Archive of Our Own ^beta

So Andrea is -- arguably, strictly speaking, if you really want to get into it -- kidnapped.

And she loves it.

She's on a high-flying mobile base that she's pretty sure has either magic or alien tech worked into the design -- it can stay up for weeks between refuelings, hover in stealth mode the way it's doing now, and do zero to 660 in 3.5 seconds -- the crew is all tortured ex-assassins and most of them are not her patients, so she gets to play amateur birdwatcher for the simmering stew of superhuman angst!

Surs, she might technically be in danger from a supervillain with a hit list. But this team grabbed her to keep her safe, so she's not all that worried.

They aren't cutting her off from the rest of the world, either. Andrea already called her secretary and said to cancel all her appointments for the next week. (She has a colleague lined up for her patients to call if there's an emergency, but all of them have been stable enough that she's not worried anyone will have a crisis if they miss a session.)

The one drawback is that Andrea has gotten stuck with watching the toddler. And since she's the only adult on board who's not a combatant, she can't really begrudge them that.

"Bogey coming up on starboard," reports one of the former Black Widows. "Human-sized. Not Cap, and...not responding to hails. Take it out?"

"No!" exclaims another ex-Widow -- the blonde one, who has kind of a baby face but seems to be in charge. "That's a friendly. I will go welcome him in. Be ready to open the hatch."

"A friendly?" echoes the woman at the console. "Which one?"

The blonde ex-Widow -- Yelena, that was her name -- sighs. "The cape is not a tip-off?"

*

Five minutes later, Yelena's back, escorting a man Andrea vaguely recognizes as one of the Moon Knights. The one who's wrapped in bandages like a mummy, with glints of gold peeking through from the armor plating underneath. All three keep a low profile; rumor has it that they're based in London, or at least the south of England, but she's never seen any of them in person.

"You have already worked with Ava and Oksana," Yelena tells the Moon Knight, gesturing to the two ex-Widows. "Next to them is..."

"Red Guardian!" says the big man with a greying beard and a red suit. He punctuates it with a jovial laugh, like a super-soldier Santa.

"...Alexei Shostakov," finishes Yelena with a sigh. "From the Russian knockoff super-soldier program. At the other weapons station is Jack Monroe, from the Argentinian knockoff Winter Soldier program."

The guy with long brown hair and mirrored shades gives Moon Knight a brisk wave. "Also a knockoff super-soldier program. One of the less successful ones."

"Yes, of course. The other old man is Rutherford Winner, from..."

Moon Knight isn't looking at the grey-haired man with the dramatic facial scars, though.

He's staring at Andrea. (Well, it's hard to tell behind the mask with the supernaturally-glowing eyes, but she thinks he's staring.) "What knockoff super-soldier program is she from?"

"Her? None. This is Andrea Sterman, a completely normal non-enhanced doctor."

"They got a tip I might be in danger," volunteers Andrea. "So, for my own protection, they elected to kidnap me first."

Moon Knight nods. "Along with...your kid?"

"Not hers. Oh, you will like this." Yelena gives him a full-on smirk. "The child...is Bucky."

The kid in Andrea's lap looks up, and says, through a mouthful of stuffed-rabbit ear, "Abbagoo?"

Moon Knight does a serious double-take. Stares at Yelena. Stares at the toddler. Stares at Yelena again. "Wh--seriously? How? Why? Are we talking magic curse, or de-aging super-science, or time travelers kidnapping him out of the past, or--"

"Yelena, you're terrible," cuts in Jack. "Bucky is my daughter! I named her after Bucky Barnes -- my personal hero, and role model for Getting Away From The Supervillains Who Brainwashed You -- but she's a completely normal, non-enhanced, two-ish-year-old girl."

"The original Barnes and Wilson are with us," adds Yelena. "But currently away on recon. How could I resist this opportunity?"

Jack sighs. "If I had known one day it would give people this kind of opportunity, maybe I woulda done things differently."

The clarification hasn't made Moon Knight any less tense. "So, wait -- that means you just -- brought a normal toddler on a mission with this bunch of lun--of maniacs?"

"I'm a single parent!" exclaims Jack. "Childcare is expensive! Who even invited you on this mission?"

"Khonshu."

"Bless you."

A sudden, furious blast of wind whips around the airtight cabin.

You wouldn't think there'd be much loose stuff to scatter, given that this ship can make sudden stops and sharp turns -- but Moon Knight double-steps to Andrea's side and holds his cape protectively in front of her and Bucky, moments before several small items whap into it. Hair is tousled, buckles are rattled, all the displays around them flicker.

When the commotion dies down, Moon Knight drops the cape and steps back. "We've heard that one before. He doesn't think it's funny."

"The Moon Knights are an asset to any job," adds Yelena, loud enough to shut down anyone else who might want to argue. "When one of them has appeared, it would be foolish not to keep him. Their gimmick is--"

"Our divinely ordained mission," corrects Moon Knight, over the rustle of a light breeze. (Can a rustle sound annoyed? Andrea thinks this one does.)

"Their divinely ordained gimmick is, they protect the travelers of the night. It is night, and we are traveling."

Moon Knight's gaze keeps flicking upward...to one of the overhead displays? Or to some unseen figure in front of the overhead displays? "He says I'm mostly here to protect the non-enhanced ones. The doctor and the kid. And he's not being helpful about why. What are we protecting them from?"

"Enhanced individual who is acting on a grudge against one of the doctor's patients."

"Which one?"

"Obviously she can't tell you that," says Andrea sharply, before Yelena can answer. "Patient confidentiality."

Therapy is medical treatment, and nobody should be forced to disclose whether they're getting it or not. Even though everyone in this airship obviously needs it.

"Will you just--" Moon Knight keeps clenching and un-clenching his fists. "Does the patient already know about this? Or are you just sneaking around to pick up their friends and associates behind the patient's back?"

(Andrea hopes a fight doesn't break out, considering they're in an enclosed space with a toddler. Even though everyone here has elite training and/or super-serum and/or magic, so it would look very cool.)

"The patient knows," says Yelena.

"You're sure? Or are you just saying that, so I'll--"

Andrea has been carefully not eyeballing Rutherford to gauge how he feels about all this...so she didn't notice him spin his chair around to face Moon Knight, until he speaks up. "It's me! All right? It is me."

Moon Knight shuts up.

"I am a survivor of the German knockoff super-soldier program." Rutherford's voice is deep, his posture like a dignified block of marble. "Meaning, the original Winter Soldier program. I am in recovery from a prototype version of the conditioning Sergeant Barnes was subjected to. I am...not okay. I am trying to get better."

"Not judging." Moon Knight holds up both hands. Under the wrappings of his gloves, slivers of golden blades catch the light. "I'm a big fan of trying to get better."

It doesn't show behind the mirrored shades, but Andrea can feel Jack rolling his eyes. "And how bad off have you ever been?"

"Gentlemen!" cuts in a voice on the comm: the dulcet tones of the new Captain America. "And ladies. And Oksana. Trauma is not what?"

The whole crew -- the Widows deadpan, Jack and Rutherford grudging, Alexei cheerfully proud -- says, in chorus, "A contest."

"That's right," says Barnes, also on the comm. "Not to mention, if it was, I could beat any three of you put together."

(Moon Knight chokes on some kind of nervous laugh. Andrea eyes him curiously. Yelena has a faint smirk like she also gets the joke, but neither of them explain.)

"Anyway, did I hear we have a Moon Knight on board? Which one?"

"Hi, Barnes."

"Hi, Orthodox. Okay, status report. Turns out someone in the book club--" (Rutherford has been a regular! Andrea is so proud of him for making social connections.) "--was a Kamar-Taj washout. They already gave everyone a magic alarm, and can portal in for a quick rescue if our target shows up. Dr. Sterman, you can join--"

"I'm not leaving!" says Andrea.

"I can fly her safely anywhere," offers Moon Knight.

"I am not going anywhere." Andrea is dying to see what happens next, here. (Also -- she adjusts the now-dozing toddler in her lap -- Jack needs someone he trusts to hold the kid.) "I'm an adult. I am competent to make my own choices."

Moon Knight looks from her to Yelena, sounding pained. "Belova..."

"I'm also not part of this crew," says Andrea, not waiting for Yelena's input. "I respect your expertise, but I don't take orders. From any of you."

Before anyone else can argue back, something slams into the roof of the ship. Everything rattles.

"Wilson," says Yelena sharply. "Was that you? On the hull?"

"We're not back yet," says Wilson. "Move! You shake him off, we can pin him down."

As the ship picks up speed, Moon Knight sweeps back over to the door. "I'll go make sure you shake him off."

Rutherford, already suited up, is on his feet. "So will I."

"I can do this alone," says Moon Knight testily.

"Of course you can," says Yelena, moving to take over Rutherford's station. "And he will go with you."

*

One movie's worth of combat scenes, elaborate stunts, other action sequences, and various explosions later...

*

When Andrea opens the door to her waiting room, Steven leaps up from the chair --

Takes two running steps toward her --

Forcibly skids to a stop --

Vibrates with pent-up energy for a couple seconds --

Then holds open his arms. "One hug. Just one!"

"Steven," says Andrea. "You know the rules."

"I know, I know, boundaries, no touching except handshakes -- but you said there can be special circumstances sometimes, you did say that," protests Steven. "Like, if one of us had a medical issue and passed out, the other one's allowed to catch them. Can't this be a special circumstance?"

Andrea ushers him into the office (he's scrupulously respectful, avoids even the briefest "oops that was an accident" bumping into her as he goes by), and closes the door before she answers. "Steven, I was away for one session. That's going to happen sometimes. It sounds like this is bringing up feelings about something else. Do you want to--"

"It is not about something else." Being fidgety is nothing new for Steven, but today he doesn't even sit down, just shifts back and forth on his feet on the rug. "I was worried about you!"

Andrea goes to stand by her usual chair, but doesn't sit down before he does. "I'm all right. I promise."

"Well, you might not have been!"

"Talk to me about it," offers Andrea. If he's catastrophizing about something specific -- a medical issue, a natural disaster, a superhero event -- it'll give them something to work with. "What were you afraid was going to happen to me?"

"I--"

He stops short again.

Grimaces.

Gets the distant look that happens when there's a conversation going on inside his head.

Puffs up his cheeks before blowing the air out in a rush.

...Spins on his heel, and stalks over to the nearest window.

"This is Marc," he says, as he runs his hands meticulously around the frame. "I mean -- this is still Steven talking, but Marc's the one doing the -- inspection."

"Hello, Marc," says Andrea, pleasantly surprised. If any other parts of the system have showed up in her office before, they've never admitted it. (She's talked to Jake, but only after Steven asked if they could have that session in an open-air park.) "It's nice to have you here."

Marc lets down the blinds, twists them shut, and stalks to the other window to repeat the process.

"He'll say hi in a minute," says Steven. "Jake's watching too. Sort of wanted to repeat this whole process for himself, but I made him promise to trust Marc's work."

"Good to have you too, Jake," says Andrea, turning slowly in place as the system works their way around the room. "And you're...sweeping for bugs?"

"Yeah. They are. Going to give us another jot in the 'paranoid' column now, I suppose?"

He sounds more quippy than anxious, but Andrea doesn't think this is the moment for a glib answer. "I'm going to give you another jot in the 'ex-military' column."

"Right. Yeah. Fair." His voice is muffled as Marc ducks under her desk. (Doesn't try to open any drawers, which is good, though all the ones with sensitive client info have locks anyway.) "...Marc, if you go off about that in here, I will repeat it out loud and ask the doctor what she thinks."

He pops back up. Starts running his hand along the undersides of the bookshelves, one by one.

"I...yes, all right, let's start there. Dr. Sterman, remember -- the first time you brought up medication, I said I was open to one-off pills for panic attacks or whatever? But I didn't want to try, like, a regular daily antidepressant sort of thing?"

"I remember." She turns again, watching as the team moves to the next set of shelves. "You said you were worried about losing time. Not being able to keep to a schedule."

"Right," says Steven. "And...that was part of it. I didn't just make that up. But it wasn't mostly that."

"No?"

"No."

He checks the lamp on the little table next to the couch. Then sinks to his knees to check the underside of the table.

"It was mostly that the magic healing -- we've given you a few cryptic references to the magic healing, right? -- well, one of the things it does is wipe out any, ah, chemical alteration we've put the body through. And we have it switched-on a lot. Like, all the time we're at work, basically! So I can't imagine an SSRI would stick in our neurotransmitters consistently enough to take."

Okay, Andrea has got to write that down.

She picks up her notepad and sits on the edge of her desk, while Marc...crawls around behind the couch. Definitely still like a veteran checking for listening devices, not at all like he's a kid and she's the newest episode of Doctor Who.

"Ever heard that one before?" calls Steven.

"You know that I've treated patients who are...enhanced...in various ways," says Andrea carefully. (That much isn't a secret. It's in her bio on the practice's website.) "I'm not going to confirm or deny anything more specific than that."

Steven pops up from behind the couch, resting his folded arms on the back of the cushions. "Ever treated a patient who developed delusions of being a magical superhero, as a way of coping with their severely traumatic childhood?"

Andrea wags her pen at him. "I'm not going to confirm or deny that either!"

"But you're aware it's possible. Generally."

"Of course. For a lot of abuse survivors, I'm sure you can see why fantasies like that are comforting."

"We can see it...because you think that's what we're doing?"

Andrea leans back, takes a breath, and arranges her next words carefully. "Steven...can you accept that I'm withholding judgment? Yes, sometimes mental-health patients have delusions. Other times, people just lie. I wouldn't be much of a therapist if I didn't take that into account."

Steven grimaces, but nods.

"On the other hand...sometimes people are actually magic. And for all there's a lot of therapists out there treating patients who swear up and down they're Bucky Barnes, there is someone treating the actual Bucky Barnes. So I'm not about to just write you off, either."

Steven (?) opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

He leans away from the couch, then toward it. He fiddles distractedly with the tops of the cushions. One hand finds a concealed zipper, and starts flicking the tab back and forth.

There are fidget items stashed in a couple places around the office -- including Steven's usual Rubik's cube, on the end table -- but none of them are in easy reach.

Before Andrea can decide whether to offer to toss him one (she's sitting next to a little bowl of Avengers-branded fidget spinners), he -- or rather, one of his headmates, they both have American accents -- bursts out, "Por dios, can we quit askin' if the lady believes us, and just -- give her a demo?"

"Don't!" exclaims Andrea. "Do not do that."

"Hah!" Not-Steven points at her. "You don't believe we got magic healing."

"What I believe is that you're offering to hurt yourself," says Andrea firmly. "Leave out the magic part for a second. Imagine you were just telling me that, let's say, you naturally get over bruises very quickly. Would I encourage you to go get yourself bruised, so I could time it? Does that sound like good therapy to you?"

Another few seconds of wavering without getting anything out...

...then he leans heavily on the couch, hands gripping it hard, and Steven's soft voice says, "You're doing the thing where you're smart and insightful and it freaks Jake out again."

"Apologies. I wasn't trying to...freak him out."

"No, yeah, I know."

He swallows, eyes wet. Andrea gives it a moment, to see if he'll add more on his own, then prompts, "Looks like you're having some feelings about it too."

"Little bit." Steven sniffles, wiping his eyes with the end of his sleeve. "I just -- I was so worried you'd blow it off? Or worried you'd say you believed me, but you'd just be humoring me, and I'd have no way to tell that you didn't mean it? That would be -- awful."

Andrea wonders how many experiences he's had with being humored. "This isn't awful, though?"

"Nah." Steven gulps. "Marc's going to step in for the next bit, all right? And no hurting ourselves. Promise."

"All right."

His eyes are dry when he gets to his feet. He brushes off the knees of his jeans, hooks his thumbs in his pockets, and has one more look around the room before facing Andrea.

"I, uh. Really thought you were having the 'hang on, that guy sounds familiar' expression a couple times," he says, accent fully American again. "But either you didn't then, or you have a hell of a poker face now, and are waiting on us to break the ice."

Hang on. Andrea sits up a little straighter, brows furrowing.

Now he puts it like that...he does sound familiar.

"Right," says Marc. "That expression."

"I don't like to take my patients through guessing games, Marc," says Andrea, as calmly as she can. "I'm here to listen. If this is important for me to know, please tell me."

"Might as well just show you," says Marc, and --

Andrea leaps about a foot out of her seat, notepad knocked in one direction and pen clattering off in the other, both of them hitting the carpet as she stares.

The man in the bandage-wrapped golden armor jumps lightly over the couch.

Lands on the rug between them, in a perfect three-point stance -- the cape settles around him, preternaturally neatly, a perfect symmetrical crescent moon.

Rises to his feet, so his glowing eyes are on a level with hers.

The hood and cowl whisk out of existence, as quickly and seamlessly as the whole outfit whisked in a few seconds earlier, to reveal that it's still her patient underneath.

Andrea gapes. "...Holy fuck."

Marc's solemn face relaxes into a small, sheepish grin. "I know, right?"

In another whirl of magic, the ancient armor rearranges into a white three-piece suit. Andrea's only seen this one in clips of blurry cellphone videos -- now, up-close, she can see all kinds of subtle textures and geometric raised patterns, like the borders on Egyptian tomb paintings.

"Takes a different shape depending on who's fronting," explains Steven, adjusting his already-perfectly-straight tie with white-gloved hands. "Any time you see this one, it's me."

Another whoosh. Now it's modern-looking white armor, over a bodysuit of black kevlar.

"We're pretty good at keepin' one guy in front per job," says Jake. "But we are also real good at havin' everyone else ride shotgun, in case that guy needs backup."

Steven swaps back in and gets solemn again, eyes dark, jaw set. "So. To be perfectly clear. We know you spent a weekend being technically-kidnapped! I was on that airship with all the other maniac tortured ex-assassins! And also Sam. I might even be the reason you were there in the first place! I saw you almost get blown up, like, three separate times--"

He stamps his foot.

"--and I think those bloody well count as special circumstances! In fact, I think I am being incredibly reasonable in not asking for three hugs!"

Andrea puts down her notepad.

"Tell you what," she says, trying not to let her voice shake too much as she processes it all. "I won't make a habit of getting kidnapped, and you don't make a habit of this."

She holds out her arms.

"Deal!" Steven throws himself into the embrace, pulling her into a tight hug. "Very fair! Perfect deal. Happy to agree."

His chin digs into her shoulder; her hands rest on his back. The jacket doesn't feel supernatural or anything -- it's a heavy fabric, but otherwise unremarkable, with the outline of a standard human body underneath. He's...normal. Except for all the ways he's not.

"This is your job," breathes Andrea, struggling to adjust. "The one that takes you all around the world, sometimes at short notice. You're...Avenging."

"Think there might be a trademark on that?" admits Steven. "But yes. Sort of. We are generic store-brand super-powered costumed vigilante-ing."

"So when you talk about co-workers, and go light on the identifying details..."

Steven sucks in a breath. "Oh my days, I can give you the details now!" he exclaims, with an extra squeeze of pure enthusiasm. "The colleague we didn't know well, whose funeral we went to -- that was King T'Challa. The lawyer who wanted our thoughts on plural law-stuff -- that was She-Hulk! The friend we called for help in that bad dissociative episode last month was Bucky -- Doctor Strange portaled him in to pick us up -- and, and, listen I know this was not your point, but right now there is not someone treating Bucky Barnes, he only visits his old therapist in Wakanda a couple times a year and I think that's as much about catching up with his friends as anything!"

Good grief, and Andrea once offered to try to get them a referral to the London Sanctum? When it turns out that, if they really need it, the Sorcerer Supreme's right-hand mage is willing to personally give them a ride?

(This is the "here are some exercises that might get you in contact with other headmates, if that's even the condition you have" boondoggle all over again, isn't it.)

"And every time you've talked about your boss...?"

"I was bloody well talking about Khonshu," says Steven, with an odd mix of exasperation and pride. "God of the Moon and the Night Sky."

Andrea stifles a laugh. "Here I thought you might be some kind of nurse for a grumpy old sorcerer."

A short gust of wind whips through the room -- rattling drawers and ruffling papers, sending a couple more loose pens rolling off the end of the desk. All the lights flicker, hard.

Steven jumps out of the hug -- looks all around the room -- then pointedly steps between Andrea and the apparently-empty chair she usually sits in. "Oi!" he scolds. "We were not summoning you!"

Silence.

Andrea quietly gets back to her feet...and picks up a certain paperweight that's been sitting on her desk, unbothered by the breeze, to switch it off.

(Her kid sister was not a Kamar-Taj washout. Andrea's had her own silent alarm, set up to detect uninvited magic-users and summon help, since the first Christmas after the Blip.)

"No. Of course not." Steven adjusts his lapels, not watching Andrea at all. "It's my therapist's office, you promised you wouldn't interrupt that. We had a deal."

More silence. (Next Christmas, Andrea's asking if there's a magic way to upgrade her glasses with a god-viewing filter.)

"The problem was not that she didn't know about you! The problem was--"

"Excuse me." Andrea isn't sure what the protocol is for interrupting a tetchy priest's audience with his overbearing god. She settles for raising her hand. "May I ask something?"

"Sure, all right." Steven waves for the empty chair to shush. "Go ahead."

"Did Khonshu send you to that last mission as a general, villain-fighting, travelers-of-the-night-protecting principle? Or did he know I was your doctor?"

"Swears he didn't know, until we complained to him about it after," sighs Steven. "I...mostly believe him. He's pulled some dirty tricks in his time, but he's trying."

Andrea nods. "And when he sends you on a mission to protect someone, do you, or he, typically follow up with the traveler afterward?"

"Well...no. Typically they're not somebody we..."

He trails off. Frowns at the chair.

"Ooh. It's special circumstances for you too, innit? You didn't show up here on accident. You were looking for an excuse to pop in and see she's okay."

Silence.

"No, of course, forgot, gods are much too dignified to pop anywhere. Um. Is there anything you want to say to her...? I'll pass it on."

His gaze tracks upward, then down again.

"Absolutely not," snaps Marc, the suit helpfully switching to ID him. "Circumstances aren't that special."

He angles slightly backward, like there's an invisible object looming dangerously close to his face...but his expression holds firm.

Steven swaps back in, straightens up, and nods. "All right...Doctor, he's standing just there, if you want to try facing him. Bending over so he's closer to eye level. Yes, just like that." A pause. "He says your, ah, service has been noted. He means the good kind of noted."

Andrea nods at the air. "Thank you."

Steven listens to the same air, then frowns. "...Gonna have to explain that one, mate."

Silence.

"Right. Okay. He offers you his special protection. Which sounds quite ominous and fancy, but it basically just means any other gods you come across will know not to mess with you. It lasts until the end of your mortal life -- once your soul kips off to another plane of existence, you're on your own."

That's awfully tempting. Especially since, if the next villain to come after Andrea is trying to hurt Steven, the odds of this one being somewhere on the divinity spectrum are...high.

And yet. "Your favor is appreciated, but I know favors from gods usually come with prices."

Steven actually claps -- and suddenly he's Jake, wryly appreciative: "Maldición, where were you twelve years ago?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before Steven swaps back in, listens for a moment, then says, "Right, Doc, I think you're making him a bit flustered to have to admit this. You've paid already, yeah? This offer is because he doesn't want to owe you."

What the hell. "In that case," says Andrea, "thank you, and I accept."

Steven's gaze tracks upward again...

When Andrea glances at him, his face is twitching with some suppressed emotion. Anger? Fear? Frustration?

"He's pretty concerned about us," reports Steven at last. "So he's grateful we're doing well with you, and hopes you keep it up."

A sharp gust of air rustles the blinds.

"...is he unhappy with that summary?" asks Andrea.

"Well! Yes. Yes, he is." Steven rubs his temples, fidgeting again. "It's what you meant, pigeon, and we all know it. I'm not -- no! I am not repeating that! That is very rude."

"Steven. If it's something you're not comfortable repeating, that's fine," says Andrea carefully. "But I want you to remember that you don't have to soften him down to protect my feelings. That's not your job, all right? Not here."

Steven's eyes well up again...

"It is scary how frickin' good you are at this," says -- okay, this is Marc. "Look, Khonshu said some dramatic stuff about how if you abuse our trust he'll make you regret it. Curses on your family, curses on your crops, curses on your livestock -- you get the picture."

"Thank you, Marc." Andrea turns back to the patch of air he keeps glaring at. "Khonshu, we have a rule about not making threats in this office. Can you try saying how you feel again, without the curses this time?"

A pause.

"You're damn right, she presumes," says Marc.

Another pause.

"...and he's gone." Marc sighs. "Said something snippy about how he doesn't take directions from -- look, please don't be offended, he called you a gnat. He always comes up with bug nicknames when he's mad at someone for standing up to him."

"Understood."

The suit switches to Steven's version...then back to the casual clothes he came in with. He wanders back over to the couch, and with a wordless groan flings himself across it, face-down in the pillows.

"Not gonna actually let him put any curses on you," he says, in Steven's accent, only slightly muffled. "Even if this goes...sour, at some point. That'll be between you and us, yeah? Not his business."

"Thank you, Steven."

(Although Andrea is definitely going to take a few extra safety measures behind-the-scenes. Just in case that doesn't work out.)

She picks up her scattered notebook, finds a pen that hasn't rolled off somewhere unreachable, and sits in her own chair. "If you need to decompress, that's completely understandable. Take your time. But there's one thing I'd like to ask, whenever you're ready."

"Yeah? Shoot."

"Earlier, you mentioned something about how my adventure over the weekend might be 'your fault'. What did you mean by that?"

It takes Steven a good while to work up to answering. There's some grumbling under his breath, some deep breathing, and who knows how much internal argument.

At last he rolls over on his back, eyes closed, kneading his forehead with one hand. "Well, ah. A while back, Bucky asked whether I would recommend you to someone dealing with superhuman trauma? Didn't say who he was asking for. But now you're treating the fellow with the dramatic scars who also survived the Winter Soldier program. So."

Ohhhh.

"We also might have disclosed a couple things to Yelena, while she had you kidnapped? Including our honest assessment of your therapeutic skills. So, if you get any Red Room survivors trying to book appointments in the near future...that could be why."

"Anyone else I should prepare for?" asks Andrea dryly. Sort of kidding. Also, sort of not.

"Um...no. Well -- but, yeah, no."

Andrea waits.

"Look, I did mention 'my therapist is amazing' to Wanda Maximoff at some point," frets Steven. "And she is psychic enough that she could pull all the other details out of our head without even trying, if she felt like. But! She's got a magic therapist already, in this whole magic alternate dimension, where they have specialists in some of her very particular magic traumas! And also dragons, I hear? So it seems very unlikely she'll throw all that away any time soon."

"...I see."

"Should I stop recommending you?" Steven's voice is small. "I mean, you've been kidnapped once already. Is this too much?"

"You should recommend me as much or as little as you want," says Andrea steadily. "If someone comes in here that I can't take on as a patient -- because our personalities aren't a good fit, because I don't have room for anyone new in my schedule, because their rogues' gallery is more than I'm prepared to handle -- I'll be the one to figure it out, and turn them down. Leave that part to me."

And if she can take them on? If this keeps going farther, if maybe someday Andrea Sterman ends up being the go-to therapist for magically-traumatized Avengers and Avengers-adjacent super-people...?

Look, she's always liked a professional challenge. And, all right, maybe she's a bit of a maniac in her own right.

She can't wait.