off. Police. Ambulances. Nearby cars that had been rattled in the explosion. The collective choir of chaos.

Fearful that they would immediately start shaking, Birdie grabbed at her pockets, unsure if the hastily grabbed item had managed to stay in her pockets in the chaos. It had. Birdie held the cell phone, turning it in her hands. 

It didn’t look a lot like a cell phone, being all transparent glass and teeny buttons along an aluminum frame, but it did handle like one. Birdie fiddled with the buttons until the screen lit up like a futuristic spaceship. 

Birdie toggled through the options before finding the list of contacts. Uncle David - listed as most frequent. Birdie held the phone to her ear as it rang, trying to think what she would say. 

It rang for a bit, then went to voicemail. “ This is David, please leave a message. If you’re calling about pages, please don’t leave a message. If you’re calling for an event booking, please send me an e-mail.”

Birdie stumbled through a message. “Uh, this is Roberta Draper from Mount Sinai, I’m calling about your niece using her phone. Please call me back at my number in case her phone loses battery,” she rattled off her personal number and hung up. 

Steve- cell listed as second most frequent, followed by Steve-wrk. 

She tried the cell phone first, and it went straight to voicemail. “ You’ve reached Steve’s voicemail. Please leave him a message in the event he learns to properly use technology and can return your call.”

She was more prepared to leave a message this time. “This is Birdie Draper from Mount Sinai, we met the other night. I have Mab’s phone, and she’s being transferred now. She’s.” Birdie paused. “I’m going to try your other line, too. Call me back at my number,” she stumbled through it and hung up. 

Steve-wrk

It connected immediately, startling her. “Good evening, Miss Dumont. How may I direct your call?” A warmly-accented woman’s voice asked. 

“ I-I’m trying to reach Steve?” Birdie half-mumbled. 

A long pause. “My apologies; you seem to be calling from a secure line. May I please speak with Miss Dumont?” Idly, Birdie tried to place the accent. Scottish? Irish? Something not quite British, she was sure. 

“She-she’s hurt, and I’m just trying to let someone know she’s hurt, and…” Birdie was ready to burst into tears. Was she really going to get this upset over some cold receptionist? 

“ Please hold,” and a brief click as the line was transferred.

Birdie nearly choked on her breaths as she tried to steady herself. 

The ambulance took a swift turn and Birdie held onto her seat with one hand, trying to will her patient to pull through. “You’re Captain America’s girlfriend, you’re not allowed to die.”

But the line must have just transferred, as an angry man suddenly barked in her ear: “What did you just say!?”

Chapter Text

Stark Phone + Capsicle = phone that Happy registered prior to the Barnes wedding. 

Cap panic + phone tracking = Mount Sinai location.

Mount Sinai + Stark Phone + Unusual call + current FUBAR = nothing good.

The math changed in an instant. 

Tony picked up the phone, but before he could say anything a quiet woman’s voice said “ you’re Captain America’s girlfriend, you’re not allowed to die.”

Cap’s girlfriend + FUBAR = more data required

“What did you just say?!” But he’d heard her just fine. The line was crisp, the connection from Stark line to Stark line flawless, as always. He didn’t need her to repeat herself, he needed more information. “Who is this?” he barked. 

“ Roberta Draper - who is this?”

Tony rolled his eyes, even though it didn’t translate through the phone. It was for his benefit, really. “The only thing standing between you and a Star-Spangled ass-kicking. Hospital or morgue?”

“What?”

He would need to speak slower. Maybe more gently. Normal people would be in shock. “The girlfriend - are they taking her to a hospital or a morgue?”

“ H-hospital, Tisch.”

CAP’s girlfriend + FUBAR + hospital transfer = delay in necessary care 

Delay = death

They’d be passing right by Avengers Tower. “Friday, get that bus redirected to the tower, and tell Helen Cho she’s on deck. Grab the girlfriend’s medical records just in case.”

“ Yes, Boss. Shall I recall Captain Rogers?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, then. “No, wait - I’ll call.” 

Tony hesitated. “Friday… What’s her name?”

“ Mab Dumont.”

Tony’s hand hesitated over Cap’s logo that would select a private communication channel. 

Mab Dumont + critical care + Cap = dangerous distraction

Tony shook his head slightly. No. If nothing else, this was an important lesson for the uptight martyr. 

Cap - Dumont = unpredictable behavior

Much more accurate. It would do more damage to leave him in the dark. He selected Falcon’s comm channel. “Falcon, confirm the hospital is clear of patients.”

“Confirmed, just finished final sweep.”

Mostly true. They’d been in the Ambulance Bay area for the last few minutes. That math certainly checked out now.

“Load up and return to the Tower, you and Cap both.”

“We can’t leave yet, Cap-”

“I said load up; the girlfriend is already headed this way.” He clicked off the comm, not bothering to wait for the confirmation.

Cap + Dumont + good medical care = rational behavior

Good math. He liked his odds of providing good care, now he just had to make sure a living corpse wasn’t pulling up to his doors. “Friday, get me Dumont’s records, and patch me into the ambulance rider’s ear while you’re at it.”

“Done, you’re hot now. Paramedic Garner.”

“Paramedic Garner, you should have been redirected by now and you’re -” Tony checked his monitor, “three minutes out. Read me anything you’ve got.”

The paramedic, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “ Unit 2-7-9, ALS, we’ve got a thirty year-old female, ETA two minutes. MOI building fire, apparent smoke inhalation and potential oxygen deprivation. Patient was in ICU for CHF and multiple organ failure following acute septic Pneumonia. Intubated and administering 10 LPM, reading 94% after one liter. Patient is unresponsive to verbal commands but responds to pain. BP and HR are stable. Assess for burns. Pulling in now, ICU nurse Roberta Draper from Sinai on board for more details and continuation of care. 279 out.”

Dumont + CHF + etcetera + smoke inhalation + Cradle = ?

Cradle + raw materials + JARVIS = Vision

Cradle + breathing Dumont = highly probable survival

Friday had transcribed it all, pulling up the camera feed showing the ambulance pulling up front of the building, like UberEats delivering lunch. Helen Cho and her team were already waiting to accept the transfer, and the collection of patient and tubes was wheeled in the front doors.

“That’ll be on the news in about two seconds. Kill it,” Tony ordered Friday. He flicked away the monitor, pulling back the location monitor of his team. 

“Boss,” Friday started, almost as a question.

“Not now.” Tony swung his seat around as the Falcon flew past, practically throwing Cap onto the landing pad in a tuck-and-roll maneuver. 

He threw off his helmet as he entered the building, soot and ash flaking off onto the clean floors. Oh well.

“Where is she?” Steve asked, panic evident in his voice.

“Porting to medical. Cho’s got her headed for a Cradle.”

Relief sagged at the larger man’s shoulders, and was that a wobble Tony detected in the Soldier’s knees? Some girlfriend.

Cap + Dumont = ?

“In case you were wondering,” Tony added as an aside, “that’s how these sort of things should get handled.”

Steve’s mouth twitched up in a weak smile. “Thanks, Tony.”

Cap + Dumont = stability

“Yeah, take notes.” Tony swung his chair back to the monitors. “And change your boots, would you? You’re a walking crime scene.”

Cap vanished into the background of his attention, fading entirely as he left for either a shower or a change of clothes before going to medical, and Tony was able to return his attention to the giant monster trying to destroy the Upper East Side, starting with Mount Sinai Hospital. 

Monster + Destruction + Avengers-level-threat = the Raft

Or at least, he hoped so. 

Monster + hidden tracker = data

Not only did they need to subdue and contain the walking, wrecking, Audrey-II-wannabe, he needed the team to hide a tiny computer in the mess of materials. 

The location of the Raft wasn’t a secret, not to him. He’d toured, not impressed, but that wasn’t the data he needed. He needed floor layouts, capacity, utilization ratios, and audio. Lots and lots of audio. Data.

“ Boss, ” Friday said again, more insistent this time. He’d have to fix that with the next A.I.

“Little busy here,” he replied dimissively. Fewer boots on the ground meant wrapping up the Big Bad would be a little more challenging. He was pretty sure Wanda could handle it on her own, but didn’t need any accidents just as she was starting to get good in the books. 

“ I’ll just leave this here then, shall I?” Friday replied, and a full-size window appeared on top of all his other monitors, blocking his view of Mount Sinai.

Just as he swore in complaint, not understanding why Friday had dumped the Stark Industries and CareStar Acquisition Conflict of Interest Search in his lap when it could clearly wait, he saw what clearly could not wait one more minute.

Tony sank back into his chair. “Shit.”

A handful of doctors, nurses, no surprises there. But one driver’s license stood out among the rest. 

Mab Dumont.

And the math changed again.

Tony heaved a sigh. “Shit.” One easy gesture pulled up her freshly ported medical records. Tony skimmed, looking for one line and hoping he wouldn’t find it, but knowing he would. Buried near the end - or the beginning of a very long medical history from a very young age - he found it.

5 year old patient presenting with shortness of breath to ER. Referred to Pediatrics. Pediatrics refers Dr. Andrew March. Performed cardiothoracic scan resulting in dx of cardiothoracic defect of unknown etiology. 

Mab Dumont + Dr. Andrew March + unknown heart defect

CareStar Cardiothoracic Scanners Report attached. Re-scan for full dx not available due to equipment removal by CareStar.

Mab Dumont + CareStar + Dr March + unknown heart defect = The March Cohort

“Shit,” Tony breathed.

Mab Dumont + the March Cohort = more data required

“Is she on the original list of patients from the March Cohort?”

“No, Boss; her name populated from the conflict search just from the diagnostic notes.”

It could be a coincidence. She could have a correct diagnosis; the machines weren’t 100% inaccurate. 

He scrolled through her medical history again, reading slower. Too many names of medications, Friday helpfully listing their purpose as he read, and too many doctors. Her care had changed hands a lot, growing and developing, the best that she’d probably managed to afford. 

But the math was wrong. 

Mab Dumont + financial troubles + defect + time = dead

Small children with complicated and untreatable heart defects did not have good odds. And Mab Dumont was clearly not dead. 

So was she a liar, or a victim?

Mab Dumont = more data required

Tony was pretty sure someone was going to get fired. 

Walking through the beautiful medical bay, staffed with the best experts money and influence could buy, not a single person had checked to make sure he belonged there. Sure, he owned the building, but Happy Hogan had a conniption any time someone was caught without a security badge. One idle billionaire helping himself to medical records and snooping on patients? 

Someone was going to get fired. 

He could have just grabbed a random staff member and gotten the information he needed, but he didn’t quite trust that math. He didn’t need Dumont’s current chart rattled off to him. He’d read that already.

And current staff, it seemed, were mostly glued to the television, watching the B-team load Oodles of Green Noodles into a Raft transport. 

Hunched over in a seemingly uncomfortable position at the nurses station, like she’d sat down and just fallen asleep immediately, was a nurse that didn’t match the rest. Her scrubs and face were soot stained, her hands washed and bandaged. 

“Hey, wake up” Tony jiggled the chair. 

She snapped awake sharply, nearly falling over. “Huh?”

He spun the chair a little so she was at least facing him. “You're from Sinai, right?”

She blinked at him slowly. “Birdie Draper,” she said, sitting up a little straighter in the chair. 

“Right, whatever; Dumont’s medications, list them.”

“What?”

“All the medications she was taking or having administered at Sinai, names and doses.”

She squinted a little. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I have multiple degrees in physics and engineering, explain it to me slowly and I’ll figure it out.”

Birdie hesitated, but her remaining brain cell seemed to figure out who he was and made the correct choice. “It’s a long list.”

“Why?” Tony asked slowly. That was the important question. 

The nurse rubbed at her face, trying to wake up but just smearing some soot around instead. “Mab has chronic heart failure stemming from a defect. The cascade is pretty extensive.” 

A matter of chemistry. The process proceeding in stepwise fashion from an initiating event - a diagnosis of a heart defect and the medication to treat it - to a seemingly inevitable conclusion - the eventual death of the patient. Treatments and side effects. Treatments for side effects. On and on. 

The cascade. 

“Nevermind about the meds,” Tony said, turning lightly on the balls of his feet. 

“Okay?” the nurse called after him, but didn’t follow.

Dumont’s room wasn’t hard to find. All Tony had to do was look for a Super Soldier camped out front, his ridiculous proportions shoved into a plastic chair like a clown trying to fit into a plastic RC car. 

Tony glanced at the time. Dumont had been in the Cradle for about 10 hours, so she should be out of the woods by now. 

Tony loudly pulled a second chair up next to Steve, who had the decency to look sheepish upon startling awake. “Sleeping on the job?” 

He’d changed out of his filthy star-spangled uniform, but still seemed to be wearing the better part of the hospital fire on his skin. He’d cleaned up, but very quickly. The old soldier grimaced in discomfort as he adjusted himself in the chair. “Building’s got the best security in the world.”

“I hear they’ll let anyone in these days.”

They both nodded awkwardly as a nurse carrying a stack of paperwork walked past and did his best not to stare. Tony noticed with some satisfaction that he, at least, was wearing his security badge.

“So…” Tony drawled.

Steve smiled in chagrin. “Her name is Mab.”

“I know that part.”

“She’s an editor.”

“ Boring .”

“And a poet.”

“Ugh.” Tony rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t do better?”

“No,” Steve smiled to himself. “I couldn’t.”

“Yeah.” Tony looked around. “What are you doing out in the hallway, anyway? The rooms are huge, and I’m pretty sure there’s a decent recliner in there.”

Steve frowned broodily. “I-” Steve stood up without warning. Tony followed his concerned look down the perfect sterile hallway, where a shortish man in a tweed jacket was vey by led in their direction. 

“That’s Mab’s uncle,” Steve said. 

If Tony was going to get the last bit of information he needed, it was now or never. He stood up as casually as he could manage. “I’ll leave that to you, if you don’t mind. Give me moment to make sure anything proprietary or classified is put away.”

Steve frowned, rightfully suspicious, but Tony slipped into Dumont’s room and pulled the door shut before he could start asking intelligent questions.

The generous medical suite was everything an unconscious patient could ask for. High enough to allow the noise of traffic to fall away, but close enough to the city to count the streets. 

The Cradle, Helen Cho’s masterful invention of near magical prowess, occupied the position of patient’s bed, plugged into a red outlet, and almost close enough to the windows for a patient to enjoy the view. If she had been awake, anyway.

Dumont slept, or was being kept unconscious to heal, under the Cradle’s perfect care. She had a decent face, and brownish hair, and didn’t seem horrifically burned or anything. The Cradle reported her marginally acceptable health, and was dutifully applying her long list of medications as ordered.

“Hello, Mab Dumont.” Tony stood at her bedside reading the various displays of the Cradle, entertaining a moment of curiosity. An editor and a poet. Not a face to launch a thousand ships, surely, but to call a Super Soldier in from war. “I’m pretty sure Steve was supposed to bring you to Sunday dinner sometime before now, but we’ll talk to him about that later.

Someone was yelling in the hallway.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Tony scrolled through the Cradle’s command series and punched in a new series of commands. “We’ll get you feeling better in no time.”

The Cradle took the order for a full cardiothoracic scan without complaint. A comforting blue wave washed down the patient, a helpful indicator of the computer’s current location, and chimed at completion. 

Tony scrolled through the information. The math checked out. So simple. It had taken no time at all.

Mab Dumont = March Cohort

He read it twice before pressing the call light on the wall. 

A doctor quickly came into the room, the open door letting some of the hallway’s yelling spill into the room for a moment. “Mr. Stark-?” the doctor asked, confused.

Tony merely gestured to the report on the Cradle, like one might order coffee. “Miss Dumont’s chart and orders need to be updated.”

Mab Dumont - cardiothoracic defect = expect full recovery/(physical therapy)

“Get well soon.” Tony patted a hand on top of the Cradle. “Friday, I need Pep and Legal first thing in the morning. No - wake ‘em up. I wanna talk to them now .”

“Yes, Boss.”

Chapter Text

Steve hit the landing pad harder than he’d meant to, rolling from crouch to run and somehow not slipping off the wet tarmac. He ripped off his helmet without remembering to undo the latch, the reinforced material tearing like tissue paper under his unsteady grip.

“Where is she?” he asked as Tony spun in his control chair, panic already rising, ready to consume him.

For once, Tony gave him a clear and concise answer. “Porting to medical. Cho’s got her headed for a Cradle.” No jokes, no witty commentary - “In case you were wondering, that’s how these sort of things should get handled,” Tony added.

The side comments had never given Steve a sense of relief before, so it was odd when it flooded through him. “Thanks, Tony.” Only bad news was delivered without jokes, without a jab at his weak spots. 

Tony waved it off, turning the control chair back around to the onslaught of information projected on his dozen or so screens. “Yeah, take notes. And change your boots, would you? You’re a walking crime scene.”

Gratitude made both of them uncomfortable, and Steve took the dismissal for what it was. It wasn’t like he was eager to stay and chat anyway; he had places to be. 

Steve took barely thirty seconds to splash water on his face and change out of his filthy uniform. The diversion felt like a delay, a vast chasm of time between now and knowledge, of a certainty of safety. 

He was running again. People dodged out of his way, and as he reached medical Steve realized he didn’t have a good idea of exactly where on the technical floor he was going. 

“Shit,” he swore under his breath, but it still got someone’s attention.

Sooty, bloody, battered, a woman raised her head at the sudden utterance from her uncomfortable plastic chair outside a closed door. “Captain Rogers?” she asked, clearly surprised.

He recognized the nurse, even though it took a second through the soot and evidence of chaos. She had let him into Mab’s room at Sinai. Steve suddenly realized he had never learned her name, and a swift knife of shame cut through his fear and despair like cutting through water; leaving ripples, but no permanent cut.

She stood from her chair with a remarkably steady ease, clutching a handful of belongings to her chest, and he could see she hadn’t escaped the fire unscathed. Her hands were red and black - soot and blood, burns and cuts. 

“You need to see a doctor.” The words were out of his mouth before he could even ask what she was doing there, why she was sitting in front of this door, why she was holding what looked like a Stark phone - 

And it all locked into place just as fast. 

She smiled, the action wrinkling the soot around her face into deep, dark lined. “I will, I just wanted to make sure she was okay first.” 

This was Mab’s nurse. The nurse was here, outside this door, because Mab was there too. The nurse was here, at Stark tower, because she’d arrived with Mab. Because she’d gotten Mab out of the building when it burned. Carried her, if he had to guess. Saved the most precious thing in his life, at what looked like great personal risk.

“She wanted to make sure you got this,” the nurse said. She was holding a folded piece of paper, holding it out to him in her mangled hands. Hands that didn’t look large enough to carry a large microwave, let alone another human being.

But he’d known another nurse with nearly inhuman power of will. He’d known her to do plenty of impossible things that had nothing to do with being a speedy healer. 

He took the piece of paper. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

It couldn’t sum up how he felt. The exhaustion that relief seemed to dump on his shoulders, but the jitters that fear saddled there instead. A desire to end this conversation so fast, to burst through the door, to see with his own eyes-

The nurse wiped her palms against her scrubs, trailing soot and blood. She winced. “When they rebuild the hospital, you and your friends better make sure we have better generators. Safer ones.”

“Yes ma’am,” Steve promised.

Someone with a white coat came out of Mab’s room, and Steve stopped him with a firm hand. “This woman needs medical attention,” he said sternly.

“Oh, uh, of course,” the doctor mumbled. “Follow me, let’s get those hands looked at.”

“Can I-?” Steve asked, half gesturing towards Mab’s door, half reluctant to ask.

The doctor seemed perplexed that he was even asking. “Just don’t adjust any of the settings. The Cradle is very sensitive.”

Don’t touch anything or you’ll kill her.  

Message received.

The lights were on in Mab’s room, but all laid out in the Cradle Mab looked asleep, and it made Steve want to turn the lights off in consideration.

Steve didn’t really understand how the Cradle worked. But, he couldn’t explain how Penicillin worked either. He stood enough of a distance away that he was reasonably confident he couldn’t accidentally break the shining glass-and-metal contraption, but close enough that he could see the sleeping patient.

Someone had washed her hair. The light coating of soot had been washed from her face and hands, but the leading edge of the washcloth had left harsh lines of soot at her neck and arms. Just getting enough soot off of her for the Cradle to register the patient, maybe? Steve didn’t really understand how it worked. 

Her eyes did not move under her eyelids to give him the comfort of motion. She did not dream, did not rest in a peaceful place. Just out of reach, he could not hold her hand. He could not raise it to his face, to see if the scent of her perfume lingered under that fire. 

Steve’s hand clenched, and the folded paper in his hand crinkled in protest.

She wanted to make sure you got this, the nurse had said. The nurse whose name he still did not know.

He unfolded the paper slowly, smoothing out the creases he’d just applied. Mab’s loopy handwriting laid out in brief stanzas, some words scratched out or erased as she wrote and edited. 

She’d written him a poem.

Steve,

I wonder how any of us fall asleep.
The vastness of the world,
Great empty spaces between our held hands
But the world seems so small when it rains.

Time slows its unforgiving pace
Maybe even reverses,
Tumbling along stars

Isn’t this all so familiar?
You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can’t hold it.

Only finding your way back when it rains.

-Mab

He ran his fingers along the lines, like he could feel her hand writing it. It spurred something in his memory and - how long had she been working on that poem?

“I love art,” Mab sighed. “You know exactly what it’s supposed to mean when you look at it, but as soon as you look away it’s just… gone.” She snapped her fingers, letting the sound echo in the empty hall. “You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can’t hold it.”

“What’s that from?” Steve asked. 

“Just something I’m working on,” she answered vaguely.

Would she even have been at Sinai if he hadn’t dragged her out in the snow? If they hadn’t tumbled off the sled? If he hadn’t led her down the stairs into the cold? If they hadn’t been caught in the rain in California? If she hadn’t slept in the car? If he hadn’t coerced her to dance? If they hadn’t taken a plane at all? 

Steve took a stumbling step back from the Cradle. If they had never met, would she still be there? If he hadn’t strongarmed himself into her life would it still be hanging by a thread?

He couldn’t be in that room. He couldn’t sit in there watching the Cradle wash away his sins upon her flesh. Fix and mend the wounds of his Pride, smooth away the consequences of his Greed.

But as he left the room, let the heavy door swing shut on expensive mechanisms, he couldn’t bring himself to fully leave. He surrendered his will into the cheap plastic chair next to the door. Maybe that was why they were there, those chairs at every door; to catch you when you fell. 

Steve clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers and leaning forward, pressing his face into the joints of his thumb. Hands clasped into a single, unwieldy fist. Hands clasped in prayer.

Why? The question drifted in his mind, lingered in his mouth without being spoken. Why now? Why Mab? God, why all this cruelty?  

Beyond the fear and grief, exhaustion lingered. It weighed at his shoulders, hunched his back, and bowed his head. 

It was a cruel God that let him sleep, leading him into dreams.

Steve, Mab’s voice whispered in his memory, beckoning from peaceful dreams. My hero, she smiled, whatever mockery intended never reaching her eyes or her smile.

In his dreams, there were days at museums.

In his dreams there was snow. And rain.

In his dreams, the sunset over a vast ocean glimmered in her eyes.

In his dreams, he had ten thousand lifetimes to listen to her laugh, with never a fear that she might not be there one day.

“Sleeping on the job?” Tony’s voice startled Steve out of his near-sleep, and he grimaced in discomfort as he shifted in the chair, feeling a subtle bruise where an armrest had been trying to separate two ribs.

“Building’s got the best security in the world,” he answered, as if he wasn’t embarrassed.

Tony snorted. “I hear they’ll let anyone in these days.”

Not true at all. Mab’s presence in the building was a blessing, one Steve would not have thought to ask for. And for that he felt a suffocating weight of shame.

“So…” Tony said.

Steve smiled at the gentle interrogation. “Her name is Mab.”

“I know that part.”

“She’s an editor.”

“Boring .”

“And a poet.”

“Ugh.” Tony rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t do better?” He didn’t mean it; that was just how he talked. It had taken a long time to get used to words and tone that stood at odds with his actions; a chess master entire games ahead of his opponents, and today his opponent had been Death.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Yeah.” Tony looked around. “What are you doing out in the hallway, anyway? The rooms are huge, and I’m pretty sure there’s a decent recliner in there.”

Because he was ashamed. Because he had all this power at his disposal, he could have helped Mab so much sooner, if he’d only used his brain, or fought past the uncertainty and asked for help. Sure, he might have faced the same amount of amused interrogation he was suffering now, but was the fear of it worth the price of Mab’s suffering?

Steve frowned. “I-” Steve stood up without warning. 

Tony followed his concerned look down the perfect sterile hallway, where a shortish man in a tweed jacket was vey by led in their direction. 

“That’s Mab’s uncle,” Steve said. 

Tony stood up. “I’ll leave that to you, if you don’t mind. Give me moment to make sure anything proprietary or classified is put away.”

Steve frowned, suspicious of the oh-so-casual tone, but Tony slipped into Mabt’s room and pulled the door shut before he could start asking questions.

The nurse leading the way was oblivious to the impending disaster, “She’s just this way, Mr. Dumont, and this is-” she began, as way of a gentle introduction. 

“You!” David hissed upon recognition, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve, who had only a moment to brace himself before the shorter man becan to spit metaphorical fire. “ You! I should have known!”

The nurse blanched in horror. “Mr. Dumont, this is-!”

“I know very well who this is!” He spat. “And just because he’s one of your sparkling heroes doesn’t mean I should bow before him!”  

Steve stood in silence. He understood David’s wrath. He thought whatever he had to say, it couldn’t be worse than what he already believed about himself.

“I warned you, I warned you , that if I had any question that you were going to hurt her-” David’s voice cracked. 

Steve stood there and took it. He let David hiss cold fury without a word of reply.

David’s finger trembled as he pointed at Steve, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest hard enough to hurt himself. “She was in that hospital because of you , and then- then-” he trailed off, unable to describe the disaster in his own fury. “And why here?” he blurted out. “God forbid anyone connect her to this place, and… I don’t even want to think about what could happen.”

“She’s getting the best care possible,” Steve defended. It might be the only fact he would defend.

“She wouldn’t need it if you hadn’t dragged her out into the snow!” David roared, cheeks flush with rage. “What, being a hero isn’t enough for you? Needed to hand-select a sympathetic fan-base? She-” he redirected that accusing finger at Mab’s closed door, “doesn’t deserve your ignorant neglect, and-” he spun to address the terrified nurse, “I don’t want him anywhere near my niece! Is that understood?”

“Mr. Dumont, I-”Steve barely moved, barely tried to defend himself, without any real plan as to how to diffuse his rage. He didn’t deserve to be there, he understood that. 

But David Dumont had other plans. “You could have killed her!” he huffed after his exclamation, seemingly sourced from the very last of his rage. The medical floor had fallen completely silent as he vented his anger at the Avenger. Steve raised a hand to stop incoming security.

David caught his breath, and also regained some of his composure. In the utter silence of the medical floor his low voice carried some distance. “I’m not asking you to walk away, because I know that’s too hard for people like you.” David said. “I’m telling you this is the end.”

David turned away from him, sweeping into Mab’s room without another word. He didn’t need to, of course. He’d made himself perfectly clear.

“Captain Rogers? I’m so sorry, but I’m going to need to ask you to leave this area.”

“Yes ma’am.” Steve turned crisply on his heel, a good soldier following orders. He could almost ignore the brutal silence of the floor, almost ignore the confused scattering of eyes that flickered his way, asking without words questions that he would not be able to answer.

A hollowness filled his mouth where words might form, holding his breath captive and swallowing his thoughts. Protestations and defense of his actions sputtered out like little stars dying in the yawning void. 

No, he didn’t deserve to fight for his Greed or Pride. An unrepentant sinner, he had nearly squandered away Mab’s time, and for what? Some feeble grasping at a normal life, and a hand to hold? A dance partner?

He was rising, gravity planting him in the elevator and whisking him away from temptation without even a command. Friday knew, of course. The computer saw everything - would know of his shame, and the orders to keep his distance. Did it make the computer cold, or human, that it did not offer condolences?

The elevator doors opened, dumping him into the Avengers’ common space. He stood one step onto that floor, suddenly unsure of what he was supposed to do. 

“Steve?” a voice asked.

His head lifted, following the sound. Wanda stood near the kitchen, still in her uniform and slightly soot-stained. “How is-?” she asked, but caught herself. Worry gathered in her face, and a graceful hand flickered up to her chest, settling protectively over her heart. Like she could see it, could feel it; the grief rolling off of him in waves. 

“Oh, Steve ,” she sighed. And maybe she could. She drew him over to the obscenely expensive sofas that Tony had scattered around the room, and made sure he sat down before vanishing down the hall.

What was he supposed to do now? He thought he’d understood the path he was choosing. Thought he’d had such a vision - of the threads of his life reaching out over an ocean, lights on the water, a hand in his-

“Steve, take a breath,” someone said. Steve blinked, air rattling through his chest.

Sam crouched in front of him, his face calm but tone firm. “Hey there, can you tell me what happened?”

“I almost killed her, Sam,” Steve’s voice shook. “I almost killed her.”

The first twenty-four hours, all David could do was watch the rise and fall of Mab’s heartrate on the monitors, reassuring and cold. Nurses and doctors would flit past, making adjustments to the shining silver piece of technology they called a “Cradle”, but only offered vague platitudes as to Mab’s status. 

“She’s out of the woods now,” they’d say with a comforting pat on his shoulder, or “we’ll know more soon,” which was somehow even less helpful. No one stayed in the room long enough for him to ask any actual questions.

The subsequent days, David kept idly thinking that he should have brought a book. Strange, how the mind so quickly adapted to emergencies. How fear and worry faded away into an idle boredom, even in the face of recurrent waves of an anxious forethought of grief. 

The room was comfortable, and he never needed to go far for a coffee or something to eat. Strangely intuitive, it was the finest hospital that he’d ever visited. Even if it wasn’t a real hospital.

No, this was a glorified office building. One with more security than Fort Knox, artificial intelligence running the elevators, and superheroes coming and going at all hours of the day. Thankfully, he’d yet to see one anywhere near Mab’s room since he put his foot down. So there was honor, there, at least.

Or so he thought.

Just around a few corners from Mab’s room, down the hallways he walked idly multiple times a day, a human personification of vapid apathy found David stirring creamer into his coffee in the cafeteria.

“Mr. Dumont?” the woman chirped brightly, her obscenely expensive high-heels click-clacking on the polished floors.

“Yes?” he asked cautiously, pulling his coffee closer like a steaming shield.

“Nice to finally meet you, I’m Sophie Donnager,” she sang, but didn’t hold out a hand for a handshake. “I’m from Stark Industries’ legal department. Is now a good time?”

“Uh-” he stumbled, but Sophie led him swiftly over to one of the small steel-topped cafeteria tables.

“Great. As I’m sure you can guess, the Cradle is very expensive proprietary technology. Not something we can bill insurance for, you understand.”

David’s stomach dropped and he sat down heavily in a chair at the table. “I-, she-”

“But not to worry!” she chirped, as if she hadn’t just threatened to bankrupt them. She set a very large stack of paperwork on the small cafeteria table, tabbed about two hundred times with yellow ‘SIGN HERE’ notes. “You have a standing power of attorney for Ms. Dumont, correct?” she asked, some of the sugar draining from her voice.

“... that’s right.” Just in case she ever ended up in this exact situation. Well, probably not this exact one, but unconscious and unable to advocate for herself.

And the sweetness was back. “Great! If you can just sign these, it’ll all be taken care of.”

David was starting to feel vaguely il. “All… be taken care of? What does that mean?”

“Well, with the acquisition of CareStar, Stark Industries is closing out some settlements with impacted parties, and Ms. Dumont is eligible for a very generous offer.”

“What does that have to do with - what is CareStar?”

“Oh, I thought someone had explained it to you already. There was some diagnosis issues with their scanners, false positives for heart defects, and they settled out of court. Since Stark Industries acquired the company and its technologies, the Board of Directors wanted to tie up any loose ends, if you’ll just - Mr. Dumont, are you alright?” she cut off as David turned an unappealing shade of green.

“I’m going to be sick,” he gurgled, and lunged for the nearest trash can.

“Well when you’re all done,” she chirped, seemingly unconcerned, “we can talk settlements and signatures.”

Chapter Text

Andrea Dumont watched the muted television bolted to the hospital room wall with an idle attention, an indirect focus placed instead on the 5-year old cradled in her lap. Her daughter’s cough seemed to have subsided with a bit of medication, and the tears had finally run out from the little tube a careful nurse had placed in a small vein of her arm. 

The rest of the world may be asleep, maybe even the rest of the Pediatric wing, but she was still wide awake. Mab had needed another blanket. Needed another box of juice. Needed kisses, a story, another story, another story. Andrea had stopped rocking her when the child had fallen asleep, finally, but she held her upright against her chest, little legs dangled over the side of her lap, and listened to her daughter breathe.

Lots of tests had happened so fast when she’d rushed through the emergency room doors, Mab’s lips slightly blue and coughing non-stop. She’d been so tired, so difficult to keep awake, almost unresponsive.

She’d smoothed back little hairs, kept her voice low and soft and soothing, I’m here, I’m here, I won’t let anything hurt you, I’m here. Now she was waiting. She wasn’t very good at waiting, but she was definitely getting her practice in. Little Mabling, soft and gentle and delicate, with a cough that couldn’t quit, keeping her up at night and draining away her spark.

Andrea had done as much reading as she could, but her suggestions fell on deaf ears when the tests started. Reduced to a spectator for suffering, holding back tears as she restrained a thrashing child to be poked and prodded, signing papers when told to sign. Reduced to “mom”. Not an expert in anything but her child, and even that was subject to scrutiny.

The door to the small pediatric room opened unexpectedly, and a doctor in a white coat entered in the process of reading something. It wasn’t the doctor who had ordered all of Mab’s tests, and Andrea opened her mouth to greet him but he beat her to it.

“Thank you for waiting, mom. I’m afraid Dr. March stepped out so I’m covering his patients.” The doctor glanced around the room. “Are we waiting on dad, or…?”

“It’s just us. What did you find?” Andrea asked, keeping her voice low and steady.

The doctor’s voice was just a little louder than Andrea’s, like someone who was used to speaking around sleeping children, but didn’t have any of their own to set the best measures. “Well, it’s still inconclusive, but your daughter would appear to have some kind of heart defect. We’d like to get another scan with the same machine, but it’s been flagged for maintenance so we can’t right now.”

The doctor paused, as if waiting for Andrea to say something. She was silent, rolling the statements over in her hands like she would run her hands over silks, seeking minute defects with sensitive hands. 

So the doctor continued. “But don’t you worry, you’re in the best hands.” And then, with little else to go on for the night, he left. 

The television mounted to the wall played on, silently, to no one. 

Andrea listened to her daughter breathe. She wanted hairs to smooth out of place, but they had all been long-since tamed. She wanted food to cut to pieces, but it was early still. Little fingers clutched at hers, even in sleep. 

Is this how it is now? Andrea thought. Is this how gravity changes? Tilts the world on its axis with only a breeze and a smile? And what was she supposed to do with such little information? Sleep? God forbid.

It was time to be steady. It was time for the practiced calm of mothers. If she could be calm, Mab would be calm. The little girl was already so clever; she saw everything in everyone with her father’s eyes. Not quite as blue as Henry’s, not quite; but just as sharp.

I will do whatever it takes, Andrea promised. There is no reduction here of great capabilities. The best thing I will ever do in my life is keep you safe. No great declarations or shifting of the heart, just a steady cadence of the music of her soul, in double-timed chorus in her arms. 

Andrea chuffed a light laugh under her breath. Oxytocin is one hell of a drug, any mother would tell you. Beyond love, beyond words, a primal drive to embrace and protect. Once something terrifying, once beyond comprehension at the intensity of that love, Andrea could face the uncertainty calmly, with her daughter’s little fingers wrapped around hers. The only gravity that mattered; orbiting the little star that slept in her arms.

Whatever it takes, my tiny love.

Mab could only remember fire. She felt heavier than she remembered and she remembered… fire. Opening her eyes took a few tries, and the room didn’t seem quite right either. Her head lolled a bit to the side as she tried to look around, lifting up out of a haze with each passing moment. 

She blinked, the motion clearer each time, and saw a figure hunched to her right. “Steve,” she whispered, reaching for the blurry person sleeping at her bedside. She expected her throat to scratch as she tried to speak, but although her voice was quiet it was steady.

The figure unfolded, leapt for her side, “Mab! You’re awake!” her uncle cried, his face sharpening now that he was closer.

“David?” she corrected herself. She licked her lips, suddenly thirsty. “What happened? Where am I?”

He babbled; “They transferred you here, said it would be better for your recovery, that-”

The door opened, a nurse likely summoned by the warning of Mab’s confused heart. “Welcome back, Miss Dumont!” she rubbed some antiseptic between her hands and brushed David out of her way.

The nurse pressed a button and Mab’s bed started to rise at the head, helping her sit up. She remembered fire, but didn’t feel the cool hatred of burns, or see any bandages hiding their fury. David avoided Mab’s confused glances, begging for answers. 

“If I could ask,” Mab said gently, carefully gathering the nurse’s attention, “what hospital is this?”

A bemused smile twitched at the nurse’s lips. “This is Stark Tower - well, Avengers Tower I suppose, but I’ve been here since it was just the Stark place so it’ll always be that to me. How are you feeling?”

Mab licked her lips again. “I’d love some water.”

“Any pain?”

Surprisingly, no. Not even her usual catch at the end of a breath. Not the ache to lie back, not the heaviness at the corners of her eyes. “No, none,” Mab said.

The nurse seemed pleased. “That Cradle does some amazing things - I’ll get your water and be right back, then we can chat a bit, okay?”

“David?” Mab asked as the nurse left, but she didn’t know what question to ask first. It buzzed in a haze of confusion around her head, dimming only by degrees a surprisingly clear thought process. She felt like she had woken up from a long lie-in after a day at the beach; warm, rested, ready for a good meal, but overall refreshed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so good, and it oddly frightened her.

“I think the doctors can probably explain it better,” David said, but reached out a hand to settle on hers. “They said you’d wake up soon, but it almost seemed too good to be true. All of it, just too-” his voice choked with tears and he started to blubber. “Oh Mab, I’m so sorry-”

The nurse was back with her water and a doctor in tow; a friendly-looking woman in a crisp white coat. The large security badge clipped to her lapel confirmed she was a doctor at Avengers Tower. Mab half-expected to see Steve slip in behind the care team, to offer her a concerned smile, for his presence to fill the yearning in her chest.

“How are we feeling, Miss Dumont?” The doctor did a quick check of her vitals, making brief eye contact and smiling encouragingly.

“Pretty good,” Mab replied, “I was hoping maybe someone could explain how I got here, though. I do have to say from what I remember, I shouldn’t be feeling that great.”

“Right,” the doctor nodded, “mind if I sit?” Mab shuffled slightly so the doctor could perch on the edge of her bed. “Well here’s the skinny of it; your hospital blew up while you were being treated for pneumonia, which is strangely the luckiest thing that could have happened to you.”

“I… somehow find that hard to believe,” Mab said.

“Well, your nurse carried you out of the building, got you loaded into an ambulance, and tried using your phone to contact your family. She got this building’s AI instead, and since you were flagged as a VIP, you got rerouted here for care. I’m sure you can imagine the kind of medical equipment we have at our disposal.”

Mab didn’t think she could, actually, but a strange sense of hope washed over her. “Did…” she lifted a hand to touch her chest, not feeling an ache or bandages there. “Did I get a new heart?” she whispered, hoping beyond hope.

The doctor smiled. “That would be the lucky part; you don’t need one. It’s more legal nonsense than I can really explain, and your Uncle has the stack of paperwork he signed while you were out that lines up the finer points, but we were able to confirm that there’s nothing wrong with your heart after all, and the Cradle weaned you off your medications, and repaired some of the cascade damage. I’m sorry you had to go through all those years of treatment for nothing, but I’m very proud to say that we were able to put a stop to it.”

Mab’s head felt heavier than her neck could support, tilting the axis of her perception. Her head bobbed slightly in something akin to a nod but more like instability. “So… what does that mean?”

The doctor hummed, considering the question. “Well, you probably won’t ever be able to run a marathon, and I wouldn’t recommend throwing your cane away, but you’ll be able to live a relatively normal life.”

Mab’s mouth was so dry, and the room felt so small. She could barely feel her hands fisting in the crisp and perfect sheets, couldn’t see her toes curling beneath comfortable blankets. She could only see the doctor’s mild smile as she dared to ask, dared to hope; “Normal, like…?”

And the doctor’s smile broadened, happy to be a messenger of good news. “Oh, you’ve got a lot of physical therapy ahead of you, but the settlement money from up top will more than cover you and your care for a couple of lifetimes. You’ll be able to get married, have a few kids, complain about neighborhood children on your lawn in forty or so years…”

The doctor trailed off as Mab leaned over, put her face into her hands, and wept.

Two Years Ago

Andrea tapped a finger on the side of her mug, watching the tea leaves spin in steaming water, strange evidence to the frenzy of only a few minutes before. That horrible realization, silent tears, shaking hands that had torn the tea bag while trying to go through the motions of calm.

Had to keep going. Had to keep things level and normal, because there wasn’t any other way. It was the only way to keep an even keel, to keep her daughter’s too-clever eyes from seeing the truth. Oh Mab, Andrea thought, why couldn’t you have been more foolish? 

Her tea steeped in the silent kitchen, harmless and unhelpful. Andrea couldn’t truly regret anything could only feel pride in her daughter’s vast future - or, it could be vast. Or it could not.

Andrea would have to decide. Keeping the keel even on this tiny boat, keeping the bills paid as they joked about their collective disability, Andrea had come to realize it wasn’t a sailboat in a storm, no. Their little boat was a life raft with room and supplies for only one.

Andrea flipped her old phone open and jabbed the keys, a few of them stuck halfway in place from age and use, and made her call. She sipped at her leafy tea as it rang, slipping into the will of a stronger person. 

David picked up the phone, “Hey Andy, how are you? Treatment going okay?”

Andrea’s eyes flicked to the pile of chemotherapy literature, cost estimates, and other depressive papers. “I’ve been better. Listen, I’ve got some news.”

She kept it short. There was the reality. There was basic budgeting, basic money, the thumbscrews of disability. They could not afford to both be so chronically ill, even with all the support David had sent them - more than he could really afford, Andrea knew. “So,” she stated calmly, “it’s gonna be Mab.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not giving up, David. I’m just not doing anything… expensive. I’m gonna make sure she makes it, even if I’m not there to see it. So you promise me, David-”

“No-”

“Promise me you’ll look after her! She’s the best of me, the best, and I-” her composure slipped. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if my treatment cost my daughter’s life.”

“Mab wouldn’t want that, I’m sure; knowing her treatment cost yours?”

“I’m not going to tell her. And neither are you.” And how could she? If she let any of this slip, if she seemed less than herself, less than the gladiators-in-arms battling death side-by-side, her daughter would see it. Mab could see through the universe with her father’s eyes. 

“Don’t let her quit,” Andrea ordered. “She can do anything , even if she doesn’t believe in herself yet. I’ve seen it. I’m her mother so she’ll never believe me, but she’s going to be something amazing.”

“She’s really not like other girls,” David said idly.

“No,” Andrea said, but she wasn’t agreeing. Mab was just like her. Mab was an ordinary woman, cursed by nature with some burden or other to put a brick wall in her path. Forced to climb, seeking footholds where none could be found, she would climb anyway.

And an ordinary woman would always reach the top. They would sit atop that wall and before even catching their breath they would reach a hand down to help the next woman climb. That was just the way an ordinary woman had to live their life. Extraordinary grit, made ordinary by collecting in each soul.

You could always see it in the eyes. 

God should fear ordinary women. 

“I’ll be sending you some paperwork,” Andrea said, trying to get back on track. “Hopefully… hopefully things work out and you don’t need it.”

“I’ll look after her. I promise.” Quiet, but resolved.

“We’ll come by soon,” Andrea promised in reply. “I love you, David.”

  “How familial of you,” David answered, “I love you too.”

Rain slipped down the wide expanse of windows in little rivers, washing away some of the city grime. Mab picked at the blanket on her lap, but the rich fiber refused to yield. The bed, inclined to let her sit up and see her surroundings, even eat a little food under close supervision, was more comfortable than her mattress at home. The medical opulence seemed so odd, compared to the rooms she was used to. Steve wouldn’t have to break any part of this bed -

Steve. Where was he? “David, do you have my phone?” Mab asked, her eyes on the rain.

“Oh,” he said from a chair next to the window, turning the page of his newspaper. “one of the Super-people took it back.”

Mab physically recoiled a bit. Took it back? “Oh.” What did that mean? 

“Have I… have I had any other visitors? When I was still out, maybe?” Mab couldn’t keep the hope from her voice. She couldn’t keep her eyes from glancing to the door. He was coming to see her, right? This was the building where he worked, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t know she was there. 

David tapped his fingers, folding the newspaper and thinking seriously. “Mariah sent some flowers to the house, but couldn’t make it herself. Were you expecting someone else?”

“Oh.” Her breath caught between two ribs, cracked, shattering bone at the center of her chest, piercing her heart. “I suppose not.”

She’d been forgotten. 

But why?

The heavy weight in her stomach grew cold. 

She knew why. 

Of course. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you a new phone,” David offered placatingly.

“No,” Mab said, “don’t worry about it. I’ll just use the house phone if I need to make a call.”

The story was always the same.

But Steve wasn’t supposed to be the same. 

Mab pressed a hand to her chest, trying to cover the crack in her heart. Inside it she was screaming, howling in pain, raging in fury and confusion and loneliness. But she covered it with her hand, pressed down on it to keep it all in, let the spring-loaded action snap shut again and trapped all that noise inside. 

“Mab?” David asked, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

Mab smiled her best fake smile, but fatigue kept it small. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Too tired to lock away it all. Pouring out from her right and aching heart, words of promises and rain once sweet but now poison to the touch.

David nodded in understanding. “I’ll let you get some rest; I’ll be back tomorow.”

“Okay,” Mab replied, not really listening. She had to wait, had to keep it together while David collecting his things, tucked them away like Mab wanted to tuck away that pain. Keep it together, keep it together, just until he waved goodbye and the door to her room closed, door latched-

Click.

A gasping sob tore out of her, greater agony than she could contain for another moment.

Why? Why? Her bleeding heart cried as she rolled onto her side. Her perfect, lying heart, the cause of so much ruin and loneliness, had one last cruel trick to deliver from the universe. 

She had always known he could and probably would be taken from her; that her stolen time wasn’t owed. 

But Steve was supposed to be different. 

Had she misunderstood his kindness? She never dared for affection, but had thought maybe it had grown there on its own?

She had dared to hope, there lay her fault. There, the seeds of betrayal had grown, in her expectation that the universe may at least only feel indifferent, and not continue to delight in malice. 

Tears slipped down a silent face. Her eyes burned and she blinked, more shame pouring down her cheeks. Shame. How could she have let this happen? 

Hubris, pride, hope; fickle and dangerous feelings she had long since abandoned. But Steve had brought them back. Sunshine and color and a reason to laugh. And for what? She didn’t understand. 

He had secreted into her hospital room once, why not visit her now? What had changed? Had he seen what her future looked like and simply couldn’t cope, like all the others before him? 

Steve was supposed to be different. 

He was supposed to call her when it rained.

But taking the phone back… that felt deliberate. Don’t call me and I won’t call you.  

Mab pressed her eyes shut as if that could stop the tears pouring down her face. She clasped her hands over her mouth, strangling another sob. 

She’d been so stupid. She’d thought - she’d thought -

A perfect and cruel voice had promised; I’m right where I need to be.

Mab didn’t know heartbreak could feel so much like dying. 

Eight Months Ago

“Read me another,” Andrea asked, licking her lips in a feeble attempt to sate her thirst. Always thirsty. Always tired.

Tucked into her striped wheelchair, as close as she’d been able to roll the chair to Andrea’s hospice bed, Mab turned the page in her notebook. “I’m still working on this one,” she said. 

At eight, I took a trip to the sea with my class
I was not allowed to swim for fear my weakness would overtake me
And I might drown
So I watched from the sand as my classmates laughed
And my teacher tried to explain what I already knew.

Teacher calls me different
When at the age of eight how am I to understand
That sticker doesn’t come off clean
She doesn't mean it to be permanent or cruel
But it is.

When I run for the ocean
Teacher holds me back
I cannot even feel that salt on my hands
So she reminds me again.

The ocean will still drown me
With gloriously indifferent hands
of blue-green and silver
That cannot forgive
I am other

He daughter paused, eyes fixed on her notebook. Her gaze might have seemed cold to others, distant and harsh, but Andrea could see the ocean in it. “Keep going,” she whispered.

Mab cleared her through, and Andrea could her the suppressed cough.

Pious preachings of someday’s equality
Do not equity make.
They only reveal the fervor
With which you don a blindfold
And stuff cotton in your ears

We know that you fight the change
As viciously as you cheat death
To delay, to bargain, to ignore
That one day you too will be denied the ocean.

Time, money, medicine, circumstance, accident
eventually make other of us all
You are not special
You will someday be stopped at the sand.

Andrea couldn’t keep her own cough from interrupting the reading; a wheezing rattle spurted from her mouth, tinged pink and sharp like pennies on her tongue. Mab rolled back as the cough continued into a battle to breathe, pushing the call button with a practiced calm. 

Mab’s breathing stayed steady and silent, and Andrea reached out a hand for her daughter. A nurse rushed in before she could grab for Mab’s hand, before she could find a steadiness in her calm, in her oceans, in Henry’s eyes. 

She gasped, getting nothing, the room growing strangely dim, and the bed tilted back. Someone was talking, someone was asking her questions while she was gasping for air. How rude. 

Keep going, she wanted to tell Mab. Keep going, to finish reading her poem. Or to keep writing it, if it wasn’t ready yet.

Keep going, because this couldn’t be the end. This couldn’t be the last words they said to each other. 

But it would be.

“Are you ready to go home?” David  asked his niece. It was a little late to be asking, being that they were already technically leaving, Mab sitting in her wheelchair as David pulled her backward onto the elevator. After days and days of checks and paperwork and notices for rehab, it was almost over. He’d almost gotten her out, she was almost free of this place, and he was feeling the nerves escalate as he got her so close to the finish line.

Almost out of danger, he thought, punching the button for the lobby. 

Mab nodded with a smile that should have lit up her face, but didn’t. Her usually active hands sat at rest in her empty lap.

“Christine missed you,” he tried, expecting - or hoping for - a witty reply. But Mab only made a mild hum of acknowledgement as the doors opened onto the lobby. 

David hoped that the old wheelchair didn’t leave any kind of marks on the white marble floor. He’d had to pull an old one from storage, since Mab’s striped sport chair had been lost at Mount Sinai.

A broad man with a badge reading ‘ Head of Security’ moved to stop them at the main entrance. “Miss Dumont, I’ve got a private car to take you-”

“That won’t be necessary,” David cut him off, “just hail us a cab at the curb, if you don’t mind. We can do it ourselves if you’re too busy.”

The broad man glanced at Mab, expecting what he couldn’t be certain. But Mab didn’t turn her gaze to meet his, instead remaining focused on the traffic moving past the broad glass walls ahead. 

Surprisingly, he complied. He stepped outside and waved a hail, and a taxi stopped in an instant, either recognizing the authority or just dumb luck, David would have guessed the former. He even held the doors open so David could push her out into the freezing winter winds.

David shuddered, wrapping his coat tighter, but Mab hardly seemed to notice as the wind ripped her scarf from around her neck, whipping it across the sidewalk and off into oblivion before anyone could even cry out.

“Where to?” the cabbie leaned over and yelled against the wind, distracting David from the thought of running after the scarf. Surely it would be better to bundle into the cab quickly than to chase a scarf down the street?

“Greenwich village! Sixth Ave and 19th Street!” David yelled as he locked Mab’s wheels and offered her a hand in transferring to the cab. She moved smoothly, without complaint, taking what was offered. As David checked that Mab was fully in to the cab, shutting the door and walking around to the other side, a seed of doubt planted in his heart.

It would have been easy to understand a few days of adjustment, of the grief and anger that had washed over him as well at Andrea’s unnecessary sacrifice and Mab’s unnecessary suffering, and the acceptance that inevitably followed. Mab had a new life ahead of her, and he would have thought that she’d feel… something.

What have I done?

He struggled to close his cab door, the wind furiously pushing against his feeble grip. He managed it, slamming it too hard, but no one commented. The cab peeled away from the curb, headed South.

The strange silence lingered. Not tense, not angry or sad, but empty. A void sat behind Mab’s eyes, an ocean pouring into nothing. 

He wasn’t a fool, but surely he also could only call himself blind. He had snuffed a candle and cut the wick in a moment of panic and misplaced fury. But he had lied, and thrown away the Stark phone, claiming it had been taken by one of the hero’s people. 

What have I done?

He had told the Avenger to keep his distance, but played dumb to his niece, as if she hadn’t experienced enough loss and abandonment to make excruciating assumptions based on that absence. She would assume the worst as only the worst had ever happened. And David couldn’t think of how to make it right. 

He’d been so sure, and now he was so sure that he’d never been so wrong in all his life.

“Mab,” David started, stopped, and gulped.

She turned her head, the empty dolls’-smile eerie in the tight space of the cab. “Did you say something, David?” she asked, her false peace as empty as her eyes.

He lost his nerve. “No, I was just thinking we could use something hot to drink when we get home.”

Mab nodded idly, the perfect placid smile never moving. Painted perfection. A death mask.

If he waited, if he let her heal and begin that new life, would she blossom again? 

Would they ever reconcile all the lies?

What have I done?

Chapter Text

Ginny’s chest heaved as she gasped for clean air, but finding only damp misery clawing at her throat.

Valentin huffed in dissatisfaction, but didn’t comment further. 

“I know,” Ginny snarled, clenching her hands and screwing her eyes shut. She reached down, down inside, seeking a flickering fire caught in a cage and-

She bit her lip nearly to the point of blood as her suppresor band gave her a warning shock. Ginny shook her wrist, trying to unseat the nuisance but knowing it was a pointless action. Habit, just like coming down to the tiny storage room and trying to exercise her power. 

Valentin picked at his nails. 

Ginny’s skin was starting to steam from the effort, compounding the horrible humidity in the cramped space. 

“Deep,” Valentin coached for the hundredth time, “like ocean. Breathe. Find the fire.”

Dive deeply into your power, and breathe it in. Become the fire. Rise with it. Bring it to the surface. Ginny dove. The suppressor shocked her faster this time, and Ginny let out an involuntary yelp.

A whisper of a knock interrupted her second try, and a long pause before the final knock. Valentin opened the storage door to let in Mr. Volkov. 

“No good,” Valentin reported without bothering to hide his contempt for Ginny’s effort.

Ginny, skin steaming, crouched over and nearly heaving from exertion, flipped him the bird. 

“Clearly something’s happening,” Mr. Volkov chuckled. “Here,” he offered ginny a bottle of water, “drink.”

It went down in three large gulps, clear and fresh and not at all like the poorly-filtered greenish water she was used to seeing at mealtimes. But everything seemed just a little green nowadays. Condensation clung to every surface, little algal blooms along the floor, and black mold in the cracks between spaces. Their jumpsuits were always returned still a little damp from laundering, and the sheets of their cots clung to damp, sweaty skin at night. Always a little too warm, always a little too humid, and getting a little worse each day.

No longer were there buckets to catch the rivulets of seawater dripping from the ceiling - the water ran, and dripped, and caught where it would catch. Crusts of sea salt collected in the cracks of Ginny’s hands from wiping the water off her seat, off her bed, off of her hair.

Her hands tingled as she wiped the sea-salt sweat from her brow, hot and frustrated and still-steaming. Ginny sniffed her arm. “Ugh,” she said, “Why do I smell like bleach?” She sniffed again. “If they’re treating the water to kill the mold it isn’t working.”

Valentin left the space without any visible indication from Mr. Volkov, but Ginny wasn’t stupid. “Mrs. Ellis,” he started, taking a seat on an overturned plastic bucket, “I do have some concerns.”

“I’ll be ready,” she promised, already wishing she hadn’t finished her clean water so soon, but not daring to ask her almost-employer for more. 

“If you aren’t, our agreement is null and void.”

“I understand.” She nodded. “How long do we have?”

In a rare expression of frustration, the older Russian sighed. “That is uncertain. There seems to have been an unexpected shift in the weather, so rainstorms strong enough to cover our operation aren’t predicted for some time. We may be waiting for Hurricane season after all.”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Can you wait that long?”

Mr. Volkov shot her a warning look, and Ginny raised her hands, palm-out, in a harmless but defensive gesture. “Forget it.”

“Exactly how much,” Mr. Volkov said slowly, “do you presume to know about what we’re doing?”

A test? Ginny wondered. “Well,” she said slowly, rubbing a hand on the back of her neck and trying to ignore the salty-bleach smell she was putting off. The steam was starting to die down and the smell was going with it. “It can’t be a coincidence that you’re here with two henchmen,” Ginny nodded at the door, and the absent Valentin. “The likelihood of three Russian gang members - or Russian government, I’m not convinced you’re not spies -  being identified and captured for sentence to the Raft is low, especially considering that you’re not a moron.” 

“So you’re all three here on purpose. Some people thought that they’re your bodyguards, but they didn’t bother intervening during riots. So they’re not here to guard you, so they’re here as another kind of muscle; the lifting kind.” Mr. Volkov raised an eyebrow, but did not contradict. 

Ginny continued. “You time responses of all kinds, looking to see how long power outages last, guard response times, and Avenger response times. That must be to identify your heist window.”

Ginny feigned cleaning her hands off on her jumpsuit, though it didn’t do much. “You three were intentionally captured to steal something heavy, and intensely valuable, from a part of the raft that you’ll need lots of time to infiltrate.”

Mr. Volkov shook his head and chuckled lowly. “You are woefully underutilized as a housewife. All this power, all this,” he gestured widely at her, “to save one poor soul.”

“I won’t leave him in there,” Ginny said quietly. “You know they’ll never let him out.”

He clucked his tongue at her. “And without some semblance of power at your willing disposal, neither will you.”

Ginny risked another question. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Ivan gave her an appraising look. Without his gargoyles looming over he seemed strangely taller. “How much do you know about attempts to force mutations? Enhanced, that is?”

She shrugged. “Absolutely nothing.”

He rubbed his index and middle fingers against his thumb and picked something out of his fingernails. “In my experience, there are three kinds of powers. Those blessed by God - such as yourself - those blessed by science - like your Captain - and those cursed by Man. Your friend falls into the last category.”

“I don’t understand,” Ginny replied, frowning. 

Ivan Volkov flicked his wrist in the common gesture, trying to ease the itch of his suppressor band. “My mother Russia - do you believe they sat idly by while the United States flaunted God’s Righteous Man for almost a century? Of course not,” he waved away the thought. “They endeavored to make one of him, of course. They tried many times.”

Ginny let her head fall back to rest against the wall. “I feel like I don’t know anything.”

That made him smile. “I would not argue with that. Your much larger friend - De Leon - he is another blessing entirely.” 

“I’m not even going to ask,” Ginny said, shaking her head.

“That seems wise. Such stories are not meant for the dark.”

Something still bothered her, though. “But you called Lukas’s power a curse.”

He hummed in reply. “If it were a blessing it would not be beyond his ability to control. He was never meant to have it, as he was not made for it. Just because the potential is there does not mean it should be bent into that shape.”

Now she understood. “It’s too much for him is what you’re saying.”

“While yours remains stubbornly out of reach, despite your best efforts. Ironic, no?”

“I’ll be ready,” she vowed.

He dipped his head in what some might see as a mocking deference. “Of course, Mrs. Ellis. I expect nothing less.”

Valentin opened the door without knocking, and Mr. Volkov stood. “Take the day. Get some sleep. Perhaps the clarity of sleep will be our ally.”

Ginny let her head droop as the door closed behind them, taking a moment to revel in the brief silence and peace. She flexed her hands, trying to ease the ache from hours of tight clenching in determination. Her joints creaked as she massaged her hands in turn, trying pointlessly to smooth out new callouses and salt-irritated flesh. 

She stood, stretched, and groaned as her back cracked. She had just enough space in the small room to really stretch - to reach her arms out and feel her shoulders roll, to feel the aching changes of captivity and determination. Leaning to the side, she could feel new muscles running under her clothes ripple and roll, smoothly and effortlessly following along what had once been a challenge. She folded, propped up on her hands and kicked her feet up, balancing easily. 

These new things came easily, but her power still remained stubbornly out of reach. She could feel the hum of the Raft under her hands, the constant vibration of engines and water-pumps and the subtle tap-tap-tap of water that echoed everywhere, but she couldn’t touch that buried fire. 

It had to be there, of course. She kicked down from the handstand, patting at her jumpsuit to help it settle again, and wondered when she had lost the last of that stubborn belly-fat that had resisted any and all exercise after her second pregnancy. Her belly ached deep as she thought about her children, and she clutched at her stomach. She would do this for them. She would escape, she would be free again, she would. She just had to find that fire in time.

Checking to make sure everything was just as she found it, Ginny opened the storage room door and slipped out into the dark hall.

“Geneva,” Miguel’s voice rumbled from the dark, “please stop this.”

Ginny flinched in surprise but did her best to hide it with humor. “No can do,” she said flippantly, “And, honestly, I’m disappointed in you.” She started to walk back towards her bunk, Miguel appearing out of a dark alcove.

He walked beside her, indifferent to the rules that disallowed their company. He did this from time to time, with no consistency. The growing shadows as intruding water continually interrupted delicate electronics could only aid them both, and all efforts to repair the Raft seemed to be an increasingly uphill battle.

Ginny glanced at her friend, thinking about Volkov’s comments. “Does that thing even work on you?” she nodded to his suppressor bracelet.

“It tickles sometimes.” He flicked his wrist. “But it is not what keeps me here. I stay for you and for my family. If I leave, I am not so naive to believe there won’t be repercussions for my loved ones.”

Questions swirled around her head. “You stay for me, for your family, but not for Lukas?” Her reasons weren’t a mystery to the large Mexican; she had tried to sway him to her side multiple times, and he had always refused. 

“I do not understand what it is about that irritating child that inspires such compassion in you.” Miguel sighed deeply. “Lukas was beyond saving the moment he released his power. Do you think liberty will save him? He would burn this place to ashes given freedom, whether he meant to or not.”

“Fuck you,” Ginny hissed.

Miguel seized her arm as she tried to turn away. “You have no idea what it’s like to suddenly be drowning in a power not meant for you. You are not like them; the artificial ones. ”

“And apparently neither are you, so mind your own damn business.” Ginny could feel the electricity in the air as Miguel’s eyes glittered gold. Her hands tingled, her flesh heating, but that angry fire still only a distant wish. “I won’t give up. I refuse to die here; why are you just… fine with it?”

Miguel let go of her arm. “I have no plans to die here either, Geneva. I am just more patient, and less compassionate, than you.”

“Then what are you waiting for so patiently ?”

The internal debate on whether or not to answer played out on his face. He yielded only briefly, sighing. “A crack in the dam which has not yet finished construction. Patience , Geneva.”

Aching hands clenched, tired joints creaking against frustration, and she burned . “You and Volkov really are the same.” She jabbed an accusing finger at Miguel. “If you’ve ever been my friend, then stay out of my way .”

That seemed to hurt. “I am your friend, Geneva. That’s why I’m still here. I will stand beside you on this road to ruin, begging you to stop. Volkov and his monsters will let you burn alive to light his path.”

He seemed earnest enough. He appeared, time and time again, pleading for her to turn away from this near-vengeance. Ginny stopped, taking a steadying breath. “If I turn away and leave him there. If I stop and just say ‘phew! Glad it isn’t me!’, I am ignoring the fact that someday, it will be me they put in that box. Someday, they’ll say ‘that firestarter is a monster, she deserves to be in there to keep the rest of us safe,’ and away I’ll go.”

Her chest ached as Miguel contemplated her words, captured in the coming and going of glittering gold in his eyes. His suppressor band never made a sound, and Ginny wondered if it could even detect… whatever his power was. Almost as an afterthought, she added; “I wouldn’t trust Ivan to carry a suitcase of State secrets, but I believe that he’ll keep his end of our bargain.”

“Your compassion , Geneva…” Miguel groaned, rubbing a hand along his face in frustration. “But Volkov?”

“I could choose a worse monster to follow,” she joked. “Besides, aren’t we all monsters here?”

“Not yet.” Miguel’s sad smile spoke volumes. “I think…” he hummed, and Ginny’s heart leapt with hope. “I don’t understand the depths of your compassion.” The sinking of her heart must have shown on her face, because Miguel held up a waiting hand. “ But, ” he said, “perhaps that is because you were meant to teach me.”

He held out his hand in the flickering light. Ginny took his hand and he shook it, once. “How can I be of service?” he asked, eyes glittering like a conqueror’s golden dreams.

The first thing that Lukas did on awakening was sneeze. The humidity was murder on his sinuses, and he often blew out bloody mucus morning and night. But it was quiet, at least. “Morning, Gruesome,” he greeted automatically, sitting up on his slab of a bed and stretching. 

In the cell directly across from his, a pile of vines rumbled, rolling over like discarded yard waste being shoveled around, and coalesced into a vaguely humanoid shape. Tight ribbons of plant and leaf and vine lifted and looped around itself, the thick material groaning like a solid person might yawn.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, checking his socks draped over the little steel sink to see if they’d dried properly in the night - no luck. He’d go barefoot again today to give them a little more time. 

The pile of vines collapsed all at once, then reformed into the human-shape, but lumpy. Something not an arm and something not a finger lifted to point at the thick acrylic pane that served as its only window into the Box. It had carved several squiggly words into the surface, mostly correctly, but a few of the letters weren’t carved right. There was a YES and NO, a question mark, and that was pretty much it. 

NO , the arm slapped.

“Yeah,” Lukas groaned, trying to get a stiff spot out of his back by stretching, “me neither.” Lukas stared at his plastic slippers. “I don’t know if today’s Sunday, but it feels like a Sunday.” he looked up at his friend. “Were you - are you… religious?”

It seemed to contemplate the question, something that wasn’t eyebrows furrowing over twinkling lights in something that wasn’t eye sockets. A not-arm lifted, gesturing to one of the carved words.

YES

Lukas knelt at his bedside. “I think I want to pray. Do you want to pray with me?” 

YES

Lukas nodded. “Our Father, who art in heaven…” Lukas stopped. “Dear God, you dick,” he began again, “who gave you the right?” white knuckles still clasped in prayer, head bowed in supplication, he prayed to his angry God. He couldn’t come up with more to say, not without feeling the emotion claw the words back into his chest, never allowed to fly freely.

The vines rumbled; a grumbling, whining, discontented sound. It collapsed, no longer the shape of a man, and churned on itself. It stood again, slightly more shaped, but the arms were still too long. They dragged as it drew closer to the huge acrylic pane that defined its cell.

It smacked the word with some irritation. 

“What, I can’t be mean to God?”

NO.

“Spoilsport. He was mean first.” Lukas bowed his head again. “Thank you for my new friend. They don’t talk much, which lets me talk as much as I’d like. I-” he paused, glancing at the vines. “I need a name for you, Gruesome.”

The vines churned again, dropping into a heap. They wiggled, like a dog rolling around on a carpet, struggling to reform. Lukas watched for a minute before returning to his prayer. 

“Thank you for this second chance, and… the silence. I forgot what it was like to feel like my feelings were my own. I wish I hadn’t ignored all of your signs not to volunteer for that place. I… I needed the money. I didn’t think they’d make me do those things.” There was that shame again. “I’m sorry.”

A scraping, scratching sound drew his attention up again. The vines had reformed again, slightly better shaped, and had lifted one malformed arm to carve into the acrylic. It had done this before, with the YES and NO, but hadn’t done much since the question mark. 

Lukas had to tilt his head a little to read the letter. “P?” he asked, unsure. It could have been an R or a K as well.

YES.

“Does your name start with P?”

YES. YES. 

The vines continued, scribbling a near-resemblance of another letter. “P-A-... sorry, Gruesome, you need to work on your handwriting. Patrick?”

NO.

“Peter?”

NO.

“Parker?”

“Paisley?”

The vines grumbled. NO.

“Has to ask. Patton?”

NO.

“Paul?”

The vines wiggled in what could only be described as delight. YES. YES. YES.

Lukas laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the confined space. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Paul.”

YES. YES.

Lukas bowed his head to finish his prayed. “And God, thank you for my friend, Paul. Amen.”

Chapter Text

Happy checked his watch; nothing was running on time today, but he was prepared.

“She’s headed down now,” Friday reported to Happy Hogan through a discreet earpiece, right as expected.

“Got it. Tell the driver to pull the car around, but I’m driving.”

“Of course,” the computer replied, with just a bit more sass than was necessary. 

“Do I need to remind you that I know where the master kill-switches are?”

“Those aren’t real.”

“After Ultron ate Jarvis you can bet your digital ass they’re real. I’ve got a plastic key and everything.”

The elevator opened and they exited, The elevator doors opened and Happy moved quickly to stand between the exiting guests and the door. “Miss Dumont, I’ve got a private car to take you-”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mab’s escort - her Uncle - cut him off, “just hail us a cab at the curb, if you don’t mind. We can do it ourselves if you’re too busy.”

Happy glanced at Mab, trying to will her to meet his gaze. The little machine in his ear spoke with a calm and friendly voice, reporting: “Miss Dumont’s phone does not appear to be active. Mr. Stark requests that you verify it’s working correctly before they leave.”

Mab’s Uncle locked him in a fierce gaze, nearly prickling with barely-restrained contempt. Happy stepped outside into blistering cold and waved down a cab with a swift gesture. Any cabbie worth his salt would stop on a dime when hailed by this door. 

His earpiece chimed again. “Mr. Stark insists-”

“He’s not about to let me ask her a damn thing,” he cut off the AI, “better to save any goodwill we’ve got left by letting them make a graceful exit.”

Happy held the door open so the wheelchair didn’t jostle against the door. He’d have to see about getting those upgraded - something wider, with a strong automatic motor that could fight against the bitter Manhattan winds.

Mab’s scarf ripped off in the wind, a shock of green lightning bolting down the street, unnoticed as she moved slowly into the cab.

Happy kept his distance as the cab pulled away from the curb and headed down to Greenwich Village. He stepped out into the vicious winter wind, shoulders shrugging up instantly in a poor attempt at keeping warm. “Be right back,” he reported to the computer.

He could see it, though, it hadn’t gotten far. He jogged down the sidewalk and reached up into the bare branches of a stubborn tree, and took back the stolen greenery of Mab’s scarf. It was snagged in a few places, but as he patted away little bits of dirt and bark, Happy could also see it had been lovingly mended before. 

It would survive these little injustices once more. “Friday,” Happy ordered, knowing the computer was always listening, “call that tailor and cleaner we like, and have her come by for a pickup. No rush.”

“Of course. Delivery to Greenwich Village?”

“No,” he said, “return here. She’ll be back.”

“You willing to bet on that?”

Happy tucked the sweater away in a drawer, away from prying eyes, until the tailor could pick it up. “Name your stakes.”

Six Months Later

Warm summer winds tried to cheer up Steve’s empty mood. The beer bottle sitting between his hands, sweating condensation onto the porch railing, tried to keep his attention. If he held it too tightly the glass could break, easier than breathing. He could so easily remember a time when breathing was a challenge, walking up a hill, walking up the stairs, so many things beyond his grasp.

That perfect recollection haunted him. He could remember it all. Steve remembered the gunfire, the explosions, a fear and a sense of purpose, and laughter. He could accurately count the number of pints he’d shared over wobbly tables, and what day he’d had them. Steve knew with perfect clarity the number of rounds he’d fired, and where, and into what bodies. He knew the number of seconds he’d clung to the side of a damaged train, reaching for Bucky’s hand, before he fell. He knew how many times he’d kissed Peggy; once. He knew how many times he’d kissed Mab; none.

His perfect recollection haunted and taunted Steve. He could perfectly remember the feeling of her hand in his, the ocean’s call of her tires rolling by, or the clack of her cane, or the cadence of her laughter. There was no green and blue like what he’d seen in her eyes, not that he could stop searching for it. He couldn’t stop listening, searching, reaching out with every sense, and it haunted him. 

It haunted him, that he remembered the taste of dead bodies in the air as he ran through abandoned hospital halls, praying that he could find her and begging God that he didn’t. He could hear the even cadence of her heart, reported in terrible music by a machine that kept her alive. Your fault, it sang. 

The bottle cracked in his hands, spilling glass shards and beer all over the porch.

The balcony doors opened behind him, letting out the briefest murmurs of the conversation continuing without him. “And I swear, if we don’t get some rain soon, I’m going to have to-”

“I was just about to come back in,” he said, turning his head to see who had followed him outside. It was Bucky that had come to check on him. A pang of guilt, no less sharp for all the barbs he already carried, that his friend had needed to step away from his weekly ritual to check on him. “Sorry,” he said without thinking, sweeping glass off the porch with his foot and trying to shake the liquid from his hands.

Bucky didn’t reply right away. He walked slowly to the edge of the covered porch, resting his hands on the balcony railing, looking out at the ocean. He didn’t need to acknowledge the broken glass for Steve to hear the question, to know the exchange that would have followed, the tension. They’d had the same conversation so many times.

“I feel like every conversation we have always ends up back in 1945. But,” Bucky sighed, tapping metal fingers against a metal balcony rail until it sang. “I left you behind.”

Steve was quick to argue, “No, Buck; you didn’t-”

“I did, and it wasn’t fair.” Bucky said. “I got caught up in this new life, which is great, but we always promised we’d be there for each other. I let you down. And I’m sorry.”

Steve didn’t argue. He’d been beyond envious of Bucky’s recovery, that he’d been so seemingly unnecessary to it, that he was on the outside of a beautiful future and unwelcome. And that had riddled him with guilt, that he was anything less than supportive for his oldest friend to finally have a moment of peace after decades upon decades of torture and blood. 

Envy, not his greatest sin but certainly no stranger. Your fault, his envy reminded him. Greed, pride, envy, all his closest bedfellows. 

Bucky leaned on the balcony railing, looking out over the water. “You weren’t mean to fix my mistakes, but you did it anyway.” Bucky shot him a look. “Sold your soul to make me and the others ‘legal’. I have to thank you, but I also want to hit you over the head for it.” Bucky shook his head. “I mean, how could you do something so stupid?”

Your fault, Pride roared, not with shame but in defense. A confidence he could still feel that he could make the right choice and keep everyone safe. He alone could carry the heavens on his shoulders and keep the sky from falling. Except when he couldn’t. Your fault.

“When I woke up, after the ice, it was too easy to just fall back on old habits. Everyone was ‘sir’, or ‘ma’am’, and everyone was fine with how I behaved. I even dressed the same.”

Bucky groaned. “God, tell me you didn’t.”

“I spent a lot of time growing out of that mold, had a lot of help. Nat, Alice, Sam.” Steve sighed. “Tony.” Steve rubbed his face with one hand. “Just feels like, these days, everyone’s trying to shove me back into it. And I don’t have the leverage to fight it. I can either keep being Captain America and keep everyone safe, or I can let everyone down.”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, maybe.” A wry smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. “But are those your only two options?”

The question hit Steve like a sack of bricks. The shock on his face made Bucky’s smile broaden. “I knew Peggy, too, Steve. It seemed like - for a while there - that you had almost got out?” Bucky seemed hesitant to ask. 

Almost got out, but at what price? Your fault. Almost got out, but going where? Your fault. Where would he even go, when Heaven fell? 

You could have killed her. Shouldn’t he have known? He knew, she knew he knew, better than anyone else how fragile illness could make you. Just how delicate he needed to treat those hands, that heart. She had told him, and he hadn’t listened. Pride. A blind confidence that he alone could hold up Heaven had almost killed her. 

He deserved what they made him.

More beers appeared on the railing. “What’s this, a conspiracy within a conspiracy? How scandalous.”

Steve ducked his head. “Hey, Tony.”

Tony raised a glass of water in toast. “Cap, Straw Dog.” 

“He’s moping,” Bucky said, taking one of the offered beers.

Tony hummed. “Ah, that would be the poet.”

“Mab?” Bucky asked, startling Steve. “Don’t make that face - I do actually talk to the rest of the team.”

“I don’t want to talk about-” her name clutched at his throat, settled in too deeply to be freed. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he said with more force than he intended.

Bucky and Tony raised a brow in sync, and it would have been funny in any other circumstance. Tony and Bucky had come to some kind of understanding, clearly. The two existed at regular Sunday dinners without knives or bullets passing over the table, and Alice never seemed to intervene anymore. 

Speaking of conspiracies, “Where are we on the data extraction, Tony?”

Tony clucked his tongue. “Nowhere, annoyingly. Beacon stopped pinging once it got in, but was reporting all green as far as collection until then. I have to assume it’s got all the goodies just waiting to be picked up.”

“So we need to pick it up.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony twirled a spoon in his hand, “I think they’re on to us.”

“What?” Steve asked, alarmed. “How?”

“I don’t have a stellar helpful reputation, so offering to troubleshoot various issues may have raised a red flag. Or, it’s worse than we think and they’re being cagey about it.” 

“See,” Bucky interjected, silver knuckles dancing in the low light as he tapped a thoughtful finger along his chin, “I think that can still work to your advantage. Steve,” he turned, a mischievous light in his eyes, “you remember Dudley?”

Steve’s memory wound back. “Who, Clarke?” His mind raced, and he let out a heavy breath. “Abeam’s a bit of a long game.”

Bucky shrugged. “Are we in a hurry?”

Tony snapped his fingers to get their attention. “I just want to remind you that I taught both of you how to use a credit card. And email.”

“Sorry,” Bucky apologized, “it’s an old trick, Operation Abeam. From our time.” He grinned wickedly. “If they’re afraid of a boogeyman and there’s none to be found, you make one. Put men in the enemy’s uniform and walk them around town. Fake paperwork for made-up invasions, threats of airborne assault.”

“That’s the kind of thing people get disappeared for these days. Making plans like that,” Tony said, but he didn’t sound against it. He hummed, hawed, and crossed his arms. “I don’t know, Cap. Last time I made the final call it was to sign on to this mess.” Tony’s face was the apology that Steve had never asked for. “It’s your call, Cap.”

Sounds of laughter reached them, of the merry weekly dinner they’d left. These were the lives they’d tried to protect, that hung in such delicate balance. 

Wasn’t this the mistake they’d made before? 

“It’s not my decision,” Steve said. “It shouldn’t be. If things don’t go the way we want…” he looked at Bucky. “At best, we’re all in cells.”

With a dramatic flourish, Tony gestured to the balcony doors. “After you, then.”

Steve clenched his hands, trying to think of how to interrupt the last of Sunday dinner. He’d gone out onto the balcony to try to avoid ruining the atmosphere - the one moment of the week when the whole team felt they could relax, sheltered away in Alice and Bucky’s farm out on the island, close to the ocean. 

But his team wasn’t stupid or oblivious - they could read his face as he returned, Bucky and Tony in tow, faces grim. Conversation immediately halted. Rhodes stood, sharing a look with Tony.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Steve said over the sudden silence, “but we need to talk.”

“Are we breaking up?” Natasha asked, calculated easygoing tone targeted at the rapidly escalating tension.

“Should I make tea?” Alice asked, standing slowly. 

“Sit back down,” Bucky said sternly. 

She sat down, looking disappointed. Natasha glared at Bucky and said something in Russian. He shot an even nastier look back with something in Russian that was more likely than not some version of ‘go to hell’. 

Steve decided to leave it be. He addressed the group; “We have a decision to make, and I’d like for us to come to a decision together. Not a vote, not a command, but a unanimous choice one way or another.”

“You’ve certainly got our attention, Captain,” Vision said. 

“The United States Government has been using us to control a mutant project, corralling and controlling test subjects that can’t or won’t be controlled. Tony has had a data-collection device at the Raft for the last six months, but we can’t remotely access it to retrieve our proof. Retrieving and exposing the Government for their crimes could be considered treason.”

“Test subjects…?” Wanda uttered, “can you be sure?”

Steve nodded. “We’re sure. Tony decrypted the classified portions of the Sokovia accords that permitted human subjects suspected of meta- or enhanced abilities.”

“I don’t exactly remember reading that part on signing day,” Rhodes said. 

“Shockingly, to absolutely no one’s surprise, there were two versions,” Tony said. He held up one finger. “The press and public version, which while somewhat redacted at a staggering three hundred and seven pages, is nothing compared to the classified version.” Tony crossed his arms. “approved by a smaller council at the United Nations, and certainly not all 117 approving nations, special articles suspend citizen rights in any signing country in the event of the expression of meta-abilities.”

“And since the Feds want as many super-soldiers as they can get, they’ve been paying poor suckers to screen for any potential powers, and sending any uncontrollable powers to the Raft,” Bucky said.

“With our help,” Sam said, sagging back in his seat.

Steve nodded. “It wouldn’t have been possible at this scale without the Avengers. We’re at a crossroads; we can either choose to act and potentially be considered traitors, or we can do nothing and be co-conspirators.”

“That’s not a crossroads, that’s the fucking Rubicon,” Rhodes said. 

“Or a bridge too far,” Vision added.

“Ok, let’s take a step back from the nonstop war metaphors,” Sam said, rubbing a hand over his eyes, “what’s the endgame here? What does victory look like? This isn’t like fighting some alien monster from outer space or some crazy wizard; this is the United States Government we’re up against, and the entire United Nations while we’re at it.”

“Can’t really expect them to just say ‘sorry’ and take the thing apart,” Wanda grumbled.

“Why not?” Vision replied, not naive but not fully a challenge, “it’s happened before; Tule Lake, Manzanar-”

“Those were on American soil,” Natasha interrupted. “Feds learned after that. Gitmo and the Raft are the new rule.”

“Can we not forget the part where we might just get shot for this?” Rhodes added. “I think that’s pretty important to make sure we talk about.”

“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet, Ratched,” Tony called across the table.

Steve hadn’t realized it until Tony pointed it out. Alice’s hands were clutched tightly around her mug and her face seemed pale. Her eyes darted idly from side to side, like reading a page over and over as she tried to organize a thought. She frowned, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

Sam gave her a nudge with his knee. “Your thoughts need to be on the outside now, Al. Share with the class.”

“Sorry,” she said reflexively, “I’m trying to do a lot of backwards math.”

“I’m great at math,” Tony shot back, “give me the variables.”

Her face twisted. “I don’t think I have all of them. How much did those two tell you about my old war stories?”

“I was strictly informed that you were not to be bothered.”

“Then this is about to sound completely wild.”

Something about the last few years had taken the edge off of the insanity of Alice’s story. Fresh, scattershot, the enormity of her task hit home like a punch to the gut. As she spoke, sometimes stumbling over her words or reaching for an apt description, she blindly and slowly extended a hand for her husband. He moved to her the background, gathering her hand in his and anchoring the tale. 

Not to be forgotten, almost no one else had known. They knew Alice was precious, that she extended her love with no reserve, and that she fought like a pit of vipers when cornered, but they hadn’t known her sacred mission. 

How odd, but not odd at all, that she had found a place at their table. No, that’s not right, Steve corrected. Tony had built the table. Tony has built the table, the tower, the compound. Alice had built a home, built a hearth, built a place of peace. She had drawn them there, summoned and called. They had built different tables, but both had been needed.

Wanda nodded as Alice described Azzano; the man she’d killed there, who had wanted Bucky dead. The time seemed to stretch out in her story; the preparation for a hard life and a long wait. The enemies she’d killed, with a knife or with a gun. Her mission. Her exile. Her death.

Bucky closed his eyes as he clutched at her hand; Alice now his lifeline against a tide of terrible memories.

Sam nodded as she described the long years alone, then with his friendship, before Steve and Natasha had appeared on her doorstep. Then Bucky; the Soldier. Their time in Iceland. Their return, then the new mission, too many details to count. And finally, Cable’s farewell.

With a deep furrow in his brow, and chin tilted low over crossed arms, Tony had listened without comment. Alice let go of Bucky’s hand to wring hers together. She looked like she wanted to apologize; she’d done it before. Her shame rivaled any good Catholic’s guilt.

“That’s everything?” Tony asked when Alice stopped.

She nodded. “As much as I can remember.”

Tony looked almost relieved. “Then it doesn’t matter what we choose.”

“I don’t follow,” Wanda said.

“I do,” Natasha said. “Whatever it was that Alice’s changes were meant to insulate against hasn’t happened yet. That’s why we’re missing variables.”

Tony pointed to her with his pen. “Gold star. The only thing that does matter is that we make our decisions together.”

“How do you figure?” Bucky asked.

“Because it’s not what happened after you traveled back through time that matters, it’s what happened when your friend said you were done,” Tony raised an eyebrow at Alice, leading her to the answer. 

“The accords?” she asked.

Tony nodded. “We signed them. We all signed them, even though your best judgement told you not to. Why?” he asked Steve.

Steve looked at Bucky, positioned behind Alice’s chair. His oldest friends. 

Tony didn’t make him say it out loud. “Let’s do a little speculating, shall we? Madam Liberty over there doesn’t time travel at all, and you survive your super special assasination attempt, if that was even real. What’s different?”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Vision declared, “we can’t say for certain he would have rejoined us without his additional connection with Missus Barnes. If his memories would have returned so swiftly without her help. As Hydra didn’t know she was still alive, the Winter Soldier wasn’t programmed to attack her and she could work to resolve-”

“Yup, we get it Vis, thanks,” Wanda cut him off.

“Thirteen tries,” Tony said. “Thirteen tries, to get us all to sign the Accords. That doesn’t strike you as insane?”

“Cable was a nutjob,” Alice muttered. 

“Maybe. But something about the Accords should have split us up.”

“Something’s coming, something big,” Natasha said. 

“We’ve seen big, and we’ve beaten it,” Rhodes said. 

“Exactly,” Natasha agreed, “we’ve seen big things we clawed past on the way to victory, and that’s not what she was sent back to prevent.” Natasha let the threat hang in the air. 

Like a call of distant ocean waves. Slow drips of rain, collecting into puddles that kicked up great waves as soft tires rolled through. Tides and waves, skimming through library rows, hands twirling leaves between fingers. He could almost hear her voice, whispering through a clear telephone line with rain as her chorus. “Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”

“It’s strangely… freeing. If you think about it,” Vision mused. “Until some ultimate enemy descends from the Heavens on a chariot of fire, we are all but guaranteed victory in our efforts.”

“As long as we make our decisions together,” Sam added. “So, whatever decision we make, we all have to agree. We have to stay together as a team.”

“So, what would you do if you knew you could not fail?” Vision asked.

Alice grinned. “Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.”

You would have loved Mab, if I hadn’t almost killed her, Steve almost said. 

Instead, he said: “I understand if anyone isn’t comfortable with what we have to do, I just ask that… please, don’t-”

“Rat you out?” Rhodes said abruptly. “C’mon, Cap, give us more credit than that.”

“I’m sorry, who in this room has medals for service to the government? Raised hands, please, fellow patriots.” Tony raised his hand. As did Steve, followed by Sam. “C’mon, Rodey, you’re a certified patriot, get that hand up.” 

Alice also reluctantly raised her hand. “It’s a little old, but I think it still counts?”

“Alright, fine, put your hands down,” Rhodes grumbled, “I get your point.”

“I know what I’m asking you to risk giving up. We might fail, we might be exiled forever, we-”

“No, Captain. I choose to believe Mr. Stark; we can choose to do the right thing and bring an end to this injustice. It may be foolish to blindly believe that we are assured of victory, but…” he smiled, slowly, and so human, “is this not what we were made for? Not to protect governments or nations, but people?”

Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are, not a perfect soldier, but a good man. And he had pledged, all those years ago, to stand up for the little guys. 

“We’re with you, Steve. Whatever you need,” Sam said. Murmurs of assent went round the room. 

Steve nodded, clearing his throat to clear the tightness there. “Then we have a lot of planning to do.”

Chapter Text

Freddie Fletcher - Agent Freddie Fletcher, he sometimes had to remind himself - checked the reflection in the shop window to ensure he was still on-target. 

It was easy to track the target through the streets. Multiple remote access requests to connect to their phone had proved unfruitful, so the team had been monitoring her with standard techniques for quite some time. There was no reason to assume that today would be any different, or that orders would change.

Unassuming, the agent sometimes wondered why the civilian was such a high-value target. Her file alone was encrypted two or three levels beyond his basic security access, and so far none of his colleagues knew either. Secret shit, whatever. This was an easy enough security and tracking detail,and he got to enjoy some really great coffee. 

“Entering now”, Freddie reported into his coms link, pushing the door open. The bell rang softly.

“Copy,” Jane Thomas - Janie , to him, forever - reported in his ear. His eye-in-the-sky. “ Will await your call-in at future movement.”

Freddie ordered his coffee right after the target, just black coffee, in case the target opted not to sit down like she always did. If today followed the usual Wednesday trend, after physical therapy she stopped at the cafe, ordered a coffee with cream, and would buy and read a newspaper for about an hour before heading back to the brownstone.

He turned away from the register after collecting his coffee and nearly dropped it. She was looking right at him, arms crossed and a disapproving glare on her face. 

He smiled awkwardly, just like an ordinary stranger would, and shuffled around her to check out the bulletin board. Shit, he thought, shit!

She followed him, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, trying to make his face look as innocent as possible. “Can I help you?” He asked.

She jerked her head towards her usual table. “You should sit.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” He tried one last time to recover the situation.

“None of you are sneaky, I’m just letting you know,” the woman said, not bothering to look at him again. “Now stop embarrassing yourself and sit with me.”

Freddie contemplated calling Janie as he followed the target to her table. She sat, holding her coffee with both hands. Her hands were shaking, he noticed. Though her glare had been powerful and commanding before, now she wouldn’t look at him.

Freddie cleared his throat slightly. “We tried calling.”

“I don’t have a phone,” she replied curtly.  

“See, I know you were issued a Stark phone because those are all serialized and have special access-”

“I. Don't. Have. A phone,” she emphasized with a bitter tone, “Happy took mine. If there’s a concern that I’m going to sue, or sell a story to a tabloid, please just leave me alone. I have no intention of trying to make this into anything. I just want to-“ she cut herself off. “I won’t cause any trouble.”

“That’s not-“

Mab stopped him immediately. “Please don’t. I’m being as polite as I can, but let me make this clear; I want to move on, and I can’t do that when I keep seeing fucking Avengers badges in every coffee shop and waiting room.” She seemed more calm than one should, all things considered. “I understand you want to protect them. It’s fine, I understand you’re doing your job. But I’ve got the message, please call off the goon squad trailing me on a regular basis.”

Freddie didn’t know what to say. He was barely allowed to know this woman’s name, so he definitely didn’t have the authority to stop her protection detail. “Ma’am,” he started.

“Mab,” she corrected. “Mab; please don’t call me ma’am. I hate it.”

Freddie winced. “… Miss Dumont,” he tried instead, and she didn’t stop him. “I’m afraid I can’t change my team’s orders. If you prefer,” he offered, seeing her face crack into grief, “I can relay your concerns to my team lead, and maybe we can… pull back the perimeter? It would be easier if you could sync your Stark phone, then-”

She stood, chair scraping against the vintage tile. “Do whatever you want.”

“Miss Dumont?” Freddie asked, standing as if to follow. “We’re not-” he paused, unsure of what he could say. Could he suggest it, instead? Allow her to draw the best conclusion? “I’m not security for the - for them. We’re not here for them.”

She looked at him a long time. She hummed, then said something unexpected. “A voice said, look me in the stars. And tell me truly, men of earth, if all the soul-and-body scars were not too much to pay for birth.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a collapsible cane, clicking it open and leaning on it slightly. “No offense, but I hope I don’t see you again.”

Mab’s neck was starting to complain about the number of times she checked over her shoulder, but she couldn’t believe that the confrontation seemed to have worked. For the first time in months, she couldn’t spot her so-called “shadows” in the crowd.

She stood on the first step of the brownstone a long time( just waiting for someone to turn the corner and talk into their wrist, or spend too long tying their shoes, or stare at her through a reflection. And god, they all looked like children. 

But she only saw her neighbors, and tourists turned around trying to find the more popular parts of Greenwich, and it was a relief. 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me.
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 

“I’m home!” she called into the brownstone, throwing her keys into the bowl. 

“Welcome home!” David leaned out into the hall from the kitchen, stirring something vigorously in a large bowl. “How was physical therapy?”

“Good,” she murmured, smoothing back hair that had pulled free of her ponytail. “What are you making today?”

David held out the bowl of sticky dough, flecked with herbs, declaring: “bread!”

Mab took a look, nodding thoughtfully. “Looks… rustic?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Making bread helping you on that mid-Residence interview packet?”

“It’s got a lot of Thyme in it!” David answered, deflecting and ducking back into the kitchen.

Mab collapsed her cane and tucked it into her bag, hanging it on a hook. “Where’s the packet?” She yelled.

“My desk!” David yelled back.

Idly grabbing some reference books as she went into the heart of the house, setting some old vinyl on the Victrola for background noise, Mab stepped around a sleeping Christine to avoid getting her ankles swiped. 

Lights down to just a desk lamp, music drifting softly by, scribbling lines and notes, Mab was at peace. 

You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can’t hold it. So I hold it; that burning furious beauty. Mab frowned and crossed it out. Not the right tone for a morning interview. 

She glanced up as David came down the hall, plate in one hand and tea in the other. “You’ve been at it for hours, you should take a break.”

Mab leaned back in David’s office chair, stretching her back. “You can’t ignore this stuff forever, you know.”

He set down a plate of two slices of warm bread, slathered with butter, on one of the only clear spots of the desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

David was expecting her to argue; she could feel it. He wanted her to ask why he’d bothered applying, why he couldn’t write, why she did all the work while he baked bread and muffins and took her work to present as his own. He wanted her to complain, to protest, and she just didn't care. 

It was fine. She was being useful, and writing poems and speeches and interview notes kept her mind busy. As long as she was useful, she would be wanted. She would be needed as long as the Stark settlement kept paying off the medical debt and paid the rent. She could tolerate the mandatory checkups and physical therapy that the Stark settlement required if it could help keep David happy. He deserved to be happy, and she could give that to him.

“Mab?” David asked gently.

“Did Mariah call? I thought she was sending a courier with another stack for me to edit.”

“Tomorrow - they’re waiting on a final copy, so the courier comes tomorrow.”

“Ok,” Mab rubbed at her face, “I want to have this done before the stack arrives. Trying not to fall behind.”

“Ok,” David said. “Are you coming to the interview? Moral support?”

She shrugged. “If you want me there, sure. Next Tuesday morning, right?”

“It’s the super-early show, so we have to be up before the crack of dawn.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” David said abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said again, but softer. 

Mab smiled softly. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

He smiled ruefully and patted her shoulder. “You’ll find your way. This is just temporary.”

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul

Mab smiled back, even though she didn’t feel like it, and hoped it was enough to appease her uncle. “I’m sure you’re right.”

David checked his watch and did a dramatic double-take. “Seems like you’re not the only one who lost track of time! I’ve got to get going!”

“For what?” Mab asked, glancing at the post-it-note-ridden calendar hanging on the wall. “I didn’t think you had anything today.”

“Just pre-interview stuff; lighting checks, consultations, you know,” he rambled.

She didn’t. “Okay - are you home for dinner?”

David mumbled something as he shoved his wallet into his jacket pocket and patted his pockets, looking for keys. “Don’t wait up!” he yelled, turning and running down the crowded hallway. The front door slammed behind him, startling Christine from her deep snooze. 

The cat yowled, skittered along the hardwood floor and disturbed a precarious pile of books. It fell across the floor as the gray cat fled up the stairs, hissing all the way.

Mab shook her head, twirled her pen in her fingers and went back to trying to write something decent for David’s interview.

It was a guess, and not a great one.

Mab couldn’t stand listening to the news, so David had to make his notes when she was out, or when she was upstairs. He played it in the kitchen while he baked muffins, or nervously kneaded bread dough, or chewed his fingernails down to the quick.

He had messed up, and it had been almost immediately obvious, realizing just as it was too late to do anything about it. It had taken six months to find the correct combination of celebrity-tracker apps and news stations and social media pings to have a good idea of when the person he needed to see would be walking through those doors.

David checked his phone again, squinting at the cascade of notifications and trying to do the math in his head. Ten minutes? No, wait, that’s not right - He looked up, and realized he was already late and needed to run if he had any hope.

Quite a sight, running between cars parked at the intersection and hoping he didn’t get run over - he just needed to get to the doors, pull the glass open behind the pair that had just entered - 

Quite a sight, that security grabbed him by both arms just as he crossed the threshold of the building, shouting orders that he didn’t hear as he yelled at the top of his lungs:

“Captain Rogers!” David bellowed, and the man turned, surprise evident on his face. The redhead with him seemed bemused. 

“Steve Rogers!” David continued to yell, even as the guards threatened to taser him if he didn’t stop struggling, “ I need to talk to you!”

Chapter Text

Dramatic entrance aside, once Steve had ushered the flustered man into a conference room, it had grown remarkably silent. Natasha, visibly deciding between being a nosy menace and actually being helpful, had signaled that she would wait outside the conference room, keeping any passers-by from wandering in. And, Steve had resisted on commenting, probably listening at the door for her own entertainment.

Small price to pay.

Steve gestured for David to sit, but he shook his head. They stood awkwardly just inside the door. Steve started to feel like maybe the conference room was a bad choice - the cavernous space was going to swallow this nervous man whole, before he had a chance to explain why he’d stormed the building, screaming to be heard.

“So, Mister Dumont, what can I do for you?” Steve asked, offering Mab’s uncle one of the bottles of water that were always stationed in the room.

He shook his head, clearing his throat uncomfortably. It sounded like he could really use the water he was refusing. “Captain Rogers-” he said, a little crack in his voice. “This is all my fault. I never meant to-” he sniffled, and it sounded wet. “Please believe me, I love my niece. So much had happened, and I just wanted her to be safe.”

“I believe you,” Steve said gently.

“But, but ,” David rambled, “I was still wrong , and I shouldn’t have blamed you. After all,” David sighed deeply, “you also saved her life. If she hadn’t been here and been in that thing then we never would have known, and she’d be… she’d be gone already.”

Steve took a step towards David. “What are you talking about?” He had meant to keep his voice gentle, but it definitely didn’t come out that way. 

David looked confused. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what,” Steve pressed, even more serious now.

“While I was busy blaming you, that machine told Stark that some company he’d bought made a mistake years and years ago, and no one had noticed. Doctors had been treating Mab for a problem she didn’t have, and the treatments were killing her.” David started babbling again. “And I was so, so angry , but I didn’t expect - the settlement made such a difference, but I would swear she was happier before. And I took away her chance to choose for herself.”

Tony, what did you do? Steve’s mind buzzed and tilted the floor under his feet, throwing several disparate facts together into a clearer picture. At the same time, however, a sense of horror washed over him. 

“Did you tell her?” he asked, voice quiet but resonating in the nearly-empty room, and Steve couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice as he already knew the answer to his next question. “You told me to stay away because I almost killed her. Did you tell her? ” It was because he knew the answer that he was able to keep from throwing something through the nearest wall when David shook his head.

“No,” he said, voice and expression full of shame. “But I don’t think it would make a difference if I did. Too many misunderstandings already.”

Long practice kept Steve’s head held high, and his expression calm. He kept his hands clenched tightly at his sides - not picking up anything less breakable than steel would keep everything in the room in one piece. Probably.

There were so many things that Steve wanted to say. You just let her think that I abandoned her? What a cruel trick. What came out instead was an uneasy, “how is she?”

Fondness touched David’s expression. “If you had another chance, would you leave again?”

Fuck, no. “No, sir.”

“Because if you do, then that’s it. You don’t get another try. My niece is a… well she’s not a nice person, but she’s a good person. And she’s going to make somebody very happy, but I want her to be happy first and foremost. She deserves it.”

“I agree.”

“Good, that’s good.” David paused. “There’s going to be an interview next week, Tuesday. Local channels, local news, that sort of thing. Could I ask you to carve out some time to watch it live?”

“I can make time.”

“Good, good.” He nodded. “It sounds silly, being here to give permission that’s not something in my power to give. But it also wasn’t mine to take away from her in the first place.” He patted the pockets of his jacket like someone might check for keys before leaving home. “I hope… I hope someday you can find it in your heart to forgive me. ​​ My heart was heavy, for its trust had been abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong.”

Steve’s fingers itched to turn paper and page. It is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen. 

In his place, in his shoes, would Steve have done less to try and protect any remaining family he had left? 

Hadn’t he done far worse, in trying to keep those he called family safe? It certainly left him in no place to judge, no place to hold on to his anger or any form of resentment.

Anger bleeding away, the ground stopped moving under Steve’s feet, and the fuzziness threatening to bleed red cleared. This anger wasn’t right. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Relief flooded David’s face. “Just make sure you watch the interview.”

Steve sensed he wasn’t going to get anything clearer out of David. “I will.” There was a plan in place, some path that needed to be followed for reasons perhaps only known to a Dumont.

David didn’t say anything else, or give any more details. He gave Steve a respectful nod and excused himself, avoiding the curious and moderately hostile gaze of the small gathering of security officers in the lobby.

Natasha pushed off the wall in her typical mock-casual form. “The plot thickens.” She grinned. “So what’s the plan?”

“There’s no plan ,” Steve emphasized. For one thing, he needed time to process.

On the one hand, he wanted to nail Tony to a wall and extract as much information as possible about Mab’s condition - or lack thereof - as possible. On the other hand, he knew how uncomfortable he felt with all of his history and secrets laid bare for every museum visitor to parse and peruse at their leisure. He should be proud of Tony for keeping Mab’s life private, if he was being honest with himself.

“You need to live a little, Rogers,” Natasha whined. 

Tuesday arrived with little ceremony.

An early-morning show, before most of New York was even awake, but Steve was sitting on his bed and staring at a modest stack of library books at his bedside. He trailed his fingers down the stairstep column of flagged notes sticking out of the pages of the borrowed books. He’d been looking for answers, trying to process his feelings, or justifying something. 

“ Good morning, Captain Rogers. Would you like a cup of coffee?” Friday asked.

“Not today,” Steve said. He didn’t trust himself to hold anything. “Friday,” Steve said openly, “David Dumont is doing an interview on local news this morning. Can you please find the channel and put it on the common room screen?”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

He needed to get moving. As he left his room, his hands buzzed with anticipation, the door clicking behind him on perfect machinery. He wanted this to give him some kind of answer. He wanted to know what David Dumont was thinking, was planning, why this puff piece of morning talk television was going to be so important.

Natasha was already seated on the sectional in the common room, a bowl of popcorn in her lap and the television on the wall already tuned to the correct channel. 

“Are you serious?” Steve asked, sitting down heavily next to her.

“What?” Natasha grinned cheekily, offering him the bowl. “Odds are this is going to be good.”

“Did I miss it?” Sam asked, jogging into the common space.

Steve shot Natasha a glare, which she ignored. “Hasn’t started yet!” she called over her shoulder.

The elevator pinged, and Vision and Wanda exited, her carrying a bag of chips and Vision something that looked similar to guacamole. “Did we make it in time?” she asked.

“How many people did you tell?” Steve barked at Natasha.

“A few,” she replied.

“Good morning, New York! This is Brandy Sanders reporting from our station overlooking a bright-and-early Times Square, it’s a beautiful Tuesday, quite a scorcher already, but that’s July in the city!” She laughed to the camera. “This morning we’re going to be talking about that disaster of a fireworks display again, big changes coming to public transit, and we’ve got a special guest joining us for coffee to tell us about the September Foundations’ Poet Laureate program! We’ll be right back.”

Steve had expected some kind of jeering comment, or a playful ribbing, or something. He hadn’t expected the companionable silence - Sam drinking coffee, and Natasha and Wanda sharing snacks. He caught Natasha’s eye and she raised a brow in question. He nodded slightly, and she smiled.

They weren’t there for a show, or to make fun. Disguised behind only a touch of fun, Natasha had made sure that he wouldn’t be alone.

An ocean of possibilities hung on what so far was a standard morning talk show interview. Steve hadn;t been willing to press David on the details, because he hadn’t looked ready. As the show clipped briefly over to Mab’s Uncle, sitting in an under-stuffed chair and clutching a mug of talk-show coffee like a lifeline, it was clear he still wasn’t ready. He looked a little green, but cheery and determined. 

“Thank you, Jimmy, for those updates on Public Transit! And welcome to the show, David!” Steve leaned forward as the host smiled and applauded for David, who nodded and smiled. “They tell me that you’re the Poet Laureate for the September Foundation! Can you tell me a little bit about that? Do you just get to write poetry all day and read it out loud in the park?”

David chuckled. “Well, I can say I do a lot of reading to the pigeons in the park, but not nearly as much writing.”

The host smiled with all of her teeth. “Did you bring anything to read for us today? I’d love to hear what you’re working on.”

David reached into his jacket pocket. “Funny you ask, Brandy, because I’ve got the poem that won me the laureate program right here.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Let’s hear it.”

David cleared his throat and loosened his tie. He glanced anxiously offstage and Steve’s heart soared. Is Mab there with you? His hands were suddenly sweaty.

David cleared his throat. “It’s called ‘prayer for parity’. Here goes.”

Steve frowned slowly. Prayer for Parity. “There is no ballast of laughter,” Steve said as David read it on the screen, “that outweighs the leaden heft of the simplest words…”

“I’m. Sorry.” David said, as Steve whispered the words.

Steve could feel eyes on him as he leaned further forward. He knew the rest of the poem even after only seeing it the one time. He’d seen it once, only once, and there had been music, and snow. He knew with an iron certainty that it had been signed Mab Dumont. Not David.

What was it David had said? Too many misunderstandings already.

David finished the poem and cleared his throat again, and again glanced offstage with a growing appearance of worry.

The host hadn’t sensed the change and plowed forward with what she probably believed was a puff piece. “Wow, that’s so powerful! So what were you thinking about when you wrote it, if you can tell us.”

“That’s the thing, Brandy, I didn’t.”

She laughed with all of her teeth again. “Oh, it just comes to you in a dream or something? You’re so funny! I’d love to talk about this piece you wrote and presented at the event last week-”

“ Oh, I didn’t write that one either. In fact, I haven’t written any of the work I’ve presented as the Poet Laureate.”

The host’s smile went from practiced to forced, and it was her turn to glance offstage, probably silently begging a producer for a lead. “David, are you telling us that the Poet Laureate has been plagiarizing poems?”

David shook his head. “There was a mixup during the application process, and my niece’s poem was submitted under my name. Time moved in slow motion as he pointed, and the cameras swung around. “Mab Dumont is the real Poet Laureate.”

The world churned as the cameras swung from the well-lit stage into the dark floor of the studio. Steve jerked to his feet in response to the sheer horror on Mab’s face as the cameras.

Shock.

Horror.

Fear.

He hadn’t seen her in so long.

She looked just like he remembered, and better. Some hollows in her face had filled in with health, and there was a flush pink to her cheeks that was new. 

Healthier. 

She was holding a simple black cane, but she wasn’t leaning on it. Someone had probably told her to wear black if she was going to be behind the stage, as she was dressed head-to-toe in it. 

The host was still speaking, and the camera did a split-screen, half on the stage and half on Mab’s frightened, silent face. 

“So, it was all an act?”

“Not exactly - my niece won on her merit, my name on it was an accident.”

“Mab! Why don’t you come and join us on the stage!” the host called.

Mab shook her head in a frantic, jerky motion, hair swatting at her face. She cut her hair . She took a step back, and the camera lost focus on her for a second. She was saying something, but since she wasn’t wearing a mic the cameras didn’t catch it.

David stood from his understuffed chair with some difficulty as Mab turned and walked out of the studio. “ Mab, wait!” he called before he ripped the lavalier mic off his jacket.

“Well, folks, we’ll see if we can get them to join us back in the studio after this-”

Steve turned on his heel, aimed at the elevator, but Sam shot up and held out a hand. “You can’t, man.”

“Sam, move ,” Steve ordered.

“Think about it - how’s it going to look if Captain America shows up in the middle of what’s already going to be a media shitstorm?” Sam shook his head in warning. “You’re going to make what could be a one-week story into the scandal of the year.”

Natasha leaned over the back of the couch. “She said leave me alone.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“The camera didn’t catch it. She said ‘ leave me alone’ .” She sighed. “Sam’s right, Steve. Now’s not a good time to try and be a white knight. Give it a week.”

“Their writing styles were so different, it’s a surprise their swap wasn’t discovered before now,” Vision mused. 

“You heard him, it was an accident,” Wanda said.

“It should have been an obvious one - Mister Dumont’s writing is far more flowery than Miss Dumont’s. They’re both prolifically published, a simple search would-”

“Vis, shut up,” Wanda said firmly. 

He could ignore them. He could probably walk right through Sam, and be on his bike in under ten minutes. He might even beat Mab back to the brownstone. But would that be insult on top of injury, for him to plead forgiveness as her uncle did the same? To place his wounded pride at her feet and beg for mercy?

What would he even say?

Nothing.

He couldn’t think of anything.

He could only think of one of the books at his bedside, and the series of sticky flags peeking out of the pages like stepstones leading nowhere, marking almost every page.

What’s the word for a place that you loved,
A window seat, a garden, a house of stone,