Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Your hands protect the flames
From the wild winds around you
Icarus is flying too close to the sun
And Icarus’ life, it has only just begun
It’s just begun…”
Icarus - Bastille
—

“I gotta put her in the water.”

The green glow from the digital map on the dashboard burnt Steve’s eyes. The blinding white of the snow, forever encroaching. 

Bombs were on the plane heading for New York. He clawed the thoughts of grief that had been tearing him up inside for the past weeks. He didn’t know if he could live like that. If his death meant something, it was to save others.

“Peggy,” the name fell off his tongue. “This is my choice.” 

She was all he had left. His life might have ended upon that snowy afternoon on that train. The cry from his lifelong friend ravaged a deep bout of anguish throughout his chest. 

Pale blue eyes glanced down upon the expanse beneath. The man drew a jarring breath of air and closed his eyes. Fingers on the throttle dented it as it was pressed forward. Whirring overtook, and the wind snapped with such ferocity all around. A flash of the smile Bucky had given him flashed before his eyes—the white of snow and the calling of such gust that wailed in their ears. 

“I’m going to need a rain check on that dance.” The blinding light of the snow was all he could see. It was better this way. 

“You know,” he punched out of his lungs. “I still don’t know how to dance.” He never could. 

A flash. Shoes stumbled over one another as the shorter man was hauled upwards. The height of one another never got in the way of them. The music was always slow, romantic. How girls and boys danced. It’s all they could’ve done in that tiny apartment. The smile upon Bucky’s lips when Steve gripped back at him for practically lifting him off the ground. 

“You’re practically dragging me all over the place!” He snipped. His little, frail body is practically like dust in the wind with every move and turn. 

“Not my fault you can’t keep up with me.” The jerk had the gall to snark back. He could see the smug grin that pulled upon his lips. 

That smile rested upon a dead man’s corpse, rotting in a gorge of snow. 

He’d hoped that he could’ve redeemed himself with Peggy. Have something with her. Her brilliant smile and chocolate brown eyes. Her red lipstick and her cunning personality. He could feel the compass that held her picture in it against himself. 

He could also feel the dog tags around his neck. Etched in them was the name of his misery. Tight fists soon gripped the steering.

“Take mine.” The dead man’s lips spoke. “I’ll be by your side in every way.”

The wind picked up in his ears. 

The ice was now in sight. It won’t be long. The screaming of the wind was all that could be heard. 

“This isn’t payback, is it?”

His voice sounded so vividly in his head. Guilt coiled in his gut. Someone was tearing him from the inside out. 

The captain didn’t dare cry. 

“I’d hate to step on your shoes-.” 

The screeching of metal was all that sounded around his body. The leather cut like a knife at his shoulder, yet he was held in place. This didn’t stop the seat from dislodging. The last thing the captain saw was the breaking of the window as his head hit the beams. It was better this way.

I’m sorry.

-

A sharp hiss cut through the air like a knife. The occasional beep was heard from an unknown source. 

“Are you sure he’s alive?” A raspy voice came from the left. Or was it the right? The person was a mystery, voice unrecognizable. Should it belong to someone?

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

Another man spoke up. He sounded much more confident than the opposing one. It was the oddest thing. 

The darkness is graceful enough to swallow him whole. 

-

Static noise. A bright light. 

A white ceiling meets the man as soon as his lashes flutter open. Soft whirring from the ceiling fan draws his attention as it spins around and around again. 

“So the Dodgers are tied, 4-4. And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow’s capable of making it a brand-new game again.”

Cautious eyes danced around the room in a nervous swing. Where was he? The radio droned on in the background alongside the honks and noise of the city. 

The Dodgers…

A glance at the window favoured a soft breeze coming in from it. It couldn’t be felt. 

Senses slowly came back to him. He swung his body to the side. Dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. This wasn’t what he was wearing previously. He was sure of it. 

Gut curling inwards, something settled. This isn’t right. 

Worst of all, the radio. 

“Pearson beaned Reiser in Philadelphia last month.”

Oh, did he? A small smile formed upon his lips at the mere thought. 

A hot flash of agony pelted his left temple. Several blinks later, the vision of the crème and sage walls returned to him. 

“Swung on. A line to the right.”

The radio looked pristine, vintage. Right with the era of this room. But that wasn’t the time now, was it? 

This all sat ill with the man in the cott. 

“Three runs will score.”

“Are you seeing this?!” 

“Reiser heads to third. Durocher’s going to wave him in.”

“He’s going home, Stevie!”

Soft footsteps are approaching. Weight shifting, the bed creaks from underneath. Who is this?

A woman, dolled up in a shirt, skirt, and tie walks in. Professional. It makes sense. But, all at the same time, it doesn’t. He shouldn’t be here. 

“Good morning. Or should I say good afternoon?” She introduced herself with a warm and inviting smile. 

A deceit that is bypassed. 

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City.”

Pausing, lips are pressed against one another as he takes a moment to ponder this. The windows give way to a city that is supposedly recognizable. The smog of New York is absent. The noises are incoherent in a way that tells him that this is something other than reality. 

“The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers!”

“We’re winning this one! We’re winning this one good!”

Yeah, they were. 

“Where am I really?” 

The nervous smile and laugh were seen from a mile away. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

It needs to be made clearer?

“The game. It’s from May 1941. I know ‘cause I was there in the stands.”

The air is sucked out of the room, it seems. The woman’s well-created sunshine is all but put out. The lie has been caught. 

Standing up with a deep breath. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. Where am I?”

It rustled against her sleeves before he saw it. “Captain Rogers.” She trailed off. 

Rogers. Was that his name?

A small beep was heard as the device’s bulb flashed a siren red. 

“Who are you?!”

Two men flooded the room in front of Rogers. Spine straight, and bawling his hands into fists, a fight was guaranteed. 

Lunging forward, he’d grab them by the front of their vests. The look of concern that crossed their faces would be ignored in favor of throwing them through the wall. 

Rogers let out a small gasp. 

The way they spun through the air and slammed into a cement wall, beyond the fake wall, was unintentional. 

Yet, it did get the job done. However, another concern was raised. Strength. His strength came from his hands. Ones he acted with like a second nature, but now only realized we’re all but numb. 

What did they do to him?

Run. 

Dashing towards the door, he heard the liar’s voice cut across the room. “Captain Rogers, wait!” He didn’t. 

“I repeat. All agents, code 13.”

What is code 13?

People surrounded him. One pointed at him and shouted. 

Run.

Slamming into several people, the opposition was thrown to the ground with light force. They went skidding across the ground, immobilized from picking up the chase. 

A door greeted him, the sun shining through the open windows on the entryway. 

Barreling through, Rogers would find himself a foreign man in a foreign land. At the very least, he was in America. The flag hangs high proudly on an alternate building. Honks surrounded him everywhere, sickly familiar air filling his lungs. 

The vehicles honked and screeched around him. They drew him in front of them like a dog herding sheep. Dashing past the car gaining on his left, it’d end in him in a well-populated area.

Amidst it all, his feet planted him within the center. Lights, chatter, and traffic circle him all at once. This was to be New York? Bank of America, read one sign. Baskin-Robbins, American Eagle Outfitters, Disney, and more. At one point, he spotted a quick image of what seems to be a soldier passing by on one of these signs. 

 Before Roger knew it, vehicles were pulling in front of him. People, agents, were flooding out and towards him. Get ready for a fight. 

“At ease, soldier!”

A voice cut through the air, capturing Roger’s attention in an instant. Was he a soldier? It made sense. Captain Rogers. The title did allude to it. Any attempt to dredge any memories of being a soldier came up blank. Static fills his head. A quick throb of pain in his head only dissuaded this line of thought. 

The man approached with a weight of importance following his every step. “Look, I’m sorry about that little show back there, but we thought it best to break it to you slowly.” 

“Break what?” It left Rogers nearly instantly. Thought merging into voice. What were they hiding?

The man paused. This wasn’t to be good. 

“You’ve been asleep, Cap. For almost 70 years.” 

How? 

The captain’s foot stumbled back, landing him to stare at the bright and illuminated place around him. Is this why everything felt so off? He was in the wrong time? Who was he supposed to be with?

With eyes dancing around the new New York, he thought of the fake room. How familiar, how warm it made him feel, even if it was nothing but a lie. 

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied nearly instinctively. He took a sharp breath, inhaling what he now recognizes as different air than what he had previously thought was familiar. 

“Yeah, I just…”

He turned to look at the stranger with the eyepatch for a moment. Glance falling to the ground, his shoulders twitched, hunching slightly inwards. 

“I promise we’ll get better seats next time. I’ll even try and get some extra hours at the docks.”

“I was going to meet someone again.”

The silence between the two of them was strange. Rogers didn’t have to look up to assume the man’s own look upon his past words. 

“Well, let’s get you out of here. You’ve got quite the crowd here.”

-

The city passed by like a streak of light. Billboards and people passing by. 

Sigh. 

Cheek pressed against the tinted glass window, Rogers finds himself observing the new world. Whatever this new world is. A heavy weight settles within his throat. 

“Here.” 

Twisting his head, Rogers looked at the woman sitting next to him. She’s holding out a handheld device with a black screen. 

Tentatively, he makes a reach for it. His unfeeling fingers missed the grab. Oh, that’s not good.

Second time’s the charm, successfully grabbing what the agent offered. Rogers doesn’t have to look up to feel the piercing gaze she gives. 

“This is a cell phone. You can communicate with Fury directly from there.” 

“Fury?” Rogers sits up, glancing to meet the other’s sharp eyes. 

“The man you met.”

“Ah.” Rogers fiddles with the cell phone he was gifted with.

Does it have bugs? 

A pout of his lips. Bugs? He flips the phone over twice – no little critters. 

The car then lurches to a stop, and Rogers’ attention is snatched away.

-

Led out of the black vehicle, he’s taken to the same man —Fury, he reminds himself— to an entryway. Several cars around him prove that this building also had civilians inside it. 

“You’ll be staying here for the time being, Captain.” The man says, leading him through a dimly lit hallway. The silver-plated numbers above the doorways make for apartment residences. 

They were going to stick him in an apartment. 

It was a somber realization. Sticking him in a cage all by himself. 

Arriving at a doorway at the end of the hall, number 2311, Rogers awaited as the man unlocked the door. 

Fury opened the door, gesturing with a gloved hand for him to go inside. Conceding, his legs carried him through the doorway and into a minimally decorated room. An unknown device-

A fridge. 

A fridge sat in the same room as a couch, even if at opposite ends. A tiny apartment with maybe a bedroom, guessing by the one closed door to the right. 

“There’s food in the fridge, water from the tap, and all new bedsheets.” Swiveling to face Fury, Rogers nodded curtly. The keys were handed over to him. Grabbing them, they jangled within his grip. “New clothes will arrive by later tonight. You will also get a SHIELD card for you to buy whatever you need on it by tomorrow.” 

“Sounds good, sir.” Rogers would say, turning back to the apartment. 

This all felt surreal. He had been dropped in a new world, barely a clue what was happening, and left to his own devices so early on. 

Like a newborn fawn in a world so big and scary. 

He shuddered at that thought. 

Hey, it’ll be okay. 

“We’ll be in contact with you.”

Rogers doesn’t turn around to say goodbye. The door closes, and he is alone.

-

Rogers’ stomach rumbles as he stares at the fridge. He grabs at his stomach and-

Geez.

The very action sent his spine shivering and the muscles there twitching at the shock.

His hands are cold. Frigid. 

Why are they so cold? A whimper. 

An even louder grumble. 

No matter, his stomach hurts. 

Come on, get some food. Rotting away here. 

Rogers practically throws himself at the fridge. Yanking the door open, he manages to use enough force to make it lurch in place. 

A hiss of air is released, causing the man to flinch back. Several fruits, drinks, and other items are situated inside. 

Grasping the bag of grapes, the door is slammed closed behind him. Without a second thought, Rogers dives into the bag. Shoveling the food in his mouth, Rogers melts at the taste.

Rumble. More got shoved in the man’s mouth. 

They taste so delicious. 

Don’t they?

Grumble. More. Please. 

There are no more on the branch. 

More.

Right hand launching into the bag, he grabs the next branch by the grapes and-

Rogers blinks. Liquid paints his face. The grapes are all but exploded within his unfeeling hands. The deep red skin is left in ripped pieces, decorating his hand and the remains of the stem. They mock him. 

How does he keep messing up on the most basic of things?

Rogers shudders and glances around the room. Spotting a metallic container, he walks over. There’s a lever on the bottom of this. His foot instinctively finds its place on it. Pressing down, the lid goes up.

This, this is a trash can?

If the bag and bin are anything to go by, then yes. 

Wow. It looks, well, modern. 

Trash cans used to simply be buckets. Weren’t they? 

Or just a bag in the kitchen. 

“Earl should be over for this.” A thump echoed as the bag hit the side of a huge metal trash can. A small kid with blond hair in his eyes blinking up owlishly at a woman who had no face.

Hissing, a white hot pain pelted his left temple. A shake of his head, and several blinks later, watery eyes cleared up. 

The red skin of the grapes still decorates his hand. 

Oh, yeah. 

Rogers chucks the remains right into the bin, the white bag inside rippling as it hits the bottom. Just like it would have in the kitchen, however many years ago, the bag makes a similar ‘tsh’ noise. A smile. 

Rogers stares directly at his next enemy when he makes his way to the sink. 

Enemy? It’s a faucet. Not an enemy. 

Enemy. 

Eyes closed, deep breath. His head was starting to work up a slight pain. 

He needs to wash his hands. Just wash his hands without breaking anything. Simple. Right?

Peeking, Rogers wrapped his delicately numbed hand around the metal bar.

Moment of truth. Rogers visualized what he would do if he still had feeling in his own hands, pushing up with the barest of power.

The handle lifted slightly. Water trickled down from the faucet. This was good. More. 

“Please.” Oh, please, let this work. 

The water was now coming down in a wide stream.

Phew.

Rogers’ right hand was placed underneath, and red skin and other goop from the grapes were washing away and down the drain. 

Satisfied with his newly fresh hand, the water was turned off with the same delicate care.

It seemed he didn’t know his own strength anymore. 

It was a very concerning thing. 

Rogers looked down at his hands. The barest thought still made them move. They were still working like any standard set of limbs would. Their numbness and coldness were the only things that made no sense.

They said he woke up from the ice, correct? A shudder shot down his spine.

The room suddenly felt so cold.

“Oof.”

Rogers doesn’t know why he threw himself down and onto the couch. When did he even walk over? 

God, his head was starting to hurt. Cold met warm as he rubbed his palm against his temple.

“Ugh.” Grumbling, his head felt like someone just took a hammer to it.

It’ll go soon. Promise.

Really? Could he promise himself that?

His lips quirked.

Yes, he could.

Oh, that sounded so nice…

His head hit one of the cushions.

-

The sun was in his eyes.

“Ughhh.”

The sun was gone a moment later. 

Blearily, his vision was coming back to him. Rogers’ left hand was blocking out the sun. 

The headache wasn’t even gone. If anything, it was worse. And here he was, thinking it would’ve been better. 

Sigh.

Couldn’t he just roll back over?

A familiar feeling was settling in his gut. 

Well, that’s probably why.

And the sun. 

Oh yeah, that too.

Rogers hears himself snicker.

Yeah yeah, he’s slow sometimes.

Stretching, he’d throw his arms back and kick his legs around. It would’ve been so nice, but-

Shit!

Shooting up like a bullet, a hiss left him. A throbbing pain shot through his left shoulder. The hell?

Arms back to his sides, Rogers sat there taking deep breaths as the throbbing calmed down from that once initial striking agony.

He needed to go.

God, what was up with his body?

His shoulders and head throbbed at the same time.

Getting on two feet, he’d stumble down to the bedroom door. Kicking the door open, allowing his arms some leeway, it’d reveal a very blank-looking living area. White sheets, white walls, white dressers.

Later.

He’d walk through the open doorway that led into a clean bathroom. Shiny tiles, counter, and even toilet.

Throwing the door back with his right foot, he’d waltz over to the toilet. 

The seat would slam back with an almighty crack as the supersoldier raised it with his right hand. Rogers couldn't bring himself to care at this particular moment.

Pants ruffling, the man would stare down as his hands frantically tried to get the zipper down.

Frowning as the seconds carried on, he couldn't quite get that good of a grasp. Might as well just tear them.

Then something happened. He could’ve sworn he heard a small whir.

Blink.

-

Chapter Text

“Old yellow bricks, love’s a risk

Quite the little escapologist

Looks so miffed when you wished

For a thousand places better than this“

Old Yellow Bricks - Arctic Monkeys

—

Noncoherent chatting. That’s the first thing he recognizes around himself. Fuzzy noise, the casual sounds of workers behind the counter. 

Crunch. 

Eyes shooting open, Rogers promptly spat out the foreign object in his mouth. 

The item was all but torn from his mouth. The table jostled. There was a loud clatter as his right arm all but slammed down on it. Mouth down-turning, Rogers was quick to jump the gun, grabbing the table and pushing it down. The table didn’t keel over. 

Rather, a box full of condiments clattered to the ground, spilling all onto the ground. Deep blue eyes darted around the unknown area. The hell? 

A multitude of eyes were on him. Judging, curious, and looking at the commotion that he just caused. He was in public. Blood rushing to his cheeks, the man sheepishly looked down at the mess he made. Confused, concerned, and lost he sat. 

Like a scorned child. A squeak and his cheeks flared with more dustings of red.

Reaching down to the floor with his left hand, the man picked up packets that labeled themselves as sweeteners. For coffee? Resetting the box they were once in before, he’d place them back on the table. Pause. They were semi-near the edge. That was their place before.

What if he knocked them off again? A deep hum of consideration. Sticking out his left index finger, he’d poke and prod it till it was away from the edge. Good enough. 

Rogers shifted in his seat. Glancing away and back to said right arm, he’d meet the very things that startled him in the first place.

The terrifying, the scandalous –

It's a bagel. A bagel.

A half-eaten bagel with an unknown substance in the middle was in his grasp. Edible by any means.

Downwards was his phone, situated beside his left hand, resting on the table. Next to it was a pen without a tip. Reaching outwards with his left hand, he’d pick it up. The tip was what looked to be rubber. Clicking the end, sure enough, it would become a writing utensil.

What was the rubber for?

A lament from his stomach paused that line of thought. He was hungry. The sudden head-on realization was only amplified when he inhaled deeply, scenting the shop around him. Coffee, baked goods, and toasting of bread. Gulp. Swallowing the spit that he was salivating, he’d look down at the bagel. 

Don’t sit here drooling.

Something for later it seemed. Grasping at the bagel, he’d turn it over. He was eating this. A low rumble resonated from his stomach. Eat it.

Rogers lifted the bagel to his mouth, taking a sound bite of it. Oh, that’s so good. The man practically melted, a small moan escaping his lips. A blush painted his cheeks, embarrassed by the said noise. 

Oh, this is so much better than what he’s used to. 

Another bite, and then another. Rogers soon found himself dusting his fingers off on his shirt, smearing the white cream from the inside of the snack all over his pants. 

Stop that. There’s a napkin. It’s for using.

Sure enough, there was a napkin underneath his phone. Huh, he didn’t notice that until now. A grumble resonated from him. 

“Really?” his voice whined. He sounded like an ill-natured child, groaning at the most basic requests. A head-tilt and an eye roll later, he felt a heaving sigh resonate from his diaphragm. 

The man all but wiped his hands clean, the napkin crumbling underneath his right hand. “Happy?” The voice all but gripped.

A deep hum came from his throat. That was certainly better than smearing it and getting his clothes dirty.

His stomach rumbles. Insatiable it seems. 

Well, it is only a bagel. Proper food would be nice.

Yeah, this is better than the sop they have us on. God, this is so good. 

Sop? Pouting, Rogers would look around the shop, there was no recollection of another meal.

It was horrible.

Well yes, he knew that. 

A huff left his jolting in place. Hilarious.

Rogers turned to face the counter of the shop he was in. To get another bagel?

Blink. 

-

A wailing horn goes off next to him. 

Light, color, and city noise. 

Rogers stumbles to the side and into another body. 

“Hey! Watch it there!”

The strange, and honestly snotty, looking man snapped at him. 

“Sorry, sorry.”

The world was one of blurred dots and muffled noise as if underwater. Rogers gasped for air, shaking his head. 

He felt lightheaded, his eyes twitching. In between the muzzled sounds of whatever was around him, another voice called out. 

“Steve.”

Was someone talking to him? He tried to shake his head again. 

Blink.

-

Something plastic seemed to be making noise, crumbling loudly. Jolting in place, blue eyes found a multitude of bags in his hand. Plastic and thin, they showcased their insides, filled with all assortments of boxes and other items. 

Food. 

Oh, at the store? Rogers hummed. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, but…

His legs carry him down the hallway. Plastered white walls and wooden doors pass by. A maze by the looks of it. 

Feet stop in front of a familiar door. It even has a chip on the top right panel of wood. It’s the place the man in the eyepatch introduced him to.

The jangle of keys was heard before he even registered the door opening. 

A blast of cool air hit Rogers when the door creaked open. Strolling to the kitchen area, the bags would be thrown down and onto the counter with a clear thunk. Plastic rippled as the man grabbed what was inside. 

Rogers stared, blinking at the strawberries and oranges he pulled from the bag. These were luxurious products for rationing. Swallowing the drool pooling in his mouth, he set them to the side. Next was a carton of milk, as the label directed. All were perishable if not stored. 

Gathering the milk and strawberries in his left arm, he strode over to the fridge. The door flew open once more with such force that a gust of wind hit Rogers’ face. 

Damn it, damn it, damn it. He needed to be more careful. Knocking his head against the fridge door, the man timidly placed the carton inside the fridge first, followed by the strawberries. 

What was next? Rogers closed the door and went back to the plastic bags.

The following items were boxes containing coffee, cereal, and… candy? It looked like candy: a chocolate bar, a package labeled M&Ms, and gummy bears. 

The package of gummy bears crumbled in his grasp, the plastic letting out a noise of protest at the force he was holding it with. It trembled like a leaf. Brightly colored bears—red, yellow, and green—stared back at him. 

The bag shook, letting out a hiss as the pressure increased.

They’re being squished! Stop it!

Like the treat was hot iron, they were released within the instant. Falling to the floor with a thump, Rogers stared down at the crumbled, sad package.

They seemed so far away. Was he a giant to the snack? The ground was moving, getting farther away and more blurred by the second. The flickering of his eyes did nothing but make it more nauseating.

No, gummy bears… 

Rogers fell to his knees.

-

Chewing noises and his jaw moving was what he was greeted with. 

Rogers was still in the apartment. The man was staring at an amalgamation of scraps in a cardboard box top. A hand is grabbing at the mangled wires and plastic balls of them. They’re crushed into oblivion, they don’t work anymore.

What are they though?

Bugs. 

Silence.

Bugs? 

Swiveling them around, they were made out of string plastic, with a shine to a circular spot on all of them. He just doesn’t see bugs. 

A deep sigh, he sees the ceiling as his eyes roll. Cameras. Video recorders. Whatever they’re called. 

A roll of the sphere. Oh, there’s the lens. Cameras. They were… in his apartment. 

A deep frown found itself on Roger's face. They put them in his apartment. They were always watching him. With how many there are, they might have been in all the rooms.

He did hear a whir in the bathroom last night. Was this what they were? The box shows what looks to be 20 or more spheres. They were all spying on him. 

Crack! 

Blue eyes shoot over to the contraption in his hand. Now shattered into several pieces, it sparks with tiny bits of electricity. And yet, he still feels nothing. 

The bits are thrown into the pile of scrap. A loud puff leaves Rogers’ lungs. It serves them right. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

Next to the box is the phone that he was given. It is left damaged by the rampage that destroyed the bugs. Yet, he’s sure it isn’t safe. 

There’s nothing to be done about that for now. Just for now.

Grasping the device with the utmost caution, he pulls it towards him. He taps the button below. Nothing happens. The screen is dead black. Does it work?

The button on the side. The upper right side. 

Rogers tries that next with the same care. Best to not break this.

5:39. It’s late in the afternoon if the lighting is anything to go by. The day’s nearing its end already. He feels like a caged animal in here even if he just went shopping for food. 

There’s always tomorrow, he supposes. Rogers turns to look at the grocery bags still on the kitchen counter. 

Sigh. 

-

By the end of the groceries and scouting out the place properly, the light is close to sundown. Lights are on throughout the place and Rogers is conducting an inventory. 

Food? Check. Clothing? Check. Yet, something more personal would be nice. Furniture? Check. The whole place is blank and gives off a strong sense of lifelessness. White walls, white furniture, and more. Oh, don’t get even started with essentials. Travel-sized sizes of everything for right now. They’re so tiny, it was just sad. 

Clothing, essentials, and money will be needed for anything and everything. Rogers ponders over the piece of plastic he was given. Fury had directed him to use it. 

Who was he to not?

A small chuckle left his chest. 

That was the plan for tomorrow. But back to now, he needed to sleep. Nearly 70 years of sleep —or so he’d been told— and he was feeling sleepy. 

A shower was needed first. 

Waltzing across the open area kitchen and into another white room, he opens the door to the bedroom. 

He took three seconds to look around the place. It had white walls, two fluffy pillows, a blue bedspread, a painted white desk, and a lamp. Somehow, it was even more generic than a hotel room. 

Could walk down the street and get something better. Even if it’d be a cheap ass hotel. 

“ Shush! ”

Rogers hissed under his breath, throwing his head back and shaking it. Geez, all this conflict over a room.

Grumbling. Well, it shouldn’t look this bland…. and tasteless. 

Rogers grasped at the navy blue sheets, tugging at them. They are simply tasteless. This entire room looks lifeless. Going out tomorrow is a necessity. 

Yes, that needs to be done anyway. The checklist from earlier. 

Showering was the priority for now. 

Exhaling, Rogers turned on his heels, away from the bed, and towards the wooden door nearest the bathroom. Grabbing the doorknob, the door opened up to a nearly empty closet. Hangers and a hanging shoe rack decorated a pipe that ran through the little area. Situated on the ground, atop small shoeboxes, were stacks of multicolored shirts. Alongside the pants and shorts on the bottom of the pile, they would work for now. 

Grabbing a navy blue short-sleeved shirt and a grey pair of shorts, Rogers closed the closet door with a sound thunk. 

Into the bathroom, Rogers went. 

-

The towel was hung on a towel rack near the shower. Fresh clothes were carefully set on the corner of the sink, the shower curtain gave way as Rogers shoved it to the side. Bottles lined the side of the shower. Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Maybe face wash could be gotten later? Nonetheless, it was ready to go.

Two knobs for the temperature and a faucet with a lever atop it for the bath. Simple enough to maneuver for a shower. Rogers leaned it, outstretching both of his hands.  

With a squeak from both levers, water rained down upon the man from above. 

A startled gasp broke from his mouth. 

So cold. The water — it was freezing. Teeth chattered among the pitter-patter of the shower. Ice crawled up his veins. 

Blinking rapidly, his head felt like it was dunked underwater. Eyes watering, Rogers heard a defining snarl from somewhere around him. Was there something else in the room with him?

His head was thrown back. Falling backwards, Rogers crashed down to the ground. 

Crack!

-

Huff.

Head shaking back and forth in rapid motions, blonde clumps of hair smacked Rogers’ face repetitively. 

Opening his eyes, the soldier was met with a steamy bathroom. Mirrors fogged, water dripping down the tiles in the shower, and the body dripping with water. 

Shivering, Rogers’ eyes shot over to the towel. The cold was crawling up his body, seizing his chest in tight and swift breaths. 

Snatching the towel hastily, the man draped it around his body. It did little to help. One shuddering breath later, Rogers was grabbing his clothes with the hand he didn’t hold the towel up with. 

Bursting into the bedroom, Rogers found it didn’t help in the slightest as a blast of air hit him. 

God, it’s so cold. 

Dropping the towel, Rogers found himself quickly dressed in a short-sleeved top and shorts. Pajamas. 

Pajamas are meant to be fluffy. 

A small grumble broke out from the man’s mouth. “These are not.” His hands gave way to tugging on the white shirt he wore. Definitely not sleepwear material. 

Deserving of fluffy pajamas, that’d be added to the list. 

It was a bit ridiculous how he was going about this. Yes, it was freezing all around him. Like the ice? The agents claimed that it had a tight grasp on him for decades. Was that why his body was being so sensitive to such sensations? It couldn’t be confirmed nor denied. 

Warmth, that would be a delight.

Stumbling over to the bed with legs that quivered like a chair with three legs, Rogers would cast his arms out onto the mattress. Grasping at thin sheets, it would be such a relief for his legs for the support he got from leaning on the bed. 

Rogers found his body thrown into the bed, body keening and hands grasping for the comforters. Sheets retracted and thrown over himself, Rogers snuggled into its frigid comfort. 

Through bleary and watering eyes, he’d stare at the opened bathroom door. Light poured out from it, the disarray inside left all but abandoned. 

Cold hands traveled up his warm skin, sending a fresh wave of shivers through him. It was water being dunked all over him. 

A sorrowful noise escaped his mouth. 

It would get warmer eventually. 

Rogers was cautious of that train of thought. It was so cold. Numbed arms, cold hands, and his body quaking like he was a dog left outside in the winter. 

The man shifted in place, carrying the blanket until he was wrapped up snuggly. It nearly felt like a phantom hug. Felt wrapped around him, a tight embrace. Warmth was finally seeping into his ailing-written skin.

Rogers didn’t know how long he stared at the white paint on the wall. He didn’t want to be here. The thought of it all. A towering giant looming over him. 70 years. Asleep in ice. A whole world–

Eyes shooting wide, his head would snap backwards, blanket keening in the forcefulness of the blow. Who was there to miss? What was there to miss?

The woman in the skirt. She looked at something he could vaguely recall. Flashing lights, timid smiles, and extending hands. Red lipstick, brown hair, and a pistol in hand. All of this. What was it for though? 

Kicking his feet out, the man fought and tussled with the blanket. Get me out, get me out!

Then, a soaring wave crashed over his head.

Nothing.

Midair, Rogers was taught like a puppet on strings.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Blinking, Rogers settled back down and into the sheets. He felt the warm, welcoming grasp of the blanket once more. A hum, as he closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness that enveloped him. It was so very warm.

Sleep. Don’t fret.

Yes, yes that sounded nice. 

The wave overtook him. Warmth pulling him deep underwater and into the abyss.

-

Chapter Text

“Time is strange, it’s ever flowing, never going back

It moves but only in one way

Turn the page, look back at what you wrote

Do you still feel the same? I’ll bet your mind has changed”

Hourglass - Set it Off

—

The world is one of white, a silver circle shining in the middle.

Ka-put!

Rogers spits out toothpaste onto the silver drain. He grabs the faucet, flooding the sink and letting the remnants wash away.

The toothbrush's bristles were rifled through, leaning against the counter. After being cleaned sufficiently, the object was placed on its side. Running unfeeling hands beneath the water yielded no discomfort—thank God.

Taking in the water, it’d take him only a multitude of moments till he spat it back out. 

Ready to leave, he’d wipe his hands on a nearby towel before turning on his heel and walking out of the bathroom. A click signifying the light was turned off. No wasting energy around here.

Blink. 

His head felt fuzzy. Like he was up in the clouds. 

Rogers was reaching up, opening a cupboard in the kitchen. Grasping a bowl, he’d bring it down to the counter.

Bleary blinking, the man went and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. He wanted to go back to bed. 

His lips warbled. 

No, Rogers needed to eat. 

Opening the fridge doors, milk was brought down and onto the counter. Pillaging the pantry, a cereal labeled Fruit-Loops landed next to the bowl with a thud. 

It was quiet. The honks of vehicles, the wind of the outside, and the talking from rooms adjacent to him. It was loud in the sense of hearing the littlest of things. 

A loud huff broke out from his chest. 

Music will have to come after the ditching of the bug-infested phone. 

That sounded… nice. 

Pop! 

The cereal bag exploded open. Rogers’ lashes fluttered, eyebrows raised. 

The cereal was unceremoniously dumped into the bowl. 

Did he really need that full of a bowl?

His hand with the plastic in his grasp dropped to the counter with a thump. He stared at the off-white wall. 

“Really?”

More cereal was dumped in the bowl till it was at the top. 

Rogers’ frowned. The pitter-patter of the cereal dropping in the bowl stopped. 

His vision was suddenly blurred.

Eyelashes fluttering, they tickled his cheeks. 

There was a sharp inhale.

-

Rogers shoveled the last of the cereal into his mouth. Crunching down with satisfaction, he let out a long sigh. Content and stuffed, a hand would pat his stomach. His feet kicked back and forth before slowing down to a standstill. 

His left eye twitched, shoulders dropping as the spoon clattered in the bowl.

Grasping the bowl cautiously, the man would bring it over to the sink, turning on the faucet and rinsing it clean. Opening the dishwasher, he’d set the spoon and bowl inside. Closing it back up, Rogers returned and grabbed the cereal box. 

Pause.

Rattle rattle. The box was empty. Eyes widening, Rogers’ hand shot to the plastic wrapping. Crinkling was all that was heard as it was all but yanked from the box. Pebbles of what was once a full bag. 

Jaw dropping, Rogers’ stared at it. 

It was full before. Did he eat all of that? The fullness in his gut did give a likely answer to his own question. 

Biting his lower lip, the soldier’s gaze dropped to the floor. He didn’t even realize he’d dropped the cardboard box either.

Squatting down, Rogers outstretched his hand. Grasping the box, it’d be brought up alongside him.

Crunch.

The box crumbled in on itself, fingers leaving tell-tale dents in their wake. 

 The man’s mouth twisted into a sorrowful frown. Damn it. 

The box and wrapper were all but slammed into the trash can.

On the corner of the kitchen counter were the keys to the apartment. Grasping them, they’d sing a casual jingle as Rogers swiped them up. Head swiveling down, his hand dug in his jeans' front pocket. A plastic card surfaced, numbers and letters decorating it in silver. 

Money and keys, ready to go.

Opening the front door, the man would step outside.

The card was shoved back into his pocket. But what about the phone? Rogers’ eyes cast aside, flickering over the device on the kitchen table.

It wasn’t necessary. Bug-infested. The agents would track and listen to everything.

On second thought, it was probably best to leave the device behind.

The door to the apartment slammed shut, wood shuttering in place.

-

Checklist: cash, pajamas, other clothing, hygiene products, new phone, and headphones. 

Sauntering down the street, people pass by in a flash. No worry for the people around, just a place to get to. A means to an end. 

This all is vaguely familiar to the man out of time.

Rogers looks around –business after business, sign after sign, building after building– for what he needs.

The man blinks up at a sign, dazzled in bright white lettering: Bank of America. 

A snicker breaks from his mouth. 

He glares daggers at the sign. It's not funny.

Oh, it's funny.

Someone shoves into him, yet he stands still like a boulder, unmovable. 

A shout is thrown his way. It doesn’t matter as he walks into the building. 

It is not a busy time, its a day of the week. What day of the week is it? He’ll check later, Rogers is getting to an atm. 

There is a screen lit up with a “Welcome! Please insert your card.” It was something that made the soldier smile.

Rogers dug out the card, inserting it into its rightful slot.

Options came up on the screen. 

Withdrawal.

He reached out to tap the screen.

Nothing. 

What?

A deep frown and furrowed eyebrows followed. More aggressive taps. 

Nothing.

He looked at his numbed hands. Looking over the pink flush that decorated his fingertips, no problem seemed amiss. Besides the fact that they were numb, there should be no reason for them to not work.

Maybe the pen?

Oh, that may work.

Digging into his right pocket, he fishes out the rubber tip pen. Moment of truth.

It works! Pearly white teeth peek out from behind his lips, brilliant in all their glory. 

Withdrawal was clicked.

How much to withdraw? 

He doesn’t want SHEILD tracking what he does, right? 

A quick shake of his head. No, he very much wanted not to be under a magnifying glass. 

He clicks in a thousand dollars.

Moments later he collects the cash and is on his way to the exit. Hundreds right on top of other hundreds. Stuffing them into his pocket alongside the card, he’s stepping through the threshold. 

Wait, a thousand dollars?!

Rogers gasps, hand going to his pocket. 

Something hits him, like the other night. Water flowing over his head.

His thoughts become fuzzy, almost non-existent. 

Blink.

- 

He’s walking into a department store. Clothing is all that he sees, as far as the eye can see.

Men’s clothing is foretold by the sign above him to be to left. Rogers finds himself picking at colorful short-sleeved shirts. Blue, red, grey, and other assorted colors decorate the clothes draped over his arms.

Rogers was walking towards the pants that was spotted a few steps away when he stopped in his tracks. 

Head swiveling to the right, he was met with a shelf of folded up t-shirts. Each shirt having a burst of colors on them. 

Graphic t-shirts.

Blinking rapidly, the man would shake his head. He watched as his free hand shot out, grasping at the display. 

Do they have anything good that he could actually wear?

The hand dove in each individual cubby. A frown and a small groan. Nooooo, they didn’t have anything good. Maybe a cat shirt, but nothing else. 

This isn’t exactly the place for that. Later.

Rogers was standing still, staring at the t-shirts. Did he want any? He didn’t find himself particularly wanting them. 

The hand grasped at the cat shirt. Yea, he wanted it.

He didn’t need it, let alone know what it is. 

A huff left him, yanking the shirt from the display. It will be his.

Rogers blinked at the shirt. It was a cat that looked supremely unhappy. It wasn’t anything that he needed or knew about. But, it was being stuffed in with the other t-shirts that were picked out. It didn’t make sense why he need this but–

It was needed.

That sounded oddly stern to him. 

“Sir?”

Huh?

Wide azure eyes darted over to a woman in work clothes, nametag reading Jessica. Rogers took a step back, startled by her sudden presence. 

Her look gave way to a timid smile. “Can I help you today?”

And as easy as pie, a smile washed over his face, eyes lighting up. “No, I’m just looking around today. Thank you for asking though.” The phrase rolling off his tongue without a second thought.

A nod, and the employee was off.

Jeans.

Right. Jeans. Off Rogers went.

-

Its 2 in the afternoon when he finally gets led to a booth in a restaurant and ready to eat. Clothing, hygiene, and other miscellaneous items have been dropped off at the house. Now in jeans and a red colored shirt, he’s being sat down. Given a menu, he grabs it, stomach growling. Rogers really shouldn’t have waited this long to eat. 

Super soldiers needing more food, yada-yada. Get some food.

“Anything to drink?” 

“Water, no ice, please and thank you.”

The man sees the waiter walk off at the corner of his eye. Opening the menu, he’s met with rows and rows of dishes. Fish, steak, hamburgers, and other assortments. They all look appetizing.

Thud, the menu is discarded in favor of the glass of water being delivered. 

“Need more time?”

“No, I think I’m good.”

He just looked at the menu, not even for 3 minutes.

“Two meals of cheeseburgers, and another set of fries on top of the fries that come with the meals. Oh, and macaroni for all the sides.”

He looks down at the closed menu. There wasn’t any noise from the waiter. He didn’t hear any writing of the pen either. 

“Can you repeat that again?” Turning to the waiter, he’d be met with furrowed eyebrows. The man was obviously confused. This booth was small, no one else here but Rogers. He shouldn’t be ordering that much. But, this was good food. He wasn’t passing this up over the look he just got.

“3 cheeseburgers, 4 fries, and 3 mac and cheese sides.” Rogers says with a meek smile. “Please.”

The blinking, the silence from the waiter. Then the pen moved, writing down his order. Good. This was something nice for himself. “It’ll take longer, but I’m sure that’s obvious.” The waiter piped up. Rogers smiled and nodded, tongue weighing heavy. “No worry, time’s all I have.” The voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Heavy with a dialect he couldn’t decipher.

Collecting the menu, the man goes on his way. 

Probably to warn the kitchen of this crazy man ordering three meals for himself.

Yeah, he did eat a lot. This was a lot compared to what everyone else would most likely be getting. A pink tint stained his cheeks. 

He’s left with the casual atmosphere of the restaurant and his cup of water. Reaching for it, he’d take multiple gulps, finishing it all in one go. Ah, the dryness that plagued his throat all but resolved. Thump, the glass goes back down to the table. 

Looking around aimlessly, the most entertaining thing is the chatter. Not even the sports they show on the tv give Rogers a reason to listen. Golf isn’t something he particularly liked. Baseball is where all his cards are at. Oh, he watches the golf channel on the tv with a longing look. How he wished there was baseball on that screen.

The chatter around him turned to white noise as he stared at the tv. One of the channels had a local news station on. A woman and man were at the table. Rachael and Ted, as they introduced themselves. The weather was coming up it seemed. 

Rogers watched with little focus.

The corner of his mouth twitched down. 

-

“Sir?”

Head fuzzy, Rogers blinked aimlessly at the roof above his head. His head was light, vision narrowed to nothing but a chip missing from the ceiling. 

“Sir.”

Eyes falling to the floor, Rogers heard something to the right of him. What was it? It didn’t matter to the clouded feeling his head was in. Like he was floating in the sky, his head was drifting away.

“Sir.”

The lovely smell of fresh food overwhelms him. Gasping, Rogers meets the waiter’s troubled look. “Are you okay?” The man questions.

Opening his mouth, no words make their way out. A small grunt and rapid blinking is all that comes from Rogers. His tongue weighs heavy in his mouth, words like molasses. Nothing comes out when he tries to voice something, anything .

The man across from him looks at him pointedly, eyebrows raised. He’s expecting an answer. 

A nod is all he gets. 

One large breath later and he’s nodding. “Okay, good.” Rogers stares just past the man. “Well, your food is here. If you,” a pause. The man seems to be considering his words. “If you need anything, just call for me.” He points to his nametag. Raphael. 

Of course, Rogers wants to say. That’s what he so very wants to leave his mouth. He only nods.

The man is gone soon. Rogers is left staring at his now lukewarm food. 

No time like now to dig in.

-

The door slams closed behind him. 

Silence, with the bare noise of voices from down the hall that are semi-blocked by the walls, is what Rogers is met with. No signs of whirring at all. However, there’s still the phone on the table, right where he left it that very morning.

“Thank you for letting me not destroy however much more valuable equipment that you have.” He hears the barest of clicks. “You’re lucky I still need this.”

It's his voice saying this, his face that is smiling. 

Rogers moves to the bags from his venture out today. Clothes, hygiene, and more. 

His hands grab the pajamas that rest in the bag filled to the brim with clothing. Bringing them to his face, he brushes his cheek with the material. Unlike his cold and unfeeling hands, he feels a welcoming texture upon his skin. 

The humming of something goes unbothered by him as the fuzzy material is dragged along his cheek.

It’s a wonderful feeling. 

Rogers doesn’t know how long he is like this, nuzzling up to a piece of clothing. It was ridiculous. Yet, it felt nice. His hands couldn’t judge the texture, his face did just fine go a job. 

Releasing the articles of clothing, Rogers’ hands dug into the bag once more. 

There were a multitude of things: jackets, socks, long-sleeved shirts, and so much more. Rogers dragged out a jacket. Although the weather was warmer outside, there’d be days where it would be needed.

Rogers blinked against the soft material. Reluctantly, his hands carried the fabric away. Placing the apparel back with the others, Rogers would grab the bags. Lifting them, the soldier brought them into the room. 

Time to unpack everything he got.

-

Rogers stared at the closet, satisfied with how it was arranged. No more was there only white tops, there was actual color in the otherwise plain and lackluster apartment. 

Grabbing a pair of newly bought pajamas, the tags were all but yanked off. Time to shower again.

Emptying his pant pockets, Rogers emptied all the cash out and into the far left corner of the closet, hiding it from plain view underneath his new clothes. 

Turning on his heels the man stalked over to the bathroom. Setting the clothes down on the corner of the marble sink, the man would grab at another plastic bag. Encased was shampoo, conditioner, hair detangler, and face washing products. These would do wonderfully. 

The man placed the bottles within the shower. Within a few moments, the shower was on, pouring rain down from above. 

-

Rogers is shaking his head violently back and forth. The marble beneath his hands are sprouting cracks. 

Numbened hands jump away. No more damaging the place! A huff leaves his chest.

He’s bare and dripping. There is no humidity in the mirror and his body is trembling like a leaf. 

He looks like a wet dog. 

Rogers’ frown deepens at his own reflection that shines back at him. His hair is flat and he is looking distraughtly at the man in the mirror.

A shiver crawls up his spine, a shocking motion that sends the man grasping for the pajamas. 

He’s freezing his ass off here for god’s sake.

Rogers quickly fits the long sleeved top and pants onto his person, the fuzzy material providing a comforting feeling to his body. Getting himself out of the frigid bathroom, he’d make his way into the warmer bedroom. Did he just take a cold shower? There was warm water earlier.

The frown on his face only lessens when he goes to the bed. Lifting up the covers, the man throws his soggy self underneath them.

Its not enough. His body shoots up like a bullet. His right hand grabs at a folded up blanket at the foot of the mattress. Kicking off the comforter, he drags it into the depths beneath the surface. Curling up in its fuzzy texture, it’d start supplying him little bits of heat, taking the edge off of the ice that crawled within his veins.

Humming with satisfaction, the man rolled over, grabbing and raising the comforter over his head, only letting a small bit of his face see the light coming from the bathroom. 

Through half-lidded eyes, the man squirmed in place. This was nice.

He was like a burrito. 

A hum, he found his eyes drifting closed.

-

A moan was heard through the pitch black.

There was something going on. 

Head held underwater, he couldn’t see. There was a groan of unknown origin resonating around him. 

Yet, his eyes refused to open. 

There was a pause in the groaning.

It’s nothing.

The man drifted off once more into a space of pure black, floating off into the inky void around him.

-

Chapter Text

“I want something good to die for

To make it beautiful to live

I want a new mistake, lose is more than hesitate

Do you believe it in your head?”

Go with the Flow - Queens of the Stone Age

—

It's warm, it's very warm. 

With a sound hum, the man snuggles in the warm fabrics that surround him. 

There’s something sticky in his pants. That isn’t right.

Rogers shoots upwards, bedding flung to high heaven and off of himself. Legs kicking, the man looks between his legs. Did he piss himself?

There’s no big stain on the bed. Yet, there’s one at the front of his pants. And it's sticky. It feels slimy, and it's right over…

Scarlet floods the man’s cheeks. Hands are thrown at his face, covering it up. Like it’d act as a barrier between reality. The soldier throws his head sharply back. “UGHHH.” He groans verbally, loud and upfront, about the disappointment in his prediction.

Is this seriously his life now?

A heaving sigh comes from his chest, loud and clear. His hands fall to his sides.

Returning to the unfortunate reality, Rogers swings his legs off the bed. He takes a quick and shameful glance down between his legs.

Come on, time to clean up his accident.

-

The pants are thrown into the washing machine with a sound thump. God, what was he? Someone horny out of his mind? No, he may not know as much as someone else may about themselves, but he was not degrading himself to this.

Rogers taps a few buttons, and a ring calls from the washer as the sound of water flooding in hits his ears. Rogers sighs, lowering himself back on his feet to smack his head on the top of the washer with a sound bang. This was embarrassing.

Humiliation done with, the man turns around. Dressed, he goes to the kitchen for breakfast. Reaching up, he grabs the same brand of cereal as yesterday. He’ll probably go through the entire box in one sitting once again. Grabbing a bowl and spoon on the way, the man sets everything on the table. The box of cereal is torn open, the bag popping open between his unfeeling hands. The cereal is poured in. The man would turn to the fridge. Opening the door, he’d grab the milk. 

Rogers uncapped the top, going to pour the liquid into the bowl.

Knock, knock!

Cobalt eyes darted to the front door. A small sigh. 

Only a few people would knock on his door. 

Rogers took a step. Time seemed to slow for him for a quick moment, a wave of confusion hitting him. His feet stumbled, a hand grasped at the wall. And all of a sudden, it was gone. Vision gone sharp, Rogers felt his back straighten, eyes sharp as he stared at the door. 

Another knock resounded from the door. 

With another few steps, the man unlocked the door, swinging it open. 

“Yes, sir?”

Fury stood there, tall and brooding. He was here on business. Yet, something faltered as he looked at the man’s shirt.

“Sir.” 

The voice was short and professional. It lacked any sort of clear emotion. 

Fury looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows before shaking his head. “You’ve destroyed tens of thousands of pieces of equipment.” The man pushes past the door, making his way in. Rogers has the kindness in him not to slam the door shut.

Being generous, that’s what’s happening.

“Blackout, sure, we can handle that later. But, you take out a thousand dollars at an atm.” The man in the coat turns to him, his voice rising slowly. “What is it you’re doing, Rogers?”

“I’m getting myself some privacy.” The man stated, clear as day. “That’s all.” A soft smile spread upon his lips.

Toying with the man who thinks they’re a fool.

Fury sighed, fingers going to his nose. “Captain, this is not only for your protection, but to make sure that your existence isn’t found out by the public.” 

This was causing him pain with higher-ups, wasn’t it? People like him have agendas, a use for pawns like him. 

“Well, I think I’ve done a good job so far. Besides, who’s going to expect me to walk around? A man, however many years old.” Rogers shrugs it off like it's nothing. Walking back over to the table, the man grabs the milk carton again, pouring the milk into the bowl. “Cereal?” The man offers, eyes looking back at the director.

Rogers is met with a half-lidded eye, the unamused look striking an all but clear answer. It’s a funny look.

“Your loss.”

“Sure sure.” The man’s voice dripped with sarcasm. The words he must be holding back.

Good, he should get out. 

The soldier sits down, shoveling the sweet food into his mouth. This really was delicious.

“Rogers, we have to have some sort of connection; this cannot just be a one-way street. Shield is assisting you with getting accumulated, although you seem to be doing just fine.” The man gestures to his shirt once more.

The soldier frowns, looking down at his shirt.

Oh.

An image of a very unhappy cat is on the front, looking not too different from the expression the man in front of him wore. Extremely unhappy. He didn’t know he had that on. 

“Two-way street, Rogers. You and me, at the very least.” Fury walked over, placing his hands directly in front of him, leaning on the very table Rogers was eating at. “Check-in, every 6 hours. From the time you wake up, to the time you go to bed. Got it?”

Rogers' eyes twitch. Where is he to make demands? Swallowing down a mouthful of cereal, the man clears his throat. “Twice a day.” He doesn’t bother making eye contact.

“Rogers, I cannot do that. That is not good enough.”

“Well, it’ll have to be. We’re being generous enough to let you listen to me by that cell phone you gave me, sir.”

The soldier finally looked the other in the eye. Roger’s voice was loud, projecting each individual word with such conviction. 

“You mean business, I understand. But I am trying to get in this new time. I will not just go back into service when my entire world has been stripped away from me. I demand you try and wrap your head around that, sir.”

Silence. 

It's a stare-down. Rogers is not backing down, no way in hell.

He’s not sure how long they’re staring. A minute? Maybe two?

Fury finally looks away, letting out a resounding huff. “Fine. I expect once every twelve hours, some sort of communication. I don’t care what format. You will answer or you’re being brought in.”

Rogers looks up at the ceiling, far away from Fury’s eyesight. He takes another bite of cereal, nodding while doing so. “Can do, sir.” So nonchalant that he can only imagine the frustration on Fury’s face. He takes another huge bite. 

Rogers takes a peek back at the man. He is not happy. 

No, no he is not. A snicker threatens to leave Rogers’ closed mouth.

“Now that that’s settled,” Rogers says, completely ignoring the man’s irritated glare. “When can we start on getting my backpay for me?”

-

The door closes more quietly than Rogers anticipated. 

The man has patience. The captain cannot deny him that.

Well, he shouldn’t have infringed on his privacy, and he doesn't want to be treated like a lab rat. 

Rogers frowns at this thought, throwing the empty bowl in the washer and the now-empty cereal box in the trash.

Minutes later, Rogers finds himself out and about on the streets.

Time to familiarize himself with the new century that surrounds him like water rising above his head. 

-

The man is standing in front of a sign on a glass door.

Go in.

Rogers is not so certain why he’s standing in front of an art shop.

Why not? 

He’s no artist. There is no reason to even walk in.

A sigh breaks from him, an eyeroll following. 

Come on, it won’t bite. His right hand forms a fist, smacking against his thigh. Rogers barely registers the door flying open and his feet carrying himself forward on their own accord.

A blast of something earthly hits him in the face.

Rogers stood there, still in the middle of the doorway. He took a deep inhale. This…this was nice. Paper, wood, and something else he couldn’t quite decipher his face, the scent making his temples throb with a small pinch of pain.

“Welcome in!” A woman from behind the counter called out.

A shining beacon of a smile later, and he was off within the store.

Get something nice. A sketchpad, hell even pencils.

Rogers stops in front of rows and rows of pencils. Charcoal pencils as they tell him. There’s even some colored pencils off to the left in the aisle.

Tentative hands reach over to reach for a pencil. Green wood is grasped, the pencil being raised to his face. 2B.

Something in Rogers tells him that this is perfect.

Grab more. 

More?

A smile spreads upon his lips. “Yeah, go crazy.” The voice was smooth, lighthearted. He can trust that.

Rogers glanced up, catching sight of a set of graphite pencils. His right hand grabs them, slotting them alongside the charcoal in his hand.

-

The soldier finds himself hands full of pencils, erasers, a travel watercolor set, and a few other knick-knacks from the store when he approaches the counter. Under his armpit rests a multimedia sketchbook and a tiny 4x4 inch sketchbook. Why so small? He reasoned with himself for travel use.

“Did you find everything today?”

“Found everything perfectly.” A dazzling grin shone on his face, eyes alight with nothing but happiness. Voice smooth and still having an unfamiliar twinge to it. 

It did not matter.

Watching the device as it held a loading screen, Rogers’ wallet was all but dug out of his pocket. Pulling a hundred out, he’d look up to the woman behind the counter.

Everything was so expensive.

Right? But it is affordable now. That’s gotta be something.

Yeah, he supposes so.

The cash is traded hands, and once again, Rogers is left standing outside with his art supplies with a few bucks in hand.

His feet start to carry him to somewhere unknown.

-

Rogers eyes a vendor out on the streets. “Get your phones here! 300 minutes!”

The man finds himself standing in front of the vendor. “How much?” Straightforward, down to the point. His tongue weighs heavy in his mouth.

“25 bucks for this right here.” The vendor taps on a box, picking it up for him to look at. 

Grasping at the box, Rogers takes a quick glance over. This’ll do. Better than the one they have riddled with bugs. “I’ll take it.

-

The man closes the door behind him, entering his apartment. Stretching his arms above his head, the man lets out a loud groan.

His shoulders shout in protest, throbbing. Geez, he didn’t even do any heavy lifting. Rolling them backwards, Rogers stepped further into the room. Tossing the bags onto the table, the man went beeline for the phone provided by SHIELD.

Time to get rid of this thing. Taking the plastic pen out of his pocket, the man would press on the home button. The screen would light up. 12:07, not check-in time just yet.

Fishing in the tan paper bag he threw on the table, he’d grip the cardboard box that encased the burner phone. “Time to get to work.”

The box was in mint condition, and the next time he opened his eyes it was in shambled. Like it got gutted from the inside out. 

Forget about that sometimes. Not really an expert at that.

Rogers did not understand.

It's fine. Grabbing at the issued phone, Rogers quickly made his way outside the apartment and into the hallway. A look left, then right, the man spotted a potted plant down the hall. Jackpot. 

Disguising the cellphone in the center of long and lush leaves, it’d be out of sight for a while. Strutting back to his residence, Rogers grabbed the phone that he’d just acquired. It was much smaller, and it was one that opened and closed.

“A flip phone.”

Yes, that.

“Have a phone finally.” A smug smile spread on his face, triumphant in his victory. No one was to listen in now, for the most part.

The soldier threw himself down and onto the chair, crossing his legs and leaning backwards, head thrown back. Flipping it open, Rogers pressed the tiny keys. Soon, there was a ringing resonating through the phone in his ear.

“Rogers.”

Oh, he sounded so ticked off. “Fury! Checking in, sir.” His voice exclaimed. Thought to contact you here since I have a new means of communication. Just being courteous.”

An audible sigh came through the line. “And you had to leave the phone in a plant pot.”

“Yeah, although I made sure not to get dirt in the charging port.” Rogers smiled, fingers clacking against the wooden table he sat at. “Just wanted to make sure that I could check in here. Thank you.”

The man delighted in hearing a small curse through the line. “Yes, you can contact me through here. Now, if that’s–”

“Oh, that’s not all.” Rogers’ smile twitched. That wasn’t too nice.

“I was labeled MIA, correct?”

A pause. “Yes, why?”

“Back pay. How fast can I get money?”

There’s silence for a few moments. 

“I’ll get back to you on that, Rogers.” Click.

The smile that reached his mouth was all teeth, mischievous and gleeful. Good.

That wasn’t too nice of him.

“Not the worst thing.” Stretching his arms above his head, Rogers let out another groan. His shoulders complained once again. Ugh.

Rolling his shoulders, Rogers shot out of the chair.

Stumbling over his own feet, Rogers grabbed onto the table. Woah. He got on his two feet, making sure to be prepared for the next step. 

Now that that’s done, lunch.

-

The soldier sits outside, the waiter walking away from him. Ordering is done. A travel-sized watercolor palette is dredged from the man’s pocket. Rogers grins at it.

It's so tiny. The tiny travel-sized brush slotted barely within his numbed fingers.

Setting down the brush for now, the man would grab the pen from his pocket. Opening the sketchbook, Rogers was met with a blank page. 

What to draw? 

The saltshaker, perhaps? 

A small hum, that seemed easy enough.

The pencil began to move. 

-

Soon enough, Rogers is munching on pizza. The taste leaves his mouth watering and stomach growling for more. He lets himself. 

Shoving another slice of the second pizza he got into his mouth, Rogers is staring at the salt shaker he’d drawn. 

It doesn’t look that good. 

It looks good!

It doesn’t. The lines are too shaky, the shadows are off, and-

It’s good!

Rogers finds his head aching. Someone was rattling his brain back and forth. Rattled, it hurts all over his skull. 

Accept it. 

The voice sounded pouty, stubborn. 

Take the compliment!

Fine. Rogers rolls his eyes skyward, still thinking it off not the best. The man didn’t even know he could do that. 

A cheeky smile spread on Rogers’ lips without any resistance. Good! Less thinking, more eating. Come on, get a move on. 

Greasy fingers reach for another slice. 

Rogers is learning a lot in this new world of his. New food, technology, and other wild things. He didn’t know how to quite feel about all of this. It was a wave above his head, drowning him. Modern times, he supposes.

Another slice of pizza was shoved in his mouth.

He didn’t even know he drew. Nor the fact that he was a soldier.

The man’s eyes danced away from the wall to his body.

It did make sense to some degree. The constraint of his strength on casual everyday things was something that stuck out to Rogers. Was this why they so desperately wanted to keep him under wraps? It didn’t really make sense to him. Yes, he was in modern times. But why would they like him so under their thumb?

Something pressed against his mouth. Flinching back, he was met with a slice of pizza. His right hand was pressing it to his lips. 

With furrowed eyebrows, the man took a huge bite. He didn’t really know how to feel about his numbed arms either. These were confusing times.

Another bite.

-

Rogers left his plates at the table. Four round dishes and a cup remained. God, he ate four pizzas. What was with him?

A frown fixed his face, shame crawling up his skin.

It was necessary.

That didn’t help. That didn’t even help the looks he was given by others that he oh so desperately tried to ignore from the waiters.

Rogers was making his way to the front. Fishing for the wallet, needing to pluck a bill from the wad of cash he had there.

Clink, clink. 

Rogers stops in place.

Clink.

Ice.

Rogers’ head shoots over to the left. A glass of ice water catches his eyes. The couple who are in the background are irrelevant.

Rogers feels frost growing on his skin. Numbness was spreading throughout his body.

The man tries to look away. 

He didn’t.

Rogers stares. The glass gives off droplets that run down the exterior. Shining, the ice cubes taunt him.

Like hands covering his eyes, his world suddenly goes black. There’s an intense chill that rockets around him. He cannot move, he cannot fight.

Blink.

-

Chapter Text

“Life falls to grey, hope of the hopeless

And now only dust remain

Tear my head apart

A broken life has left me born to burn”

Awaken - Breaking Benjamin

—

Rogers stares at the paper in his hand. The paper crumbles in on itself. He isn’t even holding it too much. This is what he suspects at least. It's hard to tell at this point. Day in, day out, no feeling.

No matter. 

The door swings open before the man can even realize it. Rogers is making his way swiftly down the stairs. A man on a mission, it seems.

Leaning through a doorway, he’s met with a lobby, windows showing the room below. Men are shirtless in a boxing ring, throwing punches every which way. 

“Can I help you?” A man from the shadows of his desk answers.

“Yes,” the man answers with a cheerful tone that doesn’t quite sound right. An accent is dancing upon his lips. 

Shaking his head, Rogers frowns. “Y-Yes.” Tongue weighed down like a ton of bricks. “Do you have a downtime where I can be here alone?” His voice quivers, threatening to fall apart. Rogers doesn’t like it. He looks at the door.

No. Not for this.

The man comes out of the shadows and into the light from the desk lamp. “I don’t normally do that.”

Rogers takes one more glance at the door. Does he really need this?

Yes, if glasses are going to keep getting shattered. It isn’t fun to clean up after everything that breaks. Getting this energy that’s clawing from the inside out would help.

That is a valid point.

“But, I could make an exception.” 

Rogers pauses. Head snapping back to the older and bearded man in front of him. He’s sitting there looking firmly at the man in front of him. 

He’s trying to read him.

Rogers nods minutely, gathering the will to speak. “I’ll pay whatever is needed. Do whatever needs to be done.”

“Oh, I think I can hold you to that.” The man pulls a notebook and pen from the side of his desk. “Does late night work for you?” 

“Yes, it does, sir.” 

Scribbling commences. Rogers is looking around the room idly, and the man logs all this away. Rocking on his toes, the soldier looks back to the door.

“You a vet?”

“Huh?”

The man isn’t looking up from his sheet. “You keep looking at the door.” A pause as he looks up from his notebook. “Son came back from Afghanistan doing the same thing.”

With a screech of a chair and a ripping noise from the notebook. “80 bucks an hour from 6-8 in the evening. If you want to be arranged otherwise, feel free to call and ask for Ruben.” The piece of paper was extended to him.

Rogers tentatively reached out, grasping gently at the paper. 

“Can I get a name to the face?”

Rogers stares at the neat handwriting on the paper. Six to eight. That’ll do. 

“Rogers.”

-

He’s back in his apartment, staring at his phone on the table.

Just call.

Rogers lets out a long and dramatic sigh. 

Several rings later, a voice comes through the static. “Ruben.”

“Can you do after-hours, sir?”

A pause. Then, a hum. 

“I don’t see why not.”

-

The keys make a clank as they hit his palm.

“You should be able to lock up the front with the red key.” Rogers flips over the set in his hand. A crimson key pokes out from behind several other assorted colored keys. “Gold key is for this door here, and the rest should be irrelevant for now. You have the key to your locker, right, son?”

“Yes, sir. I do.” Grasping the keyring with his index and thumb, they’d jangle in the open air. Did the man seriously trust him with this?

“Sir,” Rogers swallowed a queasy feeling in his gut. He didn’t have to look up to know that he had eyes on him. “Do you trust me this much?”

Closing his eyes, Rogers didn’t dare meet the man’s eyes.

There was several moments of just the other man’s breathing. 

“Well, for one, I have a security system.” Rogers solemnly nodded. He did see the weird device in the stairwell. “And for two, you remind me of him. I think my son would’ve been like you. He always had a lot of energy and nowhere to put it. He was so vigilant, coming back even if for a little bit, he was always so paranoid something bad was going to happen.” There was the heavy weight of silence between the two for a few moments.

The thunk of shoes on the hardwood floor followed. “I’m sure I can trust you,” Ruben stated. Looking up, Rogers met the man’s eyes. The small smile that followed was like a warm blanket that just enveloped him.

“Go on, try it out sometime soon.”

Rogers watched as Ruben reached out, curling Rogers’ numbed fist around the keys.

Eyes danced upwards, retaining eye contact. “Thank you.” The man muttered out, like all the breath was stolen from his lungs.

-

Rogers rolled out of bed with a loud groan of agony. Hitting the floor with a sound thud, his back arched as pain flared up in his shoulders and spine. Sweat pitter-pattered on the ground as Rogers took deep inhales, trying to adjust to the sudden pain. God, his shoulders were alight with a burning pain that never stopped.

Rolling onto his side and onto his stomach, his left hand slammed down onto the floor, keening in pain. From that elbow to his shoulder and down to his spine, it was spliced with liquid agony. 

God, what was even happening? Through bleary eyes, he tried to reach up for the burner phone on the bedside table. His right side protested in howling pain. 

Blinking, he tried to fight the tears threatening to fall. 

One bleary blink and he felt warm hands wrap around him.

-

The pain lessened to just throbbing and slight burning in his shoulders, the man was staring down a pain relief rubbing cream. 

He needed this. And something for his back.

Rogers was hunched over, his whole spine aching. He didn’t even remember what caused this. But he surely wasn’t going to go to Fury. The slightest thought of poking and prodding at his body made him feel sick.

Grabbing the bottle of cream, he’d start to make his way down the aisle. Right about to get to the end, he saw a man passing by. A small grin on his lips, the man walked by slowly, marching, it almost seemed like. The man was dressed in full olive green: a cap, jacket, and slacks. If Rogers were to guess, it even looked like a uniform. Looking at his face, though-

Rogers paused. He couldn’t see the man’s face. Like smudged charcoal, it was smeared. Like the man was looking through blurry glasses. Blinking rapidly, the man took quicker steps, trying to look around the corner for the man. For what reason, he wasn’t quite sure.

The man was gone. 

Rogers frowned. Stepping to the next and previous aisle yielded no results. 

His head started to hurt, and a flash of hot white pain started to band around his entire skull. There was no cure for that medicine-wise for him. Not any painkillers.

Why did he know that?

Next blink, he was waiting in line.

-

In the dim lights of the boxing room, Rogers lifted a punching bag onto a hook. He feels nervousness building inside of him. What if this breaks too?

It’ll be paid for. There is no real worry. 

Words like a security blanket, Rogers accepts them at face value.

Hands wrapped in tape, they clench as Rogers prepares for that first punch.

One deep breath later, the punch is thrown. The entire chain keens, letting out a loud clink and rattling the entire bag. Rogers anticipates something going wrong. Hands reaching out they go to cradle the violently swinging bag. And yet, nothing. 

He can punch harder than that too. The whole purpose to to get the energy running through his entire being out. 

Rogers readies himself, taking a small step back. 

Blam!

The entire chain rattles, quivering hard, and the bag is swirling around almost like it itself was in a frenzy. 

Rogers doesn’t even register the next three hard punches, echoing throughout the whole deserted room.

Tshhhh. Sand starts leaking down onto the ground.

Oh. 

He hadn’t considered the bag. 

There’s bound to be more in the back.

-

After cleaning the sand up, he decided to call it a night. Even if it was a few punches, the energy that took a chip off of what he initially had rushing through his veins. 

Walking into the locker room, the soldier opened his locker up. A white towel greeted him alongside his keys and wallet. There was something out of the corner of his eye, a man. “Late night too?”

A sharp laugh from the man he saw at the corner of his eye. The man turned towards him, Rogers did not have to turn to see the handlebar mustache outside of his peripheral vision. 

“Yeah, Cap.”

The voice sounded so cheery for something that grated his head like nails on a chalkboard. Piercing pain shot through his head. God, the second time in two days. This was not good.

Shaking his head, he felt a wave of nausea rush over him like a crashing wave. Oh god, bathroom. 

Slamming the locker closed with a slam that echoed throughout the smaller room, he turned to the man. “Bathr-”

The man was gone. 

Rogers stared at the empty spot before another bout of overwhelming nausea swept over him. Bathroom, now. Tears were threatening to fall, legs quivering under his weight like a newborn fawn. 

The man slammed into the doorway, stumbling as he ventured out.

-

It wasn’t better the next morning. No sleep was not helping in the slightest. Damn this bed. Felt like he was sinking into the ocean. 

Sweating in a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, Rogers couldn’t stop the quaking of his entire being. No matter how tightly he forced his hands to the bed, pinning them down with brutal force that had the boards under the bed keening, they wouldn’t listen to his protests.

Water and rest. 

Yeah, that sounded good. 

Throwing himself out of bed, Rogers stuck to anything solid that could hold his weight like glue. Anything to support his quaking body. He felt like he was dying. Chills and heat acting like a lethal combination. 

Stumbling through the doorway like a drunk, Rogers maneuvered his way to the kitchen sink. Grasping onto the porcelain edges, Rogers threw himself over it. Expelling throw-up all in the sink, the soldier sank to the ground. 

Someone was speaking behind him. No. Two people. 

“Did you see that one? Oh, it was just so-” Followed by manic laughter. 

“Yeah, yeah, I saw that one. I was watching from the side, you idiot.” 

Something was wrong. The voices sounded wrong. That wasn’t English. They spoke in different tongues. And yet, he understood.

Turning his head to the side, vomit gurgling down from his mouth and onto his clothing. He saw two men in his apartment. Sitting on a log each, these two were with a bottle in each hand. One man had vibrant, umber skin, a goofy smile upon his face as he took a swing from the bottle. The other had a crazy grin on his mustachioed face. Rogers could only think that if his mouth could, he’d be grinning ear to ear. Clapping his hands in delight, the man would throw a punch at the other’s shoulder. 

“Says the idiot whom I had to save earlier this week!”

The voices soon drown out as Rogers feels his world go blurry, tears bubbling to the surface. His body quaked, threatening to fall apart like glass shattering.

Then the man sank to his knees. Finding himself on his stomach, his gut throbbed in agony as pain shot through his body. 

Stop, please. He blinked blearily as his fingers scratched at the floor, digging up pieces of wood.

Blink.

-

Rogers nearly runs into a man dressed in a red beret and olive green jacket.

Stopping in place in the middle of New York is never a good idea. Several shouts later, he goes to apologize to the man. 

He’s no longer there. Dissipating into thin air like the man in the pharmacy. 

Rogers fast walks back home.

-

Rogers is leaning against the punching bag in the gym, grasping at its sides like its a lifeline. He’s tired, body quaking lightly. This hasn’t stopped, even two days later. He thinks he should see someone. 

No. 

Rogers swallows, nervousness bubbling under the surface of his skin. 

He cannot go to anyone. 

Why not? 

“Hey.” 

Rogers turns, Ruben is there holding out bottled water for him. With shaking hands, he grabs it. 

“You should go home and rest. You do not look okay.” 

There is a lacing of worry somewhere in his voice. Rogers finds himself frowning deeply. “I’ve had enough rest for the past few days.”

Ruben loses the concerned look he wore. Replaced by a stern look, Ruben crosses his arms. “Then let me be clearer, you are going home. You go home, I’ll take care of the bag and all.”

Rogers stared at him, mouth hanging open. He barely spent any time here! He was fine! Opening his mouth to argue, he found himself cut off with a sharp extension of Ruben’s hand. 

“No, shoo. Go on.”

Letting out a long sigh, the man would press off the bag, getting onto his shuddering two legs. He’d be back later. 

-

“You’re going to get a delivery at 11.”

“What?” He sounded pathetic. He was on the ground, drained and dehydrated. Sweat dripped down his face, he felt like he was watching himself shrivel as the hours passed slowly by. He couldn’t get up, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t-

“You are going to get a delivery of some of the things SHIELD has kept of yours from the past decades. I figured you’d like to have some of your things back that haven’t been scrounged up.”

Oh, that did make sense.

“I’ll be there.”

-

Dead man walking, Rogers was up and presentable. And by 11 sharp, came a knock on his front door. 

The woman from the day he was plucked off the streets was there.

“For you, Captain.” Files were placed in his hands. “We also have boxes of things you might want to have. Your military uniform, medals, and other.” She gestured to the boxes to the side of the door. 

All Rogers did was nod, not really hearing the conversation that well. His eyes travelled all along the floor. There was silence when he did come back to focus. 

“Look at me.”

It was a request. 

Rogers’ head snapped towards her, muscles drawing tight.

“Your eyes are really dilated.” Oh, were they? He thought he would’ve scraped through this. Opening his mouth, Rogers couldn’t find any words that his tongue would take the shape of.

“You should go to medical.”

“No.”

It was immediate. “No, I am not going to medical.” 

The woman’s gaze was hard to read. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” And with that, Rogers started to bring his things into his apartment. The agent stayed watching him, a gleam in her eyes that he could not tell. 

The door closed with a sound slam.

-

Deceased, deceased, deceased, deceased, and deceased.

The men he had run-ins with were marked all in bold letters on these files. So, they weren’t actually real? 

No, he doesn’t think so. 

Whatever is going on, he’s seeing them. From what he reads, they were a part of a group with him. And yet, he cannot quite recall seeing any of their faces, nor recalling their names. 

Missing in action. That’s what the next scarlet letters read. 

James Buchanan Barnes.

He was in the group with him, too. Rogers hadn’t seen the man. Yet, at the very least. He doesn’t know if he’ll even see him.

The paper crumbles in his hand. 

He didn’t know anyone here. 

Why are they giving him these?

One more spelled retired. Magret ‘Peggy’ Carter. There was a phone number. 

He didn’t dare to give it a second glance.

One more deceased, and the man’s son. Howard and Anthony Stark. 

Rogers stared at them for a few seconds. 

All the papers made a ‘tsh’ sound as they all were ceremoniously shoved back into a box.

-

Staring up towards the sky, Rogers was observing a statue. 

His hand still quaked often from whatever had been going on the previous days. Whatever that all was. Rogers wasn’t quite sure what to think of it. But hell, he wasn’t talking to Fury about it. That man would be all up in his business if left to. And Rogers certainly wasn’t going to give the man an aneurysm by going to a local doctor.

The scribbling of a pencil brought him back to his reality. Sketching, he was working on the statue that hung above the cafe where he was sitting at.

Out of the corner of his vision, the soldier spotted a waitress coming by. Smiling as she refilled his cup, he went back to observing the statue.

“Waiting on the big guy?” 

Huh?

“Ma’am?”

Oh, so polite. 

Rogers’ mouth twitched, a frown threatening to find its way there.

“Iron Man.” Tony Stark. The man he read about the other day. “A lot of people eat here just to see him fly by.” 

Unfortunately, he was not most people. “Right.” There was a tower behind the sculpture. That big, ugly tower. It was so smooth and had just glass panes. Going all the way up to the top. Then it curved outwards. The extended bit honestly looked like a toilet bowl.

There was a twitch of his right hand. 

Exactly! It's so ugly. The name, yeah, it's a bit much, but that lettering. Eugh. 

“Maybe another time.” The soldier’s hands glided into his pocket, pulling out a spare few bucks. That should be enough. 

“Table’s yours as long as you like. Nobody’s waiting on it.” Rogers froze. His face twitched, eyes locked onto the bills. Tunnelvision.

“We’ve also got free wireless.” Turning on her heel, she’d look at him with a small smile. 

A smile spread across Rogers’ lips, a small tune being tapped upon the table. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to come back.” A smooth voice pouring out of his mouth, accent and all. 

She’d smile as she walked away, Rogers’ eyes glued to her until she went around the corner. 

“Ask for her number, you moron.”

The voice came from behind him. An older, greying man with glasses is eating his food. 

“Maybe another time.”

Half-lidded eyes looked at his sketchbook. One fell move and he was up with the sketchbook, going for the door.

-

Gasping, the man shot out of bed. 

Slam! 

Crash!

Rogers’ eyes shot to his left. The once pristine table’s corner was now in splinters underneath his left arm. And yet, still nothing was felt. Not even a scratch. 

Throwing his head back, Rogers felt overwhelming grief wash over him. By the casual glance at the bedside table’s clock, it hadn’t even been an hour since he’d fallen asleep. 2:03 am. Please, he just wanted some sleep.

Lying there, staring at the ceiling did nothing to waver his unrelenting mind. He couldn’t roll over and go back to bed. 

Groaning, Rogers forced himself over the edge, rolling out of bed. 

He supposes he could go to the gym at this ungodly hour. He heads to his closet.

-

Chapter Text

"You believe it, I know you do 

You won't admit it or say so 

I know that God is in the radio 

Just repeating the slogan 

You come back another day 

And do no wrong”

God Is In The Radio - Queens of the Stone Age

—

There are voices behind him. They’re back. The crackle of a fire and the hearty laugh taunt him to something he cannot recall. That’s the worst thing.

Slam! 

The punching back all but exploded, evaporating into millions upon billions of pieces of sand. Sorry, Ruben.

The chatter doesn’t cease as he stares at the bag. There’s bags to his left. Rogers does not need to look behind him. 

Looking at the bag poured onto the floor, Rogers criss-crosses his feet, allowing himself to keep distracted to the commotion behind him. He can almost feel the oddness that heat brings to his skin.

It’s not real. Rogers has to remind himself of this. It is not real.

The noise doesn’t subside by the time a new bag is loaded up. The smacking of the thick fabric against skin takes a backseat to the phantom party behind him. The crackling of the flames, the clinks of what sounded to be glass bottles, and the muffled but unclear audio from behind him.

Why won’t they leave him alone? 

He doesn’t know them, he wants them gone.

Leave!

Slam! The bag all but crashes into the wall.

Rogers stares at the sand that is now littered on the floor. A heaping pile, it looks like it could swallow him whole.

He only feels the shaking of his body, the pants that heave from his chest, and the sweat all but pouring down his entire body. It's not enough.

Rogers sighs, the voices from behind slowly fading into the background, leaving something crackling and clicking. Much like the ice cubes he heard the other day.

Loading up another bag, he starts to go to town on that one.

He doesn’t know how long it's been when he hears a door open and close. Someone’s here. Its not Ruben. He grasps the bag. He watches the doorway, hearing each footstep as the newcomer approaches. 

It's going to be an agent at the very least.

How does he know this?

Sure enough, a familiar man in an eyepatch waltzes into the room. 

“Trouble sleeping?”

The question leaves Rogers startled. No, he has no right to ask him that. His left eye twitches and his hands curl into fists. 

“Slept for 70 years, sir. I think I’ve had my fill.”

The voice sounds exhausted, something he should be feeling right now. Punches are thrown at the bag again. 

Rogers watches as his fist connects with the bag, causing it to shake in place. This one is sure to go flying soon, too. He’ll have a mess on his hands.

“Then you should be out, celebrating, seeing the world.” 

Rogers’ mouth twitched, threatening to scowl. Instead, Rogers fixes the man with a deadpanned stare. 

“I would, but I don’t think that having babysitters while trying to do so sounds so nice.” Another punch. “What are you here for, sir? A mission.”

That was somewhat rude. 

It’s true.

He sounded like a kid there.

Could be worse, just be a pawn in a game of chess.

Rogers gulps; he didn’t like that thought. 

He feels a subtle nod as another punch is thrown.

“As a matter of fact, yes. And something I think we’d like your assistance with.” A file is given, clips holding photos and documents, all neatly placed together. 

Opening the file, a blue cube meets his eye. A wave of nausea washes over him all at once. His vision switches in and out of focus consistently, like a child flipping a light on and off. His head feels too full, a full-blown migraine swallowing him whole.

“The tesseract.” 

“Howard Stark fished that out of the ocean.”

Rogers couldn’t understand the rest. It was molasses, deep and thick, swallowing him whole. He was in a blackhole, no sight, no sound, no touch.

He doesn’t know how long the conversation goes. From an otherworldly presence, to sustainable energy, and whatever else is being said. Rogers never quite registers what’s going on.

Then suddenly, white hot agony as he’s thrown forward, like a rollercoaster going down a steep hill.

“There’s a lot that we’ll have to bring you up to speed with.”

Listened to enough of this man’s excuses for this. 

Blazing white heat encompassed his body. Rogers doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“The world has gotten a lot stranger than you already know.”

“Honestly, I don’t think anything would surprise us.”

Rogers is picking up the remaining punching bags. He’s done here. He wants to go home and rest, even if for a little bit.

We have to go through.

Rogers wants to groan, but not even his numbened mouth listens to his call.

“10 bucks says you’re wrong.”

“20 bucks.”

The soldier hears the brief huff of amusement. Fury thinks he’s winning. 

“Be ready at 800. There’s a debriefing packet in your apartment.”

Rogers is carrying a bag in each hand, trekking them back to the storage.

“Is there anything you could tell us that we outta know now?”

“You should’ve left it in the goddamn ocean.” The words are all but spat.

-

Rogers finds himself back in his apartment by 4:02 am. Lying in bed, the lamp on the destroyed table lights up the files in hand. New Mexico, Loki, and the Tesseract. 

The blue glow in the picture of the cube is mesmerizing. Like it’s really in front of him, drawing him into its presence. Rogers feels like this is important.  

Rogers is tired; he just wants to sleep.

Rest.

Rogers frowns at the thought. He has to read this file.

Rest.

The file flips closed not of his own accord. His hand refused to return his call as they set the file to the side. A wave of lightheadedness washed over him.

Rest.

Rogers needs to read the files. He has to. He only has limited time.

Rest.

Rogers head doesn’t even hit the pillow. He isn’t too sure where he is in the inky black of the void he’s in. 

He needs to-

Sleep.

-

Red lights are everywhere. Rogers is fast-walking down a concrete circular staircase. 

Looking around, there are flashing red lights everywhere he turns. It's eerily silent for what he’d assume would be blaring alarms. 

Tipping his head over the edge of the guardrails, it seems like a long way down still. 

All of a sudden, he sees movement on the stairs, several floors down.

“Hello?” His voice echoes loudly throughout the tunnel of concrete, nowhere else to go. 

The person doesn’t stop. Who is this man in this weird place he’s in? 

“Hey!” Rogers starts charging down the stairs, one foot in front of the other, he comes barreling around every corner.

He feels sick and dizzy. “Hey! Wait!” Rogers glances over the edge. There’s an end to this madness, and the man is almost there. The soldier couldn’t care less as he practically throws it into full gear. 

Without fail, Rogers trips. Spiralling like a hedgehog, he grabs his head to protect it. A series of ows and grunts leave him as the concrete is not polite to him. 

He falls to the cold floor. When did it get so cold?

Peeking his eyes open, the man’s groans echo off the walls as he gets up on his hands and knees. Rocking onto his heels, the man draws himself up.

There is no man here.

Where did he go? Rogers looks around him. There is no exit, just solid concrete. Diving under the final stairs, there is no result.

Drip.

Rogers’ head shoots up. There’s a small drop of something red in the middle of the circle. Walking over to it, steps echoing in the silent place, he goes to see what it is.

It looks like blood.

Drip.

Rogers looks up.

There’s a man, too far away to see any real, unique details. His face is hidden by shadows. Hands extended outwards, the stranger is looking down straight at him.

Another red drop falls next to Rogers.

The soldier cannot say anything more as all the lights go dark, and the two are thrust into darkness.

-

“Second round dealing with this Loki man, correct?”

Rogers opens his eyes to see himself walking into an aircraft. Next moment, he’s stumbling over his own feet, nearly falling forward. Awareness returns to him like he just ran into a brick wall.

“Woah!” Rogers looks up to the man beside him, wide-eyed and looking worried. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just tripped, sir.” The smile that grows on his face is fake and not one that Rogers conjured.

“Well, yes. This is our second round with Loki. And it doesn’t seem like it's in our favor again. But that’s why we brought you into this. We could use a hand.” The man’s smile is brittle, not in the stand-off manner, but one that speaks of nervousness. Who is this man again?

Agent Phil Coulson.

The name doesn’t sound too familiar. Did he miss that in the conversation?

“Well, we’ll have to see.” A tablet was handed to him with several faces and tabs for him to view.

“That should give you more insight. We have plenty of time till we get to the carrier.”

Rogers took to the nearest chair, buckling his waist in while the agent just grabbed onto an overhead handle. They’d be heading into the air soon.

-

Rogers is staring at a familiar face, shrouded in black and white. The other faces on the main page are all but white noise. That one photo. The man looks happy.

He cannot stop looking at the name.

Steven Grant Rogers. 

His name isn’t Rogers. It would make sense to address him formally. But that’s his name. Steven Grant Rogers.

Steven. 

A small scowl. That didn’t sit right with him. Steven wasn’t right. 

Steve. 

Steve. Yes, that felt like something.

“We couldn’t really get an updated photo. You never came in for one.” Coulson chimed in while he continued to stare at the brilliant smile on the stranger on the screen.

“Well, you could’ve used one from the bugs in the apartment, couldn’t you? There had to be at least one.”

Where did that come from?

“Apologies, sir.”

No response came from Rogers.

Reaching into his right pocket, his trusty rubber-tipped pen was dug out.

-

“So this Banner was trying to replicate the serum used on me?”

The serum. A serum he somehow got through an experiment by the US government. That’s what he reads in their files. 

There’s more. The has to be more.

Rogers cannot help but agree with that thought. There must be more to that story. It is for another time.

“A lot of people were. You were the world’s first superhero.” The agent comes into view out of the corner of the soldier’s eyes.

Superhero. Rogers finds himself frowning slightly.

Hate that word.

Hates a bit much, isn’t it?

His chest heaves, as if restraining a laugh from bubbling to the surface.

Hate that word.

“Banner thought gamma radiation was the key to unlocking Erskine’s original formula.”

“Didn’t really go the right way in the end.” The soldier’s mouth barely moved as he muttered that out.

Rogers watched as the green blur thrashed into a military truck on the screen. 

“Not exactly. When he’s not that thing, though, guy’s like a Stephen Hawking.”

Rogers looks up, meeting the other man’s gaze. Furrowing his eyebrows, he glances at Coulson, awaiting further explanation.

He watches as this dawns on the other man, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “Like, a really smart person.”

Ah, Rogers solemnly nods. With a soft click, the tablet in his hands shuts down.

“I gotta say,” oh boy, Rogers-

Steve is not prepared.

“It's an honor to meet you. Officially.” The agent gives a shaky smile, a shine in his eyes. This man admires the captain.

Probably only the poster boy.

Steve’s mouth twitches, threatening to cave into a frown.

Sorry.

At least that sounded genuine.

“I’ve sorta met you. I mean, I watched you while you were sleeping.”

Excuse me?

“I-I mean, I was present.” The look of discomfort must be showing, as Steve stares down at the ground. He doesn’t like that fact. He didn’t think anyone would like that fact. “While you were unconscious, from the ice.” This wasn’t looking any better. Steve shot up from his seat, walking towards the two in front of the cockpit. Would this guy take a hint?

“You know, it's really just a- just a huge honor to have you on board this…”

So the answer was no.

“Well, I hope I’m the right man for the job.”

A flicker on the man’s face. Even more admiration, even a bit of stubbornness. This agent loved the captain. It was nearly appreciative, if you left out all the icky parts.

“Oh, you are. Absolutely.” Nothing but positives from Coulson. “We made some modifications to the uniform.”

Wait, uniform?

“I had a little design input.”

The man was looking at Steve. Uniform? Like the ones that the men he saw wore? Those looked old.

There was silence. The agent was looking at him expectantly. “Isn’t the uniform, a  little, old-fashioned?”

“Well, with all that’s going on,” a gesture of the agent's hand to the tablet. “Maybe we need a pinch of old-fashioned.”

The Captain simply nodded, staring out into the ever-blue sea. There were ways to go still. Might make the most of it.

He walked back over to the tablet.

-

Dawning shades, Agent Coulson led Steve down the ramp and onto the tarmac. 

Pilots and soldiers pass by. They really did need all hands on deck for Loki.

A woman was making her way over. Glancing at Coulson, he awaited further prompting.

“Agent Romanoff.” Romanoff. Russian. “Meet Captain Rogers.” 

“Ma’am”

“Hi.” Short and simple introduction. “They need you on the bridge.” 

Coulson is off. “See you there.” And now, it's just the two of them. Romanoff and Rogers.

“It was quite the buzz around here, finding you in the ice.” The two are wandering off towards the planes, men running up and down in lines, almost like ants.

“Thought Coulson was going to swoon.” Yeah, well. He already had swooned enough for Steve’s liking.

“Did he ask you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?” 

“What?” The word that left his mouth was weak and punched out. Romanoff was looking at him, eyes flickering to his face. 

She was reading him. Scrounging up any information.

A spy.

Yes. That’s the widow.

“Trading cards?” Steve’s smile returned, eyebrows furrowing together for a look of amusement.

“They’re vintage. He’s very proud.” Yeah, bet he’d be.

Romanoff is looking somewhere off in the distance. 

Banner. He looks like a fish out of water. Swiveling and swirving every which way. Stuck in the middle of soldiers doing a job.

“Dr. Banner!”

Blue eyes snapped up to meet Steve’s. A kind and inviting smile finding its way onto the soldier’s lips.

Gotta make him comfortable to be here. He doesn’t seem so happy to be here.

“Oh, yeah, hi.” Banner is right in front of him, extending a hand. 

Steve pauses, looking down at the hand. Should he try? 

“They told me you’d be here.”

Late to the draw, he extends a hand to the man. Shaking the other man’s hand firmly. 

The other man’s hand retracts quickly. Like the handshake burned him. Steve looked down at his hand, then at the man across from him.

A sheepish smile meets him. “Sorry, your hands are a bit cold.”

Oh, well, that’s alright. 

“I don’t mind. But, word around here is you can find the cube?” He can feel Romanoff’s eyes on the side of his head. He doesn’t do anything about that.

“Uh,” Banner looks around like a lost puppy. “Is that the only word on me?”

“The only word I care about.”

The other man doesn’t look too sure. But, he looks to be trying to suck it up. At least he’s trying; that’s all Steve can ask for.

“Must be strange for you, all of this.” The scientist gestures to the scene around them. 

The soldier pauses, looking all around them. He doesn’t remember any of this happening at all. Just waking up, and living in a new age. “Well, there is some getting used to. But, I’m not complaining. It's all interesting.”

Banner flashes a small smile at him, and the soldier shares one back.

“Gentlemen, you might want to step inside in a minute.” Romanoff comes behind the two, eying them both. “It's going to get a little hard to breathe.

She’s trying to gauge a reaction. Something is bound to happen.

He hears whirring, commands being spoken. 

That’s the engines.

“Submarine or aircraft.”

Romanoff’s eyes shoot to him. It's hard to read her face.

“Oh, I don’t like that,” Banner says with a nervous laugh.

One of the two. She wouldn’t be looking at him that way if that weren’t the case. 

Could be wrong though. 

Silence. 

Aircraft.

Steve finds himself looking over the edge, eying propellers.

Banner is not going to like this.

“Oh, this is not good.”

Rogers cannot help but nod. 

“Don’t have all day, boys. Come on in.” 

With that, Steve watches as Romanoff twirls on her heel, walking away.

With a quick glance at Banner, they both follow.

-

Chapter Text

“Welcome to the playground, follow me

Tell me your nightmares and fantasies

Sink into the wasteland underneath

Stay for the night, I’ll sell you a dream”

Welcome to the Playground - Bea Miller

—

The bridge is interesting, for sure. Watching everyone work away, moving like a well-oiled machine, is something that makes his head hurt.

They’re off the ocean soon enough and into the air. The clouds float by, and Steve gets a swoop in his stomach.

“We’re on lock, sir.” Steve eyes the Hill from the corner of his eye. 

“Let’s vanish.” The man with the eyepatch replies. 

Vanish?

This thing can go invisible.

Steve’s mouth forms a small ‘oh’. That does make sense now. This is all really cool.

His head suddenly fills with white noise that leaves him standing in place. What just happened? Left lightheaded, he looks around himself. 

“Dammit.” They have more to go before they lose the bet.

He isn’t left to question what just happened, with his feet guiding him to the table with the team.

“Gentleman.”

Steve walks straight past Fury as he hears the vague noise of him and Dr. Banner speaking introductions. Hill gives him a look over, observing him, it seems. Steve is looking at all the screens through blurred lenses. 

From the main control panel to the agents' screens, the soldier is watching them.

Eventually, he’s back with the group.

“We're sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet. Cellphones, laptops.” Coulson speaks from the lower deck up to Banner and Fury on the upper deck.

Must be a lot to comb through.

Yeah, does sound like a lot.

Turning his head, he watches Natasha squat down next to a screen. A few clicks later, a face pops up.

Clint Barton.

”If it's connected to a satellite, it's eyes and ears for us.” Coulson speaks.

“That’s still not going to find them in time.” 

Them. That could be just for Loki. Looking at the picture, though, the captain doesn’t really think that’s all.

And the others are off again, the soldier left to his own devices.

As soon as the others go, Coulson looks over towards him. What Steve assumes is to check-in with him. With a flash of a smile, Rogers takes a long sigh. It’s certainly a weird feeling that this all brings him, but he can manage.

-

“I mean, if it's not too much of an issue.”

“No, no. I can do that, sir.” Coulson’s grin at Steve’s reply is all but from him swooning.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Coulson looks like he’s about to implode out of pure happiness. 

He looks like he’s about to go off on a ramble. 

Does he?

“It's a vintage set. It took me a few years to collect them all.”

Oh, there he goes.

Steve stares ahead, letting the conversation fade into the background. His eyes are stuck on the man in front of him. He cannot look away. His head twitches to the right, he cannot get it to go further when it corrects back straight. The soldier frowns. 

There are several clicks and beeps. Target match, that’s what it reads. Red and bold letters.

“We’ve got a hit.”

Steve feels his upper lip and nose twitch into a deep scowl for a moment.

He’s blinking the next moments. 

Frost touches his mouth.

Flinching back, he stares at the fingers that were massaging the sides of his mouth. Shaking that hand out, Steve returned it to his side. 

“Stuttgart, Germany. 28, Königstrasse.” The man with glasses turns towards Coulson. “He's not exactly hiding.”

The soldier’s eyes cannot depart from this man’s face. His lips quivering, threatening to disobey what he wishes again.

“Captain.” Blinking, he finds himself frozen in place. A cool sensation flowed through him like a soft breeze. “You’re up.”

Steve turns towards the director, eyes sharp. “Yes, sir.”

With that, Fury looks to the place behind him where Coulson should be. 

Time for a battle.

-

It looks weird. Steve isn’t too sure that this is right. 

Red, white, and blue. Adorned by a star in the center of his chest. 

It looks like a bullseye. 

He wore this?

This is Captain America’s uniform. He’s Captain America. 

The soldier runs his hands over the uniform. Even though numbed, he cannot help it. There’s this itch at the back of his head. 

This is his. 

But he doesn’t recall it. It makes his head hurt. 

He wants to get away from this. 

It has to get done. 

Rogers’ breath hitches as his hands involuntarily pick it up. Traitors. 

Steve feels queasy, the throbbing agony in his head increasing. 

A flood of calm suddenly hits him. Like that wave when he slept the previous days, all-consuming, dragging him under it without a struggle.

This must get done for others' sake. 

Steve swallows and nods. He has to do this. 

Blink.  

-

He’s looking down at the shield between his legs, dragging his hands along its edges. The helicarrier is moving with haste. And here he sits looking over himself. 

The confines of the suit does feel a bit much. Yet, he is prepared for what is to come. 

Ready to get into a fist fight with a foreign god. 

A snicker leaves his mouth. 

Yeah, yeah. Steve Rogers is prepared for that. 

Of course, he’s ready for this. Who would he be otherwise? Not fighting those bigger than him. 

Steve ponders this thought. He doesn’t recall a past with that. But he has the itching feeling that it’s right. 

Silence. 

“One minute out, Captain. Prepare to be dropped off and roll out.”

“Yes, sir.” Leaves the soldier's mouth. Rocking onto his toes, the man steeling himself. 

Please don’t leave me fretting. 

No promises, Ja-

Steve needs to focus. 

Right. 

-

Rushing out on top of a nearby apartment, Steve can already see the havoc unfolding far away. The god is dressed in green and black, talking to a crowd.

Well, the devil horns certainly don’t help him in the case of not looking evil.

The soldier looks to the edge, running over to see the drop. It's a few floors high. He’s a super soldier, he’ll live.

“The stairs are to your left, Captain!” That’s Coulson. Turning towards the man, Steve sees the confusion etched into his face.

Unfortunately for the other man, he feels his body already in motion. “No time, sir!”

Grasping the sides of the building, he throws himself over the edge. Past the air whipping against his body as it pummels towards the ground below, he hears a shout of concern from the agent.

Oh, to see his face right now.

Hitting the ground tippy toes first, he rolls into his shield, cartwheeling forward. On his hands and knees on the ground, Steve dashes off without another word.

-

“Look to your elder people.” The scepter lowers, pointing directly at the one man standing amongst the crowd.

God, that cannot be any good.

Vaulting over a car, Rogers’ legs are working overtime to get to the crowd. Please, let him get there.

“Let him be an example.”

The next thing Steve knows, he’s flying over dozens of people. Crashing into the center, the shield in his left hand raises. 

There’s a shot, then a sure clang from his shield. A shout resonates from in front of the captain. Loki. 

Peeking over the shield’s edge, his eyes scan down the shield. It is undamaged. Loki is recovering in front of him. 

There’s a giddy feeling curling from his insides.

Yeah, this is familiar, alright. It's nice.

“You know, the last time I was in Germany and there was a man standing above all others, we ended up disagreeing very badly.” 

Ice-cold eyes meet Steve’s own sharpened gaze. 

“The soldier! A man out of time.” The Asgardian crowed, amused.

Is that all he is? Geez.

“I’m not the one out of time.” His left hand twitches. 

The urge to lob this man on the side of the head. Multiple times.

“Loki, drop the weapon and stand down.”

He’s not going to.

Before anything else could happen, Steve was throwing the shield at the man. Sure enough, the scepter was starting to rise when the shield struck.

His shield was granted back to him, and the god was swiftly recovering. 

Launching into the open air, he raised his fist. Crack! The god’s head whipped back with a loud grunt.

This didn’t help when the god snapped his gaze back up, blue eyes widened. 

Oh, he was recovering quicker than Steve initially thought. 

Not a problem. Time to hit harder.

A lunge forward, and Loki swung the scepter straight at him. Shrieks of metal on metal came from the shield as the two objects met head-on.

Suddenly, he was slammed into the ground, not even a foot away. His side throbbed with the blow that his body had just been dealt.

There was a short and sharp snort. 

-

The soldier blinked.

There was a slamming noise, a sound crackling, echoing through his ears, in which a loud shout followed. 

“Get off of me!” The voice was sour, livid. At most, it sounded like the whining of a child.

He felt himself being thrown onto the ground. One swift motion later, he was on his feet and rolling up. Crouching, the soldier stared blearily in front of him. Like a camera coming into focus, his vision warbled, soon becoming sharpened.

The fog of his mind started to lift, the two-horned god was scrambling onto his feet several feet away. Wild eyes met his own, eyebrows furrowed into something scornfully enraged.

The Asgardian went to talk when music started blaring around them. That was really loud. Flinching, the soldier's hands shot to his ears, even with the helmet upon his head and the shield still in his left hand.

Something was nearing, if the intensity of the whirring and booming air was anything to go by.

Something bright struck the god square in the chest. Sent crashing back to the ground, he is left down meters away.

A sound thump hit the ground beside him. Several whirs are happening to the right of him. “Make your move, reindeer games.”

Looking up to his right, he spotted a machine dressed in scarlet. 

Iron Man.

His hands fell from his ears. Drawing up to his feet, the soldier wandered over to the man’s side. 

“Good choice.” The weapons fell away. From what Steve could see were a blaster of some sort and a missile. Both are threatening in their own way.

“Mr.Stark.”

“Captain.”

-

Scritches and scribbles were drowned out by the sounds of the carrier. Nonetheless, Steve was writing in his small portable sketchbook.

Good purchase, wasn’t it? 

Shut it. He didn’t need these thoughts right now.

Despite it all, he felt a smile pull at his lips. Fine, fine. Later then.

“I don’t like it.” 

This wasn’t supposed to be easy. Yet, here he was. Downtime for drawing while standing across from an Asgardian. It shouldn’t be this way.

“What? Rock of Ages giving it up so easily?” 

God, why does he have to talk like this?

“It shouldn’t be this easy. This man is a god. Hit like one too.” Steve’s side throbs almost like it's been called upon. Thanks for that.

“Well, you’re pretty spry for an older fellow.” 

The older man sighs, slamming the small sketchbook shut. Tucking the supplies back into the suit’s waist bags, he looked deadpan at Stark. If this man won’t take this seriously.

“What’s your thing? Pilates?”

“What?”

The man looks away, rolling his eyes. “It's like calisthenics. You might’ve missed a couple of things, you know, doing time as a Capsicle.”

Oh, Steve resents that.

Daggers were thrown Tony’s way. 

“Didn’t get told that you’d be a part of this.”

“Well, there’s a lot of things Fury doesn’t tell.”

“Touche.” That was the one thing that they could shake hands on. Steve didn’t like Fury.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony’s eyebrows raise. 

“What?”

The conversation is cut short by the sound of thunder and lightning.

-

Shit, shit, shit.

Stop that. 

“That guy a friendly?”

What do you think? He just crashed in here and grabbed Loki!

The files said he was his brother. 

Oh, that was true.

Geez, the panicking. It’ll be fine.

And there goes Stark. ”Doesn’t matter. If he frees or kills Loki, the tesseract is lost.” 

While true, there’s something else. “Don’t you dare leave. We need a plan.”

“I have a plan: attack.”

Dammit!

That man is nuts. And frustrating.

Steve’s head nodded in acknowledgement. Very frustrating.

Blinking, Steve finds himself fastening on a parachute. 

Going after him.

“I’d sit this one out, Cap.”

“I cannot. Not this time.”

“These guys practically come from legends. They’re basically gods.”

“Well, time to take up the chance of a fist fight with god.” With that, Steve found himself being thrown out of the plane, thrust into the darkness all around.

-

Striking that forest floor, it wasn’t too hard to navigate his way to the fight. 

If the clanging of metal, shouting, and other fighting noises are anything to go by.

They aren’t exactly subtle.

Upon a higher part of the hill, there’s something blazing past his head. Two blurs, shouting masses that are flung into a mountain.

That is not going well.

Running forward, trees pass by at record speed. Nothing but a blur as Steve chases after the noises. Making him work for something that he really shouldn’t be doing. 

They’re fighting like cats.

Yeah, Steve can see that image.

-

He’s up on a log, higher up than the two.

The clang from hitting both of them with his shield resounds all around them. “That’s enough! Fighting like idiots isn’t going to help either of us.”

The long-haired god looks afronted by this. A steel resolve sets upon his darkened face. “I’ve come to put an end to Loki’s schemes.”

“Yeah? Good, we are too. Put the hammer down.”

This didn’t seem to do any good by the look on the god’s face.

“Yeah, no. He loves his ham-” Clang! Stark goes flying back at record speed. 

“You want me to put the hammer down now?!” Thor rages in front of him, raising his hammer.

He’s going to be on the end of this one. 

Uh-oh.

The thunder god launches up into the air, hammer swinging down and onto where Steve will be.

Raising his shield, Rogers ducks underneath it, palms raised against its center. Please, please let this hold.

-

Clang!

The soldier is all but slammed downwards. Nothing is heard but the reverberating of metal. It's so loud in his ears, it drowns out all else.

Falling upon his backside, Rogers shakes his head. 

Ow, ow, ow!

His ears scream their agony. It's so loud.

It's too loud!

Hands scrambling to the sides of his face, they find the hoodie-like helmet in place. 

Get it off, get it off.

The helmet is yanked off, his hands flying to his ears to cover them from the deafening noise all around. The sound still lingers.

A small whine broke from the soldier’s lips as Steve’s left arm shook, his right hand going a shove off the shield from his arm. 

Soon, the noise started to calm. Blinking through the tears that threatened to surface, Steve turned to look at the other two. They were both barely recovering alongside Steve. Looking around at the destruction around them. Trees were knocked over, the a slight crater from the blast; it wasn’t a delightful sight.

Tongue heavy in his mouth, the soldier croaked out a question. “Are we done here?”

-

Chapter Text

“Mmm, parla, la gente purtroppo parla

Non sa di che cosa parla

Tu portami dove sto a galla

Che qui mi manca l'aria”

ZITTI E BUONI - Måneskin

—

The god is staring straight at the camera, smirking devilishly at the camera.

He wants to be here. What is he playing at?

“He really grows on you, doesn’t he?” Banner speaks up. He’s probably nervous about the cage they set for him.

Don’t blame him in the slightest.

Yeah. They don’t feel at all comfortable, even with the god in custody. 

“If he were like mold.” Steve pauses, taking a deep breath. “So, Thor, what’s his play?”

Thor gives him a side-glance. Probably not the biggest fan of them talking about his brother like this.

Well, he can complain when Loki’s not being a pain in their side. Living up to his title: god of mischief. 

“He has an army called the Chitauri. They're not of Asgard or any world known. He means to lead them against your people. They will win him the earth. In return, I suspect, for the Tesseract.” Turning towards all of them, his gaze remains stuck to the ground.

“An army from somewhere unknown.” The soldier begins.

“That’s what he needs Selvig for.” Banner pipes up. “Presumably to make another portal.” 

That made sense. If he could open a portal, that’d be something big they’d have to handle.

“Loki has him under his spell. As well as one of our own.”

Natasha was talking about Clint Barton.

“Loki let us take him. This is a ploy.”

They all look to him. Steve blinks at the many eyes upon him.

“It's the only thing that makes sense. He’s not leading an army from here. He’s not the one in the cage.”

“What, still believing we just didn’t hand it to him?” Stark waltzes in. The captain can see his bravado in each of his step from where he sits across the room. 

There’s a small, unintentional groan that pours from his lips. The Captain doesn’t like it. Why couldn’t he get someone more reasonable?

“Yeah, I don’t think anything's going up there.” Banner. “That man’s brain is scrambled like a bag full of cats, Cap.”

They couldn’t be serious. 

“Have care of how you speak!” 

The squabbling fades to white noise. The soldier brings out his rubber pen. Tapping on the glass, the video feed of Loki is brought up again.

That man wants to be here. Not the only one noticing, right? 

Silence. Come on, I’m talking to you. 

Oh- Yeah, this is fishy. Something is coming. Steve isn’t too sure why anyone else isn’t focusing on the fact that Loki seems so content being in a cage, if not smug over it. 

Yes! Thank you! A small huff of air left their chest. He’s not the only one noticing that. Thank you. 

Thank who? Steve doesn’t quite know what his train of thoughts are doing. It’s too much to look directly into. 

“That man is playing Galaga!”

Steve’s left eye twitches as his head snaps up. A sudden rush of energy bowls him over, fire sent rushing through his veins. 

Galaga? Where?

What?

“Thought we wouldn’t notice, but we did.” Stark ends, looking back to the panels. 

Don’t care. Where is it?

Busy! Not the time!

No, I want to see!

Steve’s head began to pulse in pain. Something cold reaches his temple to rub it. It’s their fingers, that’s right, cold hands. 

Stop it. So disruptive.

Steve finds himself still in his seat, a scowl deeply resting on his face. 

Later then. 

His head is pleasantly silent other than the slightest throbbing of his temples persisting. 

“Am I the only one who did the readings?”

“Power source, what is it?” They’re off to the races with Steve’s question. Science talk it seems. Steve has no care for all the talk, just what would help get this all over with.

“Finally, someone who speaks English.”

“Unfortunately.” Steve snips out, hand raising to pinch his nose. This man. He’s going to kill them all.

“The scepter. It functions like a HYDRA weapon. Any news on that front?”

“I don't know about that, but it is powered by the cube.” Fury started.

Steve felt a solid force tapping against his cheek. Cold and unfeeling, Rogers soon spotted the flesh out of the corner of his eyes. It was his hand. That was alright.

“And I'd like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys.”

“Monkeys?” Thor mustered out, Steve could see his eyebrows furrowing. “I do not understand.”

Steve is blinking rapidly in that moment as his head fills with cotton. Like a lens coming in and out of focus, Steve struggles to keep up. The fuzz in his head, it cannot be shaken. 

The next thing he knows, he feels faint, as if he’s flying up in the clouds.

“I do!” A voice squeaks out. 

Steve’s mouth twitches downwards. Why was his voice so high and giddy?

It doesn’t matter that it twitches to try and frown. The smile upon his face is brilliant, it cannot be dimmed. “I understand! Wizard of Oz, right?”

The soldier feels his mouth, but he cannot control the very expression upon them. It is out of his own control. If it could, his face would show slight concern. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Tony rolls his eyes skywards.

He must’ve gotten it right, but why are they looking like that at him? He was just trying to be helpful…

A small pout is soon of the man’s lips. Steve feels his legs kicking back and forth. 

The others were no fun. He’s starting to get insecure about all of this. Who are these people again?

They carry on around him. Not a second glance cast Steve’s way.

It's not the time. I’m sorry. 

But the Wizard of Oz…

Not the time. But there is something else to stick around for. 

Blink.

-

They're stuffing their face with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He stares outwards as he absolutely gobles them down.

These are delicious! Wish there was more at home.

There could be more.

Sitting in a corner of the helicarrier, he is all but a curled up ball of a man in the corner out of the way of a hallway.

Another piece of the first jelly sandwich is stuffed into his mouth. It is gone within two huge bites. 

Might want to slow down.

Don’t wanna.

The others are soon all but gone within a minute. Thank god for the helicarrier even having something akin to a meal for him.

Time to wash hands. 

“Ugh.” Does he have to go? He hasn’t had time out! It seems unfair. 

You know something is going on here. Rather not have you in the crossfire. 

That… is okay, I guess.

Blink. 

-

Outside the door to the lab, the captain hears a conversation going on between the two scientists in there. 

Steve doesn’t know how Banner can handle Tony.

Patience of a saint. Must be it.

“Well, I promise a stress-free environment. No tension, no surprises.”

Steve was right to assume the zap, followed swiftly by a small “ow!”

“Hey!” Tony is staring at Bruce like an ant under a magnifying glass. This doesn’t sit right with him.

“Nothing?”

“Are you crazy?” The question leaves Steve’s mouth, frustration and bafflement mixed in tune to the voice.

“Jury’s out”, is all that the man gets in a reply. Is this man serious? Steve fixes the annoying one with a deadpan look. “How do you have such a lid on it? Bongo-”

“Can you not with this?” Hands on hips, Captain fixes Tony with a deep frown. “Bruce’s here of his own accord; don’t fixate on him like some sort of anomaly you want to look at.”

 “Wow, guess your humor died in the ice, Cap.”

The man did not bother to reply. 

Steve doesn’t like this man.

Not the only one. 

“You’re tiptoeing, big man. You need to strut.” Tony points the wand towards Bruce, using his other hand to wave in exaggeration.

Don’t like him either.

“Can you focus on the problem, Mr.Stark?”

“You think I’m not?” God, Tony has the gall to sound incredulous at that.

“Why did Fury call us in? Now, why not before?” So this is what is occupying his scatterbrained mind. Made sense. 

To refer to Banner’s wise words: brain like a bag of cats.

“What isn’t he telling us? I cannot do the equation without all the variables.”

This did make sense. The files were there, all neat and ready. Yet, how they’ve been treating Steve. Just enough to keep him on the hook, not enough to get what they wanted. 

“See? It's bugging him too.” Tony points at the doctor, shoving another mouthful of blueberries into his mouth.

Steve looks to Banner. After a slight to maybe get the subject to change, Banner fails with a sigh.

“‘A warm light for all mankind.’ Loki’s jab at Fury. Well,” Banner turns and points to Stark. “I think that was for you.” Stark extend his hand, presenting a plastic bag.

What’s that?

Some sort of snack. Nothing too important now. 

Banner takes it, whatever it is. “Even if Barton didn’t go telling the news about the tower to Loki, it was still all over the news.”

Oh, that tower-

“The Stark Tower? That big, ugly,” Steve begins. An incredulous look is shot his way via Tony. The look screams ‘really?’

Don’t care. That thing is hideous. If you’re not going to let him know, I’ll let him know.

“Looking toilet bowl?” The end comes out, one eyebrow raised. Daring for the man to talk as if it doesn’t look like that. 

That was very rude to say to the man's face. Steve doesn’t know why he was saying these things. 

Not taking it back.

The voice sounded pouty and stubborn. Steve visualized someone crossing their arms and pouting.

A huff of laughter from Banner. Stark in front of him looks abhorrent and shocked.

Probably just shattered the golden boy image for him. Good if it was. 

“Well, even if it looks like that. It has a self-sustaining energy source. It can run itself for a year, correct?” The questions continue. 

“It’s just a prototype.” With a wave of his hand, the engineer looks back at Steve. “I’m kinda the only name in clean energy right now.”

“So then why didn’t SHEILD bring him in on the Tesseract project? What are they doing in the energy business in the first place?”

“They’re not.” It came out of his mouth before he even registered it. “I wouldn’t trust the tesseract the way it is sitting in their custody. They’re trying to get something else out of it.”

Raised eyebrows are on Stark's face in less than a second. “I must be dreaming.” A swivel towards Bruce. “Am I dreaming that Capsicle is agreeing with me? I must be.”

Shut it. The words are tearing at his throat. He gives Stark a deadpanned look. 

“Well, I should probably look into the decryption program soon. You know, the one going through all of SHIELD’s files.” The man pulls out his phone, coming around the bend of the table towards Rogers.

Steve blinks rapidly, his chest squeezed tight all of a sudden. A rubber band of agony just slapped itself around his head. 

No, no—

There’s several blinks as there’s a warbling in what he’s feeling. Too many things at once-

“I’m sorry, did you say-”

His voice sounded so distant. Steve is looking at the whites of the walls.

“JARVIS has been running it since I’ve hit the bridge.” 

There’s a hitch of Steve’s breath.

“Soon, I’ll know every dirty secret.” Stark looks so proud of himself. “Blueberry?”

He doesn’t want to take it. He feels sick to his stomach, like bile will rise in his throat. 

His hand reaches anyway, grasping multiple before shoving them into his mouth. 

“I think we should handle the Loki issue first. Out of his hands, then figure out what SHIELD’s up to.”

The man looks bewildered. “What? We have downtime. They’re hiding something. We should get to the bottom of it.”

“Steve,” the name calls to him. His aching head goes silent. “Tell me this doesn’t smell funky to you.”

The soldier looks past Banner, the glass and into the open area behind him.

Should they do this?

“Just find the cube.” Steve’s body makes its way out of the room. 

-

Well, that’s helpful. Very obvious.

A steel door with a small glass window rests in front of him. There’s not a camera outside of this door.

Who doesn’t have one of those for something like this? Especially an organization like this? This is ridiculous!

Steve nodded; he needed to get this door open.

Clang! 

The soldier looked down to see his left hand grasping the slightest edge of the door. His shoulder pulsed with pain as the door groaned, opening up before his very eyes. Fixated, Steve watched as the door was all but pried open with his left arm alone.

Slam! 

Good news: the lock was broken and he has access. Bad news: they would most certainly know he was there now. 

Before anything else, his legs carried him inside. In one fell leap into the air, the man found himself flying several meters into the air with little contest to the illegitimacy of it all. The man didn’t even need to get warmed up, and he was vaulting over the second-floor bars without even touching them. Landing on his toes, there was no other sound that he ever entered. 

Footsteps were dashing over to the now broken door. 

Out of sight. They won’t see the soldier.

In a blur, Steve suddenly is in front of several boxes.

Open.

There’s a whir of something off in the distance as his left arm shoots out, breaking the very lock to the case in front of him. It is open in less than 2 seconds.

It's a gun and a helmet. But something about this is eerily familiar. The logo. That makes a train of agony hit his head. Grasping at his hair, he grunts through his teeth. That logo. What is it? Why does it hurt?

A whimper falls through his teeth. Eyes are scanning every nook and cranny of the case. 

This is what he fought against.

There’s a flash of blue in his eyes. People in strange helmets are turning their heads to look at him. A person screams, and someone in front of him turns to blue ashes and dust right in front of him. He’s so sorry.

There’s someone cased in shadows, a man with sickly red skin pointing a pistol with a blue glow at him.

There’s the shrieking of the wind that blows past his head. A bright flash of blue shoots through his vision. 

There’s a scream that cries out for his very soul alongside the shrieking wind.

There’s howling wails barely heard beneath the overwhelming electricity sparking—

Crunch!

Steve comes to his hand curled around grey bits and pieces of metal. Left hand drawing back, the logo is all but crumbled into itself. Still, it mocks him. There’s a howling scream echoing in the back of his head.

The case is slammed shut. Steve is there, chest heaving, eyes stuck on the very spot the logo once was burning into his eyes. He- He doesn’t know what he was seeing — or what he was feeling. 

There’s bound to be more. We have to show. 

Steve carries on even with the tears tracking down his cheeks. 

-

“What is ‘Phase Two’?”

Slam! Rogers does not care for the noise even if it makes himself flinch.

“Phase Two is where SHIELD uses the cube to make weapons.” Looking towards Stark’s place behind the screen, Steve speaks. “Sorry, computer was moving a bit too slow.”

“Rogers, we gathered everything to do with the tesseract. This does not mean-”

“I’m sorry, Nick.” Tony cuts in, swinging the screen over to face them. It doesn’t take more than a second for Steve to spot the weapon on the screen. A blazing inferno of rage ignites on his already-thin veil of patience. “What were you lying?”

“World hasn’t changed a bit. The belief of the cube being in different hands makes you think it can be used for something good this time. And you choose to make it into the same purpose HYDRA wanted it for.” 

Steve’s glance never leaves Fury as Banner questions the weapons. 

They’re all the same. 

“I want to know what SHIELD is doing building weapons of mass destruction.”

“It’s because of him.” 

That reminds him of something a child would say. Pointing blame. Fury’s talk of others being out there gives no leeway to the angry blaze.

“It is a signal to all the realms that Earth is ready for a higher form of war.”

Steve all but glares at the man with the eyepatch. He opens his mouth to reply when his mouth suddenly shuts.

There’s a buzzing in his head. All noise is drowned out, his head dunked under water.

Stop it.

There’s a pressure mounting in his head.

“Remind me how you made your fortune, Stark.”

“Doing similar things that you’ve done.” The voice is snide and full of bitterness.

“ Hold on , how is this about me?” Stark’s voice cuts in through the white noise that drowns Steve out.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Innocent. Isn’t everything?” 

That… That sounds like him. But, that isn’t him .

Steve cannot hear any other than muffled voices.

There’s something alongside him. His eyes are blinking as if there’s dirt in them, and his mouth is down in a scowl. A rumble resonates from within his chest.

“Why shouldn’t the guy let off a little steam?”

Someone grabs his shoulder. 

There’s a mechanical hum and a grunt of pain as Steve’s vision comes into a blurry focus. “ Don’t touch me .” Another grunt sounds. 

In his left hand is Tony’s hand. The man looks very pissed off as he yanks his hand away. “Sorry, can’t touch Mr. Golden Boy, right? Can’t touch ‘perfection’.” 

There’s another one of those low rumbling sounds in Steve’s ears. 

“Maybe if you weren’t so focused on what I can do, maybe you could do more to clean your ledger.”

“What, you? Be a ‘hero’? Don’t pretend that you weren’t playing dress up and dolls at first.” The man takes a clean step into his space. Get away. “All that happened to you was man-made. Everything special about you came out of a bottle .”

Stark was not done. “And look at your track record on being a hero .”

There’s red in his view.

“Where’s your friend ?”

Teeth snap quite loudly among the white noise, and the super soldier towers over the smaller man.

“Put on the suit.” The voice does not stutter, it is cold and distant, yet the hate hangs off of every word. “I’ll tear it personally apart, bit by bit. That’s being nice.”

Rogers doesn’t know what’s going on. He stares out of his own eyes like watching a show from afar.

“Agent Romanoff, would you escort Doctor Banner to his-”

“Where? You rented my room.” 

The fog clears for just a second. The red lifts, he feels real again. 

What’s happening? He looks around the room. Oh, there’s sunlight. Is it morning?

“Dr. Banner. The cell was just in case-”

“You needed to kill me.” The doctor finished off. What? No, Steve refused to entertain the thought. How dare this man. “But you can’t, I know, I tried.” 

The man’s voice did not waver. This made Steve just stare at him. There was a gaping hole of sorrow that welled up inside his chest. This cut through the blazing inferno, it did not douse it, however.

“I got low. I didn’t see an end.”

There’s screaming, screeching in the soldier’s head. Clanks of metal hitting metal. Snarling and a flash of white teeth being stained red flashes before his eyes. There’s more screaming, repeated phrases that the man cannot quite make out.

“So, I put a bullet in my mouth, and the other guy spit it out.” The doctor only pauses for a second. “So I moved on. I focused on helping other people; I was good. Till you dragged me back to this freakshow and put everyone here at risk.” Turning to the right, Banner made eye contact with Romanoff.

“You wanna know my secret, Agent Romanoff?”

There’s a noise that drags the soldier's attention downwards. A gleam of gold and blue flashes in his vision. Bruce is holding the scepter. 

“You want to know how I stay calm?”

This isn’t good.

“Doctor Banner”, the man’s gaze is suddenly on the captain. “The scepter, I advise you to put it down.”

Banner looked bewildered, only to find the scepter was within his grasp. Steve didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it earlier.

There’s sudden beeping coming from Rogers’ left. Locating the tesseract was finished.

“Sorry, kids. I guess you don’t get to see my party trick after all.” Bruce says as he makes his way over to the screen.

“You located the tesseract?”

“I can get there faster.” 

The commotion starts up again, and the red in his vision turns crimson.

“You’re not going alone. Remember what you caused last time?” The voice snarls from his mouth. Steve doesn’t like how it sounds.

“What? You going to stop me or what?”

“Oh, I’ll stop you even before you get to the suit.”

There’s more beeping off to his right, but it is irrelevant to the low snarl he can hear building up in his throat.

“Oh, my god.”

The room explodes.

-

Chapter Text

“Ooh, look what you made me do

Look what you made me do

Look what you just made me do

Look what you just made me do”

Look What You Made Me Do (Cover) - Twenty One Two 

—

A cry of pain bursts out from his chest as Steve is all but flown back into the table, crumbling soon after. His spine and shoulders let out a loud song of agony.

It hurts, that fucking hurt.

Ending up face down on the ground, the deep crimson recedes. Yet, it's not too far. Blinking, he swears to hear a growl resonate from around him.

Hurt. Who hurt it?

He’s okay! It’s okay!

Hurt!

His head shook back and forth, as if trying to knock something out of his head. His teeth are grinding against one another hard. A fog starts to roll in.

There is a man in the corner of its vision. Claw, maim, kill.

There’s a spitting snarl and the scraping noise of something crunching. The metal beneath it buckles, folding inwards as it scrambles to get onto its hands and feet.

He’s okay, he’s okay.

Its eyes dart around, looking over everyone around him. A man with a goatee and black hair is groaning feet away, coming to the scene around them.

It's fine. I promise.

The voice is trying to placate the other. Steve finds his body heaving a heavy sigh as his body collapses to his hands and knees.

The red soon dissipates.

Steve comes to his teeth being bared and drool leaking from his mouth. Wiping the spit onto his star-spangled uniform, he scrambles off his hands and knees and onto his feet. His body’s loud protest goes unanswered. His eyes lock with Tony’s.

“Put on the suit.”

“Yep.”

They’re scrambling like bats out of hell out of the lab and into the hallway.

Agents are running up like ants. Something huge happened if it's causing this much damage.

“You!” Steve calls out to an agent rushing by. “What happened?” 

“Engine three failed, sir,” the grunt says, looking behind him. 

Turning to Stark, they stayed there for a second before rushing through the tight hallways once again. Soon, sparks flew overhead, illuminating the room with a yellow and orange glow. Agents bark orders as they evacuate the premises. And the two are running into the danger zone like madmen.

Stark turns to the right. “Engine three. I’ll meet you there. But first…” Something is shoved into his hand. An earpiece. “Gotta go.” And he’s off.

“Right.” Now alone, he doesn’t quite know where engine three is. Thankfully, the people running away from it do help him immensely. 

Soon, an iron door nearly hits him in the face. There are muffled shouts and several frantic rappings from the inside.

Much like earlier, his left arm grabs the door and all but opens it. Slight mishaps occur when the door is yanked off its hinges and sent flying into the open hallway. A bang comes from where it hits the ground. 

Widened eyes meet Steve’s own. A sheepish smile grows on his face. “Be free.”

They scatter like tiny bugs down the hallway, hauling one of their injured comrades away.

From behind the men, the open sky is all that meets him. Dangling wires spark with the last bit of energy they can offer. Everything is mauled and destroyed like a bomb just went off. Panels are destroyed, and a multitude of objects are hanging onto dear life. His feet rush him to the edge, the wind blowing in his face. 

“Stark! Stark, I’m here!” Steve screams above the wind, shoving the earpiece into his ear. He awaits a response. 

“Good,” comes the reply. “Now, let’s see what we got.”

The man flies to the wreckage, where the rotors are presumably right behind. The place is sparking wildly, lighting up Tony’s red suit all yellow and orange.

“I got to get the superconducting cooling system back online before I can access the rotors. Dislodging the debris is after that.” The iron suit says. It's a little hard to hear this man above the wind violently whipping in his ear. Even with Steve’s hearing, it is a lot.

Agreed.

“I need you to get to that control panel and tell me which relays are in overload position.” A point of Stark’s finger and Steve is flying through the open air. Vaulting through the air by grabbing a bar that poked out, he lands silently on the ground. 

Steve is hugging the wall instantaneously. His heart hammers in his chest, his stomach dropping into a bottomless pit. 

He doesn’t want to look down. Don’t make him, please.

Stumbling into to a more secure part of the platform, his right hand yanks open the panel. The beeps, chirps, and sparks sound like music to his ears. There’s too many places to focus on.

“What does it look like in there?”

Well, hell, don’t even know. No one’s equipped for this.

“It looks like it runs on some sort of electricity.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. Let me help you with that, old man.”

The captain frowned, throwing his head back.

- 

“All the relays are intact.” The beeping and clicks are all but drowned out by the whipping of air around them as Steve pushes the panel back in. “What’s our next move?”

“Even if I clear the rotors, this thing won’t re-engage without a jump.” Made sense. “I’m going to have to get in there and give it a push.”

“But if that thing gets up to speed, you’ll get shredded.”

“Well, the stator control unit can reverse the polarity,” the man goes off. He’s gone, talking nonsense so fast that Steve cannot help but audibly groan. 

“In English, please, Stark!”

There’s a small sigh through the speaker in his ear. “You see that red lever?” Glancing back at the room around him, it isn’t too hard to miss. “It will slow down the rotors down long enough for me to get out.”

“Stand by it and wait for my word.” Launched suddenly though the open air once more, the man remains clinging to the wall for support. His heart will not stop. Grasping at his chest, he goes at takes a few deep breaths.

It’ll be done soon. Promise.

A nod, as he crumbed down into a squat. Oh, he hopes.

He stares at the wires as they whip in the wind. Everything is so loud here.

Suddenly, there’s something new. 

Tap, tap, tap.

Steve’s head shoots towards the entryway. 

No one should be coming. Yet, there’s a man in a black suit with goggles.

Blink. His eyes are half-massed. 

A low rumble shakes his world.

Blink.

-

Someone is banshee-screaming in his ears. It's a blackout all around him.

Whips of wind drown out the screaming and sobbing as the noise falls farther and farther away from him. 

Blinking rapidly, he surfaces from underneath the fog of his brain. Rattling his head side to side, the fog slowly lifts. 

Through bleary eyes, he comes to something red painted in his face. The lever?

Steve’s vision slowly clears, the black spots in his vision fading rapidly. There is a sheet of metal in his face, drenched and splattered with fresh blood. The metal shine nearly non-existent with how much crimson paints its surface.

What the hell?

Stumbling back over his feet, his right arm shoots out. Grasping onto the railing and wires, he is saved from flying out of the aircarrier. Rushing forward onto his feet, Steve finds himself curled around one of the flying cords, the piece of metal still in his hand. 

His gloves were missing, fingers sprayed with little red dots. Steve couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.

The scrap metal was thrown out and into the abyss. A tiny pinprick in the distance until it was no more.

What the hell happened?

Looking to his left, more red caught his vision. This time, in the form of his gloves. 

Breath punched out of his chest, he reached out for them in a flash. Get them on, get them on.

Ding. Something dropped from the inside of his right glove. A small squint later, Steve was sent into a panic. The com. 

Shoving it in his ear, the captain instantly recoiled. “Cap! The lever!” Stark’s yelling was audible through the line.

The lever was flicked down in less than a second. 

It took several to hear the sputtering of the suit, sounding not too much different from a car sputtering. “What took you so long?!” The question eventually came.

Steve opened his mouth. Thinking for a solid moment, he closed his mouth. 

He didn’t know. 

He didn’t know.

Wide eyes scanned the room, hoping for something, anything. When he opened his mouth, he went to stutter out something. 

Instead: “We had some company.”

“You had… company?” The metal man muttered out. 

“Yes.”

A moment of silence was replaced by the sparking cords and the violence of the wind. 

Thud! The suit landed onto a platform lower than Steve’s own. Glancing around, there was a hum from the man in the suit. “I see.” A deep exhale through the coms. “Well, next time let me know so I’m not hanging in there being spun like a washing machine, please, Cap.”

“Right,” left Steve’s mouth. Unannounced, leaving the man just going with the flow. 

The comms sparked to life in their ears once more. 

“Agent Coulson is down.”

-

“These were in Phil Coulson’s jacket.” Speckles of blood rained down upon the glass table as the cards hit it. “Guess he never got you to sign them.”

The crimson stains mock him.

Steve is holding one of the cards in his hand before he realizes. That’s him on the card. A smile and a salute. It makes his head ache. That’s him. Yet, he still doesn’t remember the man in the photo.

“We’re dead in the air. Our communications, the location of the cube, Banner, Thor…”

The man talks on. Steve continuously stares at the card in his hand. He mournfully wishes for some of the man in the portrait to remain within him.

It's just an image. Not a man.

He doesn’t remember any of this. It hurts. The throbbing of his head agrees.

“Yes, we were going to build an arsenal with the tesseract.” Steve’s blood boils within for a few seconds before being doused out immediately. It would get him nowhere. “I never put all my chips on that number, though, because I was playing something riskier.” 

That still did not placate the captain, but he would listen. This is for later.

“There was an idea, Stark knows this, called the Avengers Initiative.” Steve glances over to Tony. The man is staring off, dissocosiating. The view settles something uneasy deep in his gut. And yet, there’s something in the back of his mind. That look is familiar. But how?

It hurts his head. 

He stops thinking about it.

“The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people to see if they could become something more.” The captain meets the commander’s eyes. He soon glances away. It made sense. Why him?

“To see if they could work together when we needed them to, to fight the battles we never could.” Fury carried on. The soldier did not want to meet the man’s gaze. They were scattered and fractured. And yet, Coulson died believing in Fury’s words.

A buzzing in his head started up. There was no busy thoughts or presence that made his head feel stuffed with cottonballs. 

“Phil Coulson died still believing in heroes.” Out of the corner of Steve’s eye, he saw Stark shoot up from his chair. This couldn’t be good. Watching the engineer waltz out, he heard Fury’s parting words. “Well, it's an old-fashioned notion.”

“No, it really isn’t. It’s your rally.” Without another word, the soldier was on his feet, following the path behind Tony.

-

The cage is gone. Tony stands above the empty lot, looking in the distance at nothing in particular. 

There’s still speckles to Steve’s right. Coulson.

Walking up the stairs to the aforementioned missing container, Steve leaned back, arms crossed onto the rails.

“Did he have someone?”

“No. There was a cellist, I think.”

The silence weighs heavily in the room. It's suffocating.

“I’m sorry. He seemed like a good man.” Despite the constant weird encounters with the man, Steve felt grief for the man so enamored with him. The one who acknowledged his presence other than a tool. And the only one who apologized for a wrong.

He’s sorry.

“He was an idiot.”

A frown appeared soon on the soldier’s lips. “Why? He was doing his job.”

Tony scoffs, throwing his head to the side. “He shouldn’t have taken on Loki alone. He should’ve waited. He should have…” A throw of Tony’s hand. So many should-haves. 

“There isn’t a way out of things like this sometimes.” 

Another scoff. The man in front of him was ready to shatter, mask slipping ever so slowly with the patches of other emotions.

“Is this the first time you’ve lost a soldier?”

The reaction was instantaneous. “We are not soldiers.”

Captain was silent, piercing eyes never leaving Tony’s. He wavered, looking away, not meeting the soldier’s eyes again. “I’m not marching to Fury’s fife.”

“Neither am I. They’re all just as guilty as Loki.” The guns, the lies. “But now, we have to put the favor of everyone else as our priority. Loki means to unleash an army. We need to stop him.” 

Tony’s gaze flicked away to the wall Steve knew was still stained. “He made this personal.”

“That’s not the point.”

“That is the point. That is Loki’s point.” Something was loading behind Tony’s eyes. Something shined in Steve’s own eyes. Something was coming up. A pinpoint. He needs to chase that. “He hit us where we live. Why?”

“To tear us apart.” Leaving Steve’s mouth, he watches the engineer intently. Give him more.

“Yeah, divide and concur is great. But he knows he has to take us out to win, right? That’s what he wants .” The man is rolling on, dots connecting like constellations in his head. The captain is all too eager to listen. “He wants to be seen beating us. Wants to be seen doing it. He wants an audience.”

“He got one in Stuttgart.”

“That was the preview to come. Today’s opening night.” Tony carries on, walking past the soldier, hands wishy-washing all over. “And Loki’s a full-tilt diva, right?”

Yes, if Stuttgart was anything to go by.

“He wants flowers, he wants parades. He wants a monument built to the sky with his name plastard-”

Oh shit.

“Son of a bitch.”

-

The soldier is buckling his belt around his waist. Still in socks. Can he go any faster? For a super soldier like they claim, this is taking forever to put on. 

Shoving his feet into the boots, he rushes to fix them on snugly. If this uniform somehow makes it through the fight, he’d be impressed.

Better than the first iteration, though.

That’s for sure.

We were a laughing stock on stage. 

Stage?

Later.

Steve is thrown at the door, it flying open violently as Steve as the man prepares to rush out.

The mirrors and the bathroom sink meet the man. He goes to take a swift glance in the mirror.

Click. Another stall door unlocked. 

“Soldier?” Steve blinks. That sounds weird.

The deep ocean water swallows him whole.

-

He is standing outside of the medical bay. The door opens with a ‘tsh’. “Time to go.” Steve’s voice wavers, tongue heavy and threatening to slur.

“Go where?” Romanoff answers back.

“I’ll tell you on the way.” They needed to go. Loki is probably there in the city already. “Can you fly one of those jets?”

“I can.” The voice comes from the left. Clint Barton.

Steve turned to see the blonde man come out from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants. Is he still under the scepter? 

The captain turns to Natasha. She gives a nod. That’s all he needs. “You got a suit?”

“Yep.”

“Then suit up and roll out.” Steve turns away. Stalking down the empty hallway, his hand slaps the side of his neck. It throbs with a stabbing pain. Why is that? 

No matter. They need to go. He will be fine.

-

Chapter Text

“Asche zu Asche

Asche zu Asche

Asche zu Asche

und Staub zu Staub”

Asche zu Asche - Rammstein

—

“Ready.” The archer smiles, hitting his fist on the side of his thigh.

“Good. Let’s go.” Steve waves a hand, leading the trio down the runway. His face feels fuzzy. Cold hands blanket his cheeks, rubbing in gentle circles.

Waltzing down the carrier’s bay, the two friends behind him, they make their way towards an open quinjet. 

A young man is inside it. He was under one of the tables, presumably fishing something out of there. The perfect time for an ambush.

Their footsteps are heavy on the plane's floor. The poor soul turns around to stare at the trio.

Sorry.

“H-Hey, you guys aren’t authorized to be here.”

Steve’s eye twitches. He senses a mental eyeroll.

“Son,” the voice sounds exhausted and yet oddly stern. “Just don’t.”

Yeah, done with all of this already. 

The man’s mouth goes to open. 

Don’t you dare.

Wilting like a flower, the man stares into his eyes.

Yeah, you, out. The captain’s hand raises, thumb pointing behind them.

“Yes, sir.” That is all that’s squeaked out as the rookie leaves the jet.

Finally. “Let's get this show on the road.”

From behind him, there’s a faint huff of amusement from Natasha. A small hum sounds right after from the archer. 

Clint passed the captain on the left, swinging into the carrier’s seat. Bringing his hands in front of him, he groans and stretches. “Back to work again .” The agent groans out, several clicks following. The ramp closes up. 

“Don’t you even get started,” Natasha says, voice clipping as she swings into the passenger seat. 

“ Am I wrong ?” Natasha shoots the blonde a withering glare. A squeak, and the man shuts his mouth. 

Several clicks later, the team is airborne. Inbound in 7 minutes.

-

Hunched over, Steve’s head rests in his hands. The man has a throbbing headache. Of course, he gets one right before he heads into a battle with aliens.

It’s fire rushing through his veins, it's a throbbing ache in his head, and it's a fuzzy feeling dancing on top of his skin.

Another thing for him to deal with. He doesn’t dare mutter about it.

The soldier’s eyes close and his temple throbs with agony. Voices are going off in the background. It is too far away for him to worry. Steve doesn’t care too much for it.

Steve is startled out of his haze by Romanoff’s call from the front. “Rogers.”

Grasping his shield with his left hand, the soldier heads off to the front. “Coming in any time now.” The redhead announces. 

The skyline of New York is in the far distance. Time to prepare for the worst. 

Whatever’s out there, it's bound to be bad.

But it can be handled.

It can? He’s just one man, though.

Yes, but I promise you that it’ll be fine. I promise.

Rogers frowns at this.

There’s a snap in front of his face. “Captain.” Romanoff.

“Yes, ma’am?” There are no words. The answer is a white beam that pierces the sky, splitting the sky open.

-

“Stark, we’re on your three. Heading northwest.”

“What, did you stop for drive-thru?” The response comes through the com in his ear. “Swing up Park, I’m going to lay them out for you.”

Peeping through the windshield, he braces onto the back of Romanoff’s seat. There is nothing he can do now. The statue from two days ago –god, only two days ago– met him. Beings on flying carriers zip by. Few explode when they join in the fray. It is something.

They keep going. Up and up, knocking strays out of the air.

“Nat?” The gold-horned god is battling Thor. 

“I see him,” Natasha replied. The plane turns to aim.

Boom! The left side lurches. He grasps hard onto the seat, head shooting up. There were a multitude of handles on the ceiling.

Like the subway.

Steve lurched, catapulting to the back of the plane. Sure enough, his right hand caught onto the piece of metal. 

Crack!

Oh, oh no.

The ceiling was giving way to his weight. Flailing like a fish out of water, Steve clung onto the metal bars.

Please, please don’t fail him.

The carrier slammed into the ground. The ceiling gave way, crashing Steve into the back with a sound thud.

Groaning, Steve slammed his head into the side of the door. They’ve arrived. Pushing back up onto his feet, his shield is tucked into his body. The door opens a second later. 

“Do you think he’s fine? He rattled the whole plane!” The whispers are audible even from amongst the heavy chaos outside. “Yes, he’ll be fine, Clint.” Blunt and straightforward.

The captain is grateful. 

The trio are out and onto the street. “We’ve gotta get back up there!” Steve hears the voice shout.

There’s suddenly a metallic groan coming from the portal in the sky. He’s not the only one seeing this, right? Metallic jaws are breaking through the abyss. It looks like a huge armored turtle. Just more alien.

Of course, it’s an alien.

The other strays kept shooting through the portal. The creature descended towards them. It crumbled the very statue he had been drawing earlier as it passed overhead. New aliens shot off from its very sides as it flew by, ready to wreck their own kind of havoc. 

He was supposed to handle this?

With a sound gulp, he spoke up. “Stark, you seeing this?”

“Seeing, having a hard time on believing.”

Them too.

“Where’s Banner? Has he shown up yet?”

“Banner?” They could use his help right about now. But the man is off the radar.

“Just keep me posted.” On it.

Turning to the agents, he’d clench his hand. “Time to move out. We have to find a vantage point.” With a nod, they head off running towards the booms in the distance.

-

Slamming up against an upturned cab door, they were hunkered down.

The whipping of the wind came from above. Gold aircrafts shot by, firing down upon the people in the streets. “Loki.” The chaos unfolded in front of his very eyes. The captain needed to move.

Shots were fired by Romanoff at the encroaching aliens.

“They’re fish in a barrel out there! I need to get them out.” The man’s voice shouts above the roaring and shots of havoc in the streets. “Can you guys hold them off here?”

The archer turns towards Steve, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Captain,” the man smiles, a whirring coming from his quiver. “It would be my genuine pleasure.” He’s given a two-fingered salute before the archer loads his bow, firing off an arrow in a few seconds. Projectiles fly, six aliens dropping dead.

With a wild grin, the captain is off. He launched himself off the bridge, shots fired behind him. Not daring to look back, he goes on. Everything passes by in a blur. His blood goes up in flames.

-

Smashing own onto car rooftops, people pass by screaming. “Off the streets! Take any cover you can!” They’re like sitting ducks out in the streets. They need to get to safety from all this outside. Please, let them be safe. 

First responders are off in the distance. They need to organize.

The captain is slamming onto the bottom of an overturned car in less than a few seconds. He lurches forward, a bout of nausea hitting him. 

Not now.

“You need men in these buildings.” His stomach churns. Steve swallows a lump in his throat. His tongue is heavy in his mouth. Someone else is talking. “People are inside and running out to the streets and straight into the line of fire. You take them to the basements or through the subway. You keep them off the street.”

“I need a perimeter as far back as 39th.” Steve shivers in place, eyesight becoming bleary. Something was happening. 

“And why the hell should I take orders from you?”

Steve opens his mouth, only to be cut off by a large explosion from behind. Raising his spangled shield, he takes cover behind it, facing towards the blast.

There are three thuds on both his left and right. Aliens, right. 

Clang! His shield hits the one to his left, it goes down with a large splatter of inky blood taking up space upon his shield. There’s another step to his right.

Clang! The shot bounces back and straight through his attacker. A sound cry breaks out from the creature’s mouth. Steve’s left hand shoots out. The cries stop as the shield all but slams into its head. More ink sprays onto the shield.

The final one approaches, an outstretched arm towards him.

Blink.

The alien is lying on the floor, dead in front of him. Steve’s right glove is no longer pristine red. Innards are spilled onto his hand, along with the blood. The alien’s neck is gorged out.

There is silence for a few seconds. Then the men are off.

Steve stares at the strange muscles and blood that lined the red of his glove. Did he do that? 

A boom from behind sets him off, a small growl coming from somewhere around him. He spots the bridge a bit away. Romanoff and Barton.

-

Ding! The noise shoots through the streets as the metal of Steve’s shield all but hits the alien’s metal headwear. Bowling them over with brute force, they’re all but flung to the ground, where the soldier delivers another blow for the kill. 

Twisting around, two more are going right after him. One skillful block and Steve grabs for the other’s armoured hand. 

An almighty screech rings out as the arm is sliced cleanly from the body. The alien is knocked down, dead on the ground a few moments later. 

There’s more. And yet, lightning rains down from the sky. Left arm raised high, shield brought up alongside it for protection, his body is drawn tight like a bowstring. The aliens fall down simultaneously. 

Thor falls from the sky, concrete caving in from his landing.

Possible intel?

“What’s the story upstairs?”

“The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable.” Well, that’s an issue. Steve looks up to the sky. To stop them is a priority. They must deal with them instead. 

“Thor’s right. We gotta deal with these guys.” Tony’s voice comes through the coms, he sounds a bit frantic. What was that about?

“How do we do this?” Steve turns to look at Romanoff.

“Together.”

“I have unfinished business with Loki.” By the way Thor swings his hammer, the man seems antsy to get that over with. The god needs to stay here. God, it sounds so weird to put that designation on the man in front of him.

It was odd. Steve was so sure there was only one god. 

Blinking, the man shook his head as another bout of nausea swept through, stomach tilting on its axis.

“Hey, I call first dibs. Get in line.” The archer pouted, fiddling around with something on his arrows.

“Save it.” It’ll all have to wait for later. The Captain might get in line alongside the others. 

“Loki’s going to keep the fight on us. That is what we need.” Tongue heavy, the voice in Steve drones on. 

Wait.

With a quick turn of his heels, he made a 180 to face the rumble on the bridge. Someone was coming over.

Who was this madman?

Steve would also want to know that.

“Cap?” The voice behind the soldier went unanswered. 

A familiar man entered view. Steve didn’t move until the string of tension was cut — muscles once locked up, shield raised, ready to strike. 

The captain took a glance down at himself. A sharp inhale later, he forced the bubbling heat that was rushing through his veins onto the back burner. He didn’t need to focus on himself now.

Banner made the slow walk over. “So, this all seems horrible .”

“I’ve seen worse.”

The man looks down for a split second before making eye contact with Romanoff. “Sorry.”

“No, I think we could use worse.”

She wasn’t wrong. Steve stared at the corpses surrounding the team. 

Yes, that would be better.

“Stark?” The words leave Steve’s mouth unannounced. He needs to stop and think. “Banner’s arrived.”

“Tell him to suit up. I’m bringing the party to you.”

Raising an eyebrow at no one in particular, Steve’s head whipped around to a building off in the distance. The scraping of metal on metal echoed throughout the streets, and roars from the creature out of sight. Sure enough, Stark in his shining red armor rounded the corner. It was swiftly followed by one of those flying giants. 

It honestly looks like a fish out of water. 

Wait. It does, but now’s not the time. 

Oh, yeah.

“I don’t see how that’s a party.”

The blonde couldn’t quite see the party either.

The enviable is approaching, the alien throwing cars high into the air, splitting the earth open in its path.

“Dr. Banner, now might be a good time to get angry.”

“That’s my secret, Captain,” the doctor turns to him. Steve feels his eyes widen. Breath stuck in his throat. “I’m always angry.”

Was that for m-

The thought is cut short as the man turns green, growing in size in what is only a few seconds. One punch is delivered to the creature’s head. 

It’s bowling over. 

Cover. 

The warning from Tony is far too late. Steve grabs Romanoff, raising his shield. He looks for Clint. Yet, the captain finds the man already vaulting over a car. Wide blue eyes and a drawn bow were the only things giving away his position. 

It looks comical. 

Guts, armor, and blood rain from above. They splatter, making loud thumps as they hit the metal shield.

Icky. 

Screeching brings him back to the moment. Steve stumbles back, shield lowering as he looks to his surroundings. Aliens in droves are screeching out into the open. 

They’re mourning their losses. A sharp look fixed the man’s face. Steve could feel his limbs twitching. 

“Guys?”

Romanoff’s call guides his blue eyes to the sky. Two more flying giants are spilling from the sky moments later. Dozens, if not hundreds, of more aircraft are diving in.

Time for orders. Sorry.

Blink.

-

Bleary blue eyes open. For the first time since this fight started, he doesn’t feel like his insides will melt. It’s cold. So cold, his breath appears right before his own sight.

The walls are wood, and despite everything else, it looks warm out. Resting on a cot that is across from another, Steve sits on it. Something about this hurts his head. They’re all in a row. There is the buzzing of crickets outside the very walls. 

Quaking feet standing on the ground, he goes to peer out the windows. Nothing but grass and another building besides the one he occupies. 

Several books line the desk at the end of his very own cot. The light barely illuminates enough that they aren’t shrouded in darkness. Picking one up yields their titles. They’re field training books. He’s at a base?

Clink.

A swift turn, Steve has his fists raised, prime for a fight. Yet, behind him, there is no one. 

“Hello?” No one answers. Taking another step forward results in another clink. Dropping his gaze down, he spots it. A bottle and a glass lay at his feet. Squatting down, he goes to pick them up. Schnapps, the bottle reads. 

There’s something under the bed. Reaching out with still-numbed hands, he picks it up. They’re glasses. It’s clear, but these glasses, they’re older. They’re not like the modern ones he’d seen earlier. They’re shattered, one lens missing as the other is splintered. There are red specks that decorate its remaining shards and its frame.

Knock, knock. 

The noise comes from behind him. The entryway, of course. “Is anyone there?” The man all but demands this time.

Nothing happens for a few moments. Then, a hand reaches inside, grasping at the wall. A man enters the room. Steve only sees one blue eye poking out from behind the corner, his eye nearly hidden by a mop of blond hair. 

Blink.

-

Clang!

The side of his head throbbed, the pain reverberating through his skull. Did he hit something?

A spear heads right for his head. Gasping, his eyes widened. It is grabbed, being shoved to the side in a near instant. The creature towering over him screeched into his face, liquid from its mouth dripping onto his face. 

His left fist swings, colliding with the alien’s head. It cries out before dropping like a sack. 

Sitting upright, the soldier groans. It hurts so much. His head is primed to explode. 

“Captain, the bank on 42nd past Madison. They’ve cornered a lot of civilians in there.”

A breath punches through his chest as he rolls onto his hands and knees. They got this.

“I’m on it.” 

-

Smash! Steve is catapulting through the window. Sound beeps echo through the place alongside the people’s voices and the alien’s chitters.

It’s a bomb. The realization makes his stomach flip.

Clang! The shield hits its target. A shriek comes from the bowled over monster, the shield throwing it back hard into the ground. The bomb is dropped. His shield is not returned to him.

Dammit!

Flying behind a desk for cover, several clicks are made before shots are fired through the desk. They shred it like it is a simple piece of paper. 

The desk. 

Steve’s eyes widen. He kicks hard at the desk. It goes flying forward, knocking into the railing. The two aliens caught in the middle let out deafening shouts of agony.

Blink. 

One of the creatures is silenced with a swift snap of the neck. It slumps over the desk. It throws the hostile crashing into the one recovering from the shield throw.

Blink. 

Through a blurred vision, Steve is in a chokehold. Gasping one moment, his struggle doesn’t last long. 

The soldier bites into the arm. It tastes horrible. But the cry of pain does it in. Slamming his head back, the creature goes stumbling. 

Blink. 

Inky black liquid paints his once red glove. The alien’s face is no more. It is reduced to nothing more than raw meat.

Splat. Steve looks down to see a piece of meat drop down underneath him. The blood is in his mouth.

The mission. The bomb. The objectives.

Rolling back from his hands and knees, the captain vaults for the railing. “Everyone, clear out!”

They look horrified. The captain cannot decide whether it's him or the aliens.

Steve watches his hands furl into fists. It doesn’t matter. Launching toward the bomb, Steve went to snatch it up.

Click!

The alien raises its gun at him. Before Steve can even think, there’s an alien in front of him. Except, it’s limp, not moving an inch. It’s dead .

The corpse gets hit, protecting him from whatever would’ve cut through his flesh like paper.

A snarl builds up in his throat.

Blink.

The alien has the bomb. The noises are picking up in pace. An inevitable end.

Blink.

It goes to throw it. 

Steve lunges, finally receiving his shield. His shield?

Blink.

He’s taking shelter from the blast, jumping behind his shield for cover.

Boom!

He sees the open sky.

Thud!

A sharp wail echoes from around the soldier.

A resounding growl.

Blink.

-

Chapter Text

“B-b-be careful making wishes in the dark, dark

Can’t be sure when they’ve hit their mark, mark

And besides, in the mean-meantime

I’m just dreaming of tearing you apart”

My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light Em Up) - Fall Out Boy

—

“Captain!”

Huh?

A snarl bounces off the walls. What was making that noise? Mind like thick molasses, it was hard to get through the sudden cloud that occupied his brain.

“Captain!”

The voice sounds joyful. 

There’s a chitter to his left. Or was it the right? Steve cannot tell under the muffled sounds whispering in his ears.

Threat.

An almighty howl releases from around Steve. 

Suddenly, Steve can see. Teeth tear into flesh as the figure that is pinned to the ground lets out an almighty screech. Was this a person? The thought faded a moment later. Why was it like his whole world was a jumble of nothingness?

Alien. Defined by the other.

Metallic flooded his taste. It did not taste good.

Irrelevant.

More metallic filth filled Steve’s mouth, squelching noises occupying the spotty vision around them.

There’s a step to its right. One moment they’re on the ground, next they’re not.

It bashes into a hostile at top speed. There is snarling on both ends until there’s not. Alien blood splattered over pale hands as the creature’s jaw and tongue were cleanly torn from its face. Choking on its blood should have it dead in a minute. 

It is still struggling beneath its steel-hard grip.

It grabs the creature’s face. It bares its teeth at the alien. It needs to stop moving. Grasping at the strange metal disk on its left arm, it slammed down on its chest. There’s a loud crack and sickening squelch. It is dead, chest caved in, black liquid pouring out where it was practically split open.

There’s a full-body tremble as Rogers gags. 

Cease. There’s no need for physical consequences over a sight.

It’s an ungodly sight. Steve doesn’t want to look at the deformed body underneath him.

Noise fills Steve’s head.

Blink.

-

Another blur, it is bashing metal clean in, an alien’s head caving in with one wild punch. 

“Captain?”

The voice is far off. It sounds more concerned.

There’s a blonde approaching. There is no directive on this man. Hostile.

Oh, Thor? That was his name, wasn’t it?

A huff, they shake their head. 

There are heavy footsteps behind. 

Threat.

Blink.

-

“Captain! What’s wrong?!”

Who is Captain?

Me?

You? Spit and foam dribble down their bottom lip. Fingers claw at the blonde’s face, feet digging into the man’s stomach as it bowls over the opposition. Kill.

It claws at the man’s face, hands reaching to the man’s eyes. Maim.

Wrong. All wrong. This is someone , not an alien.

A violent full-body tremble has that thought disintegrating into thin air.

It is thrown back, sent into a wall, concrete splinters like a spider web. Sudden thumps, two of them, land to the hostile and it’s sides. Another hit, not the man from before.

There is a spear aimed at it. Wraith sees red. Spit dribbles down it’s mouth as it’s tongue hangs out, stained black teeth bared on all display. It lunges in less than a second, flying through the open air.

Grabbing the alien’s neck, it squeezes as it bowls the alien over. The second’s footsteps stop approaching when a giant clang resonates throughout the room. A tussle is happening behind it. It is irrelevant.

Teeth are dug into its throat, tearing away flesh and muscle. The flailing is stopped by its swinging hand, tearing at the delicate skin of the alien.  Soon, its leg is in smithereens, looking like nothing but a pile of goop. 

The alien is still alive, letting off queasy breaths, hanging on by a wire. It's not enough. It continues tearing through its throat. 

Soon, it raises its head, holding its head by the seat of its teeth. It is nothing. Flesh and blood drip from its mouth. Success. It shakes its head back and forth, shaking its hair. Something is wrong with it.

“Captain..” 

It drops the head from its mouth with a sound thud. Snapping its head around, its hackles are raised. Spitting and baring its teeth, it gets onto its two legs again, hands against the ground. It's ready to pounce.

Thor?

Their eyes twitch. The red recedes for a second.

What was going on? His body hurts, his head hurts. Steve tries to rub his head. It doesn’t work. There’s nothing but tunnel vision as Steve watches the god’s face twist into one of concern.

Another hot rush of fire runs through their veins. It sends their body trembling, ready to lunge. 

“Captain, what’s wrong?”

It pounces, going for the throat. Slam!

The concrete behind it splitters, a crash sounds as its body is thrown straight against it.

The scream it lets out as it scrambles up to its feet. 

“What happened? Loki didn’t get y-” The god doesn’t get the chance to finish as it charges again, this time slamming the man down to the ground with it.

Its face is grabbed. Eyes wide, it bucks in the grasp of the other. Head turning side to side, teeth try and gnaw at the fingers prodding its flesh. 

Get away. Get away. Get away.

“Captain!” 

Spit dribbles down from his mouth and onto the other’s face. It stares into the other’s eyes.

It flinches, quivering in the hands. Get away. Get away. Get away! It snaps its teeth, liquid dripping from its mouth and onto the other’s face.

Blink. 

Shaking its head back and forth, the fire starts to quell. A huff.

Blink.

Its tongue feels heavy. Its head lolls back and forth.

“Th-”

The smile that the man gives hurts. “Yes, Captain, I’m Thor.”

A slurp sounds as the soldier sucks in the drool pooling in his mouth. His hand goes and wipes the rest away.

What just happened? Weight collapsing into the god, he earns a small ‘oof’. There’s a moment of silence apart from the heaving breaths that come from Steve. He feels like he just ran a marathon. And yet, his body burns, liquid adrenaline causing his limbs left to twitch frequently as he lies there on the god.

“We need to go, my friend. They need our help still. We cannot waste time.”

“Sorry, sorry.” The soldier musters out, panting as he rolls onto his side with a groan. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches Thor wave him off.

There’s still the screeching outside. More aliens.

His eye twitches, hands curling into fists. 

The god gets up, offering a hand and holding the hammer in the other. “Ready for another bout?”

“What? You getting sleepy?” A numbened hand meets Thor’s own.

-

They never stop, do they?

Another round of aliens is closing in on Thor and Steve. 

The captain’s shield returns to his hand. Footsteps. Another alien is approaching from behind. Steve decks the creature, rewarded by a grunt as it hits the ground. 

More footsteps. He swings around Thor to strike when-

“Augh!”

Falling to the ground, Steve lets out a small sob. A gutshot.

The fire threatens to consume him amongst the throbbing pain of his lower abdomen. 

It’s okay, it’s okay.

“Praise be to the Lord,”

It doesn’t feel okay. Tears threaten to well up.

“For he- for he has heard my cry for mercy.”

Curling up onto his hands and knees, Steve’s hand shoots downwards. A hiss later, his hand comes back red with blood. A wheeze breaks from his chest. 

“The Lord is my strength and shield.”

The tender flesh gleamed, showing the muscle underneath. It grazed him yet it was simply agonizing. 

“In whom my heart trusts.”

A resounding crash is heard from above. It is obsolete. Rogers sits back on his heels. Streaks of crimson paint his hand, mixing alongside the black blood that stains the rest of him.

“More are coming in. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” The words are punched out of him as the soldier rocks back onto his feet. Standing tall, the man grasps his shield. Sweat pours down the sides of his face, and yet, it is so cold.  The sole warmth came from his bleeding wound.

-

“Can anyone copy?” The voice comes through static, buzzing in his ear. “I can close the portal!” Romanoff. Steve’s hand flies to his ear. A click of a button later, he is speaking.

“Close it!” Steve shivers at the sound of his own voice. Hoarse and shaky. The quaking of his body does not help. 

“No, wait.” Stark’s voice comes through instantaneously. 

What?

“These things are still coming in!” The soldier looks up. Sure enough, there’s more flooding through the portal.

“I’ve got a nuke coming in. It’s going to blow in less than a minute.” 

A nuke? Heading straight for New York? 

Outside interference. 

The man’s mouth forms a deep frown. SHIELD?

“And I know just where to put it.”

Steve’s eyes shoot up to the portal. It's ever so black abyss staring down upon him.

“Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip.”

There is no reply. His mouth goes to open, to call out for the man. Except, there’s the noise coming from high above him. Steve’s head shoots straight up. A streak of red and gold is coming in the distance. The missile is trapped within the suit’s grasp. 

It is a mere few seconds until the suit clips the tower, flying up and into the open blackhole that leads into the unknown. 

Steve doesn’t know how long it takes of him staring up at the sky. A bright flash of orange breaks through the darkness of the portal. 

There is chittering and thumping all around him. The soldier’s sight does not budge.

“Come on.” There is no sight of the man amongst the silence that reigns around him. Please, please let him come back.

The explosion is coming closer and closer to the portal.

The captain takes a deep breath, steadying his breathing. “Close it.” The words are like gravel on his tongue. They hurt.

The beam shooting up into the sky ends in an explosion. Without it, the portal starts to collapse before Steve’s very own eyes.

We’re sorry.

The soldier’s gaze finally drops to the ground. Two people. God.

And yet, he hopes still. His eyes flicker back up. There’s a gleam in the sky. 

“Son of a gun.” That bastard made it. And yet, the bastard is falling straight down, no stopping or anything else to stop the fall.

“He’s not slowing down.” The thunder god announces beside him. The swinging of the wind is all that’s heard. Roaring is heard in the distance.

Hulk is flying through the air, snatching Stark out of his free fall. Slamming from one building to the ground, it is an explosive crash landing as dust and rubble come flying up.

Get over there.

Steve goes running alongside Thor to Tony’s side. “Is he breathing?” The face plate is torn off the man’s suit. All that meets them is a face clear of any emotion. He looks to be asleep. But that is too good to be true, isn’t it?

No movement, no nothing. 

There is a heavy silence that weighs in the streets. 

The Hulk’s roar sends a throbbing pain through Steve’s head. More than that, Stark’s eyes shoot open. A startled noise comes from the man. 

“What the hell?”

The other roars from the other don’t matter. The man is alive. 

“What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

The soldier collapses onto his knees, taking a multitude of deep breaths. In and out. “We won.”

Silence resumes for a few more seconds. “Alright, yayyy.” The small celebration comes from Tony, his suit weakly trying to make celebratory hands. It doesn’t work too well, but it does have a laugh coming from Steve’s chest. “Hurray. Good job, guys.”

“Let’s just not come in tomorrow. Let’s just take a day.” Oh, that sounded so nice. His side pulsed, blood flooding his uniform still. It was a soggy mess against his skin. 

“Have you ever tried shawarma?” Stark inquired, looking at everyone around him. “There’s a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. I don’t know what it is, but I want to try it.” It does sound good, some food would be wonderful. The curling of his stomach is hard to decipher its answer to the question of food.

“We’re not finished yet.” Thor’s voice brings Steve back to the present. Oh, Loki. Thor is looking up at the tower. He must be there.

“Then shawarma afterwards?” Stark squeaks out.

-

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll have that drink now.”

They’re formed all around the fallen god. No longer a threat, they move on. 

“Can’t stand here posing all day. I’m hungry and tired.” Stark grumbles. “Feel free to clean up.” A hand gesture is given to the room around them.

It is very much destroyed. Don’t think there’s even a reason to start cleaning up right now. 

Steve finds himself in agreement. 

“Who’s picking up the scepter?”

“Oh, the STRIKE team is coming for that thing. I don’t want to touch that thing.”

Standing still like a statue, a breath gets caught in his throat. 

No, no. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

What? Blinking rapidly, his chest felt like it was being pressed down on all sides.

The elevator door dinged. A flurry of talk echoes from the elevator up and into the room, bouncing off the walls. 

Steve finds his feet, carrying him away from the vicinity of the men who flood the room. They’re asking about the scepter. It doesn’t matter. 

Get away.

Steve stays 5 feet away from the rest of them. 

A distraction. 

Steve’s head nods without his approval. “Going down to coordinate search and rescue.” Pushing past the storm of people, he goes towards the elevator. The mocking from Loki doesn’t matter.

Standing in the elevator, he looks at Tony. “Tell me when we’re meeting for dinner and I’ll be there.” The door shuts.

A held breath leaves the man’s chest.

-

The call comes in past 8, a full 4 hours after Steve left the tower. In the aftermath of assisting people in the rubble, he is called for dinner. 

The storefront doesn’t look too good. The sign is all dirty, and half of the letters are missing. The windows are broken, but its open sign is hanging on the door, albeit with the ‘e’ and ‘n’ out. He feels like that.

“Hey, look who’s here,” Tony announces Steve’s arrival, shoveling food into his mouth. 

Everyone is sitting in a circle. There’s an open chair just for him. The man finds his seat there, letting out a small ‘oof’ as he sits. 

Blink. 

Something changes.

A grunt leaves his lips as his hand shoots to his wound. 

What the hell? Why is he here?

Steve is met by the faces of his fellow teammates. 

Teammates? I can do with that. On the job then?

There’s a platter of wraps in front of them. It’ll do. A wrap is grabbed before getting unceremoniously shoved into his mouth. Within the moment, it is gone. 

Huh, this is pretty good. 

It is. Steve takes another bite. 

Told you. There’s a huff that leaves his chest. Haven’t had these in years. Or maybe a decade. It was good. Until I threw it up, of course. No regrets.

Blink. 

“You hungry or what?” Tony is glancing at him, an eyebrow quirked right at Steve. 

“Well, when you’re actively recovering an open wound, have five or so times the metabolism of a normal man, and just got done fighting aliens, yeah. I could have four more meals.” The man shrugs his shoulders, shoving more wraps into his mouth. 

He’s going to regret this, but this is too tasty to pass up. The drugs are still burning through their veins. It's going to be horrible.

There’s a moment where Steve flinches. Drugs? Is he drugged?

There is no answer. 

Blink.

-

“So, are we having a sleepover at the tower?” 

Hm? 

“I know, I know. It’s in shambles and such,” Tony says with a wave of his hand. “But, I feel like it's better than the alternatives for some of you all.”

There’s a moment of pause at this. The voices in the background fade to white noise.

It would be nicer than being alone. 

Imagine the snooping.

Excuse me?

You’re excused.

“That doesn’t sound too bad. I’m in.”

-

The apartment SHIELD left to him isn’t in shambles, at least. The door shuts behind them with a small slam. Clothes, essentials, and whatever else is needed. 

Heading to the bedroom, a small plastic grocery bag is pulled out from a corner of the room. It is soon packed with pajamas, hygiene supplies, and a plushie. 

Wait, a plushie?

Steve grabs the said toy bear. It is small, a handheld toy. When did he get this?

It doesn’t matter. 

There’s a small pause as he thinks over this thought of his. He supposes it doesn’t matter to him. Steve leaves his bedroom. 

Blink.

-

“Look who showed up!” They’re in the common room on the 82nd floor. It looks to be an open room for workers. Yet, it works as a common room for all of them. It has a massive TV, fridge, kitchen, and couches, which are all Steve could find essential for a room like this. 

“Feel free to look around. Get a snack or something. Could always have Jarvis get you something since you seem so hungry.” The man approaches him, opening his arms and gesturing to the room around them.

Thor is glancing around the kitchenette, getting acquainted. Natasha is lying on the couch. Barton is also on the couch, except he’s resting on the couch's back.

That cannot possibly be comfortable.

Banner is under a blanket, watching the news that runs on the television.

“Jarvis?” The question leaves his mouth without a second thought. 

“Yeah. My AI.” Heavy silence weighs between Steve and Tony. The engineer lets out a sigh, rolling his eyes skyward. “You know, Artificial Intelligence? Did they leave that out of your briefing of the 20th century?”

“I’m too tired for this. Bathroom? Bedroom?”

“Yeah, follow me, gramps.” There’s a grumble from Steve’s chest as he follows Tony to the elevator with his bags.

-

“If you need anything, just speak to the man and it shall be granted.” Steve wanders into the open area of this huge bedroom. It's bigger than his apartment, most certainly bigger than the common room. “Have a nice sleep, Cap.”

The man sets his bags on the table, fishing out a set of pajamas. Time to change. 

Except the next moment, he finds a wave of nausea pushing at his stomach. 

-

Blergh! 

Vomit drips from their mouth, soaking the porcelain bowl sickly green and light brown. Bits of the wrap are intermingled in chunks. 

The soldier pants as his body wracked itself with cold sweats and extreme quivering.

To regret or not?

Another round of nausea hit Steve. Another meal was expelled into the toilet. His vision starts going blurry. The sniffle that leaves him is much as a surprise to him. Why is he crying?

A sob breaks through his mouth as his stomach spasms with a cramp. 

All he did was eat. Did he eat too much? What was happening?

The whimper that he let out was pathetic. Blue eyes caught the shaking of his body, watching as a sweat drop dripped down onto the toilet bowl. 

Blink.

-

The pajamas hang loosely off of Steve’s body, and the ends of his pants get stuck under his feet as he walks. For how cold some of his body is, at least his legs and feet are better off than the rest. 

He walks over to the bed where the rest of his belongings are. His phone sits on the bed. ‘New voicemail,’ the screen on the front screen reads. Who?

A few clicks, and a voice comes through the speaker. “Steven Grant Rogers.” Uh oh. “You better not be going around all injured like I see you are on TV right now. Call me when you get a chance.” For all that Ruben sounds stern, there is a small pinch of tone that is concerned. The very thought makes his bottom lip quiver.

He’ll respond tomorrow. The ache on his stomach and how his body trembles seems like it's about to give up on him.

Collapsing onto the bed, the blanket is pulled over their prone, shivering body.

Sleep.

-

Sparks fly as concrete is torn from its roots of the building. Story by story, it skyrockets down to flat ground. A certain death for others, but not for the mutt. 

Vaulting off the side once at the 10th floor, it catapults onto the building nearest. 10 meters are crossed with barely a sweat as it slams into the building’s top, its metal left arm leaving a crater behind.

Its feet throb. No damages sustained.

Mission: extraction of foreign technology and report.

It dashes off the side of the building, crossing the remaining 20 meters to cover within a second and a half. Slamming into the hard concrete beneath, it splinters, leaving a spiderweb of a crater in the alleyway

Bones have not sustained damage. Minor healing should be done 2:03am.

The ghost dashes off into the night.

-

Chapter Text

“I'm not afraid of tomorrow

I'm afraid of an unholy light

Before ambitions, conditions

I found myself in an evil picture

The hollow face of the others

It's terror every time”

Nothing but Evil - Astrophysics

—

There are voices coming from beyond the snowstorm.

“So, any idea what I could do to get my wife not to complain about me going away for months? I cannot stand it alongside this boring job.”

Peeking from beyond the pale and desaturated trees, he spots three figures out in the storm.

“Well, did you tell her about the transfer? Isn’t that something that everyone else does?” 

There two in coats that he can see. No faces are seen, just gestures painted in the distance. The wind howls, snow enacting a violent dance against his skin.

“Of course I have, do you think I’m that dumb?” The man to the left looks at the other to the far right. “She just would not stop complaining about me being gone still. I’m making the money, she shouldn’t be this grouchy.” Steve didn’t have to see his face to see this asshole’s scowl.

Wait. The one in the middle wasn’t wearing a coat.

Steve’s steps did not make any sounds on the snow beneath.

Meters away, the man still could barely make out anyone.

“It’s freezing out here. Do we have to be out here with it?”

“Yes, unfortunately-”

The sudden assault of screeching metal on metal echoed around him. An attack on Steve’s senses, it brought him to his knees, hands placed over each ear. Ow, ow, ow.

What was that?

The only answer was the howling wind. It didn’t leave him any more comforted in the strange world he was in.

Steve looked towards the shadows in the distance. Where did the third man go?

A hand grasps his neck that sucks all the air from his lungs, a lone blue eye meeting Steve’s through a mop of dark blonde hair. 

-

“Didn’t sleep well?” The archer questions Steve. A grunt leaves the soldier as he watches coffee fill a mug. “Does that even work for you?” The man didn’t have to look at Barton to imagine the curiosity shining in his eyes.

“It doesn’t, but a man cannot help but pretend.” The captain takes a long gulp from the mug. 

“Oh, I also have your gloves from the other day. Worse for wear and also very stained with all that alien stuff.” Clint makes a small ‘eugh’ sound from behind Steve. “But, I have them if you want them back.”

There was no reply; the casual sips were the only noise between the two. Clint shrank beneath Steve’s dead stare at him. 

“Friends!” A familiar boom came from the hallway. “I take Loki back to Asgard today for retribution. But, I’m afraid that we’ve been called to a meeting by the son of Fury.”

Fury wanted a report of what had most likely happened. That or a review of whatever hand they finished with. It made sense. Setting down the cup of coffee, Steve glanced Thor’s way. “Did he tell when and where?”

“In about an hour.” The man stated, the hammer making a thud as it all but dropped in the middle of the kitchen. 

Someone could trip on that. Oh, the money he’d pay to see that.

No, someone should move that. Steve tried to open his mouth. 

No, no. Let me have my fun. 

Steve’s mouth remained closed. 

A punched-out huff left his chest. Why couldn’t he open his mouth?

“Captain, my friend, a word, please?” The spy’s eyes darted up. Something was wrong.

“Of course. Lead the way.” The man said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

-

“On the battlefield the other day, you turned on me.” 

I was not there, no idea what this man is talking about. 

Steve lets out a soft hum. Through the fog of red that clouded his memory, there was the waking up, physically bodying Thor. 

“Loki was up in the tower; I doubt he had to do with that.” 

How to bullshit his best way through this.

Hey!

That’s what’s going to happen here, let me work. 

Tongue weighed down, a familiar voice came out of Steve’s mouth. “I was unsure of where I was at the time. The last thing I can recall before ending up with you was being blasted through a window.” There is a nervous skitter that his eyes do, looking down to the wall behind him and back again to Thor. “All I can remember is my body hurt and everything was red.”

The god’s eyes were on him, scrutinizing and judging this answer. “I had to knock you back. I’m sorry for that too, my friend.” Thor stepped closer to the man. “I do recommend seeing someone for this. There are warriors too on Asgard who suffer a familiar fate.”

He’s talking about PTSD. Yeah, I’m pretty sure we have that. Doesn’t exactly take more than a glance to notice that.

PTSD?

Oh, shell-shock, battle fatigue, or whatever else you call it, old man.

Steve wanted to frown, but his mouth did not budge.

“I’ll be sure to check it out.”

This wasn’t over. The smile that the god was giving off is fake.

Steve’s mouth twitched. It’s not fake.

It’s fake. Trust me.

The soldier did not like this voice.

Well, I cannot stand you sometimes either if it's all the same.

“There’s our good captain.” A hand fell upon his shoulder. One harsh flinch away later, Thor’s hand receded. “I suggest we go for the son of Fury’s talk?”

“I’ll be right there. There’s one more thing I have to do.”

-

“Hello?”

It feels like it’s been forever. 3 days. 3 days since he was there in that open room of the gym. 

“Hey, Ruben, I’ve been better.”

A hearty chuckle comes through the speaker. “You nearly gave me a heart attack connexcting the dots and reallizing it was your ass on my tv. I’ve already had one too many, don’t go around giving me another.”

Steve’s lips broke out into a shining smile. “Yeah, I just had to go and fight.”

There’s a soft hum that comes from the phone’s speaker. “I assumed. But you can understand the sudden shock, right?”

He was talking about him being a figure who was supposed to be dead decades ago. Of course. They all wanted this man whom Steve had no idea how to be. Captain America. What a stupid thing. A figurehead made out of a man who didn’t know who he was. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you the truth earlier. I didn’t mean to keep my identity from you.”

“What? No, no. That’s not where I was going.” Ruben actually sounded offended for some strange reason. “I won’t deny that you being the actual Captain America is a shock to me, but I’m talking about seeing you out on the streets fighting aliens. Especially when I saw that footage of you flying out of a window and into a car.”

Oh, this was unexpected.

Between the title, the missions, and people expecting so many things from a man Steve didn’t know too well, telling Ruben about his injuries was something that he didn’t expect to tell.

“Oh, that.”

“Yes! That! ” 

The world zoned out into a scene of pure noise. There was more talking and yet, Steve couldn’t decipher a single thing. Shouldn’t he have cared more for the title than the man? No one else seemed to.

Hey, I’m right here.

Cap, that’s who he was. No one else had uttered anything but his title the past few days. It’ll all he was. 

No, no! Hey! 

It was like someone snapping their fingers in front of his face. The cloud lifted. 

“Steve?”

“I’m here.” His voice croaked out, sounding like it was being dredged from the very bottom of his soul. It wavered, like glass ready to shatter at a single touch.

He was supposed to sound like the fearless leader who was on the news this morning. The one leading the team.

“Hey, I know that this is probably a lot on your plate.” The man in the phone- 

Ruben.

Yes, Ruben spoke on the phone. “Just please take care of yourself, if not for you, for me. It’s all I ask. I don’t care about anything else.”

There was a distant ache in the soldier’s chest. A hum breaking through Steve’s closed lips. It wasn’t a hum of consideration; if anything, it sounded a bit saddened. It was odd.

“I will try.”

“Thank you.”

-

“News outlets already have all of your faces out and all over the news.” Newspapers went flying onto the table out of Fury’s hands. Steve found him face to face with photos of the Avengers plastered all over it in front of him. Bringing it over, he’d start to look at each individual photo.

Hey, it’s you. Well, kinda? Us?

Steve’s brows furrowed at the thoughts that were going through his head. Maybe he was just crazy. He wasn’t going to go and advertise that to anyone, though.

Hey! After all I’ve done for you? How rude.

Like running headfirst into a wall, the world came to a sudden halt.

Off topic. This needs to get done.

The conversations around Steve came into his mind with a sudden, sharp pain in his head.

“Now, a media storm is something that I expect you guys to handle. With that out of the way, there is something bigger.”

One minute click later, the god of mischief was shown: cuffed and muzzled in a glass dome much too similar to the one on the helicarrier.

At least he’s secure this time. He shouldn’t be able to sneak out of that one now.

Steve hopes so. He didn’t seem to be planning anything. 

If anything happens, it’ll be handled. Promise.

A quick gasp broke free of Steve’s mouth as his frigid and unfeeling left hand patted his right shoulder.

The hand shot back down to the table, the hand moving like a foreign force possessed it.

I forgot. Apologies.

The other sounded like a kicked puppy. 

“Captain.”

The director’s eyes met Steve’s as the soldier looked up. 

“Thank you for getting back to us.” His gaze wandered over to the rest of the team. “Now, the tesseract will be going back with Thor. The council is trying to get a say in it’s handling, but I have been holding them off for now. I hope to keep it that way.”

The one-eyed man carried on. Eyes on his cold hand, the soldier shivered as a phantom cold crawled up his spine. It didn’t make sense with the way he was starting to sweat out of thin air.

Blink.

-

“Capsicle, a word? You have time, right? Of course you do, you’re free from the alien invasion issue.”

Stark. Steve pushed in the chair as the meeting drew to a close. The others were already walking out, onto better things than discussing while recovering from the exhausting previous day. Oh, what Steve would give to be them.

The sweat that dripped down his forehead was wiped away. “What is it?”

The voice sounded much more professional than Rogers would speak with. 

Don’t blame you. Unfortunately, it's a job that has to be done.

“Thinking about the aftermath of all of this. I know you have your apartment, but I’d like to put 10 bucks on the idea that you would rather stay with people rather than go back to being alone.” 

That was a stark reality that Steve did not want to admit. “I’d manage.” And he could. But-

“I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?” The smile from Stark over his own success was a startling contrast to the cold sweat that was still breaking out all over the soldier’s skin.

Pointing his index fingers at Steve, the engineer would carry on. “I am still working to convince Banner, but I do think you could help with that. Couldn’t you?” A squint from the other man. “Right? Man with a plan and all, right?” 

A groan was being held back by a thin thread. “I can try. Though, give me a day's rest at the very least. Then I can-”

A cramp in his stomach rocketed pain throughout his system. And yet, it only left him gagging on nothing, a cold hand lying flat on Steve’s stomach.

“Cap!”

Blue eyes flickered up to concerned chocolate ones. “Not dying on me, are you?”

Steve needed to go. “Nope, not yet.” The Captain’s voice came through. 

The voice sounded so much stronger than his. Steve didn’t know how he was managing it.

“If you’ll excuse me.” 

-

A fresh wave of sickly green sludge paints the inside of the white bowl. The sweat drips down from Steve’s face, the ungodly rocking of his trembling body sending him gripping onto the toilet for dear life.

Why was this happening to him? He didn’t do anything. He didn’t think he did anything.

A sound sob echoed around him as another wave of chills was sent throughout his body. The gagging and clenching of his gut let another cry break through the soldier’s mouth. 

Did he eat something wrong? When was the last time he ate?

He didn’t know. 

He didn’t know.

The porcelain grew spider-web cracks as his hands gripped its sides. Please, please let this be over soon. He just wants to sleep. He wants to sleep so badly.

There is a silver gleam from the side of the bowl. With a hand reaching out that he couldn’t feel, the toilet flushes.

-

Back to the wall, Steve stares at the ceiling light.

How long has he been here?

There is the pressure of his phone in his jean pocket, pressing against his backside.

One blink, he’s staring at the light. Another, there’s the digital screen meeting his face.

5:12pm.

A small whimper breaks free from his lips.

He doesn’t know what that was about. Was it about the way his body was shaking like a leaf? Or the way his stomach was intent on throwing up something that wasn’t there? Or was is the way that the cold that assaulted his limbs was met with the painful heat that had him sweating?

Ending up on his hands and knees, the man started to crawl like a dog back towards his room. 

He needed something. Something. He didn’t know what.

More.

No, no more.

A small whimper left his lips again. Steve felt his bottom lip quiver violently. Steve was ready to shatter like glass.

Let this end. Please, why won’t someone help him?

Blink.

-

“I know we ended a bit abruptly, but I am out and about right now. But I wanted your input before I went down into the lab.” The man on the phone is very loud. Steve cannot quite remember his name. 

“Shield has all eyes on you still, correct?”

There is the way his tongue weighs heavy in his mouth, the dryness of it making it feel all the worse. “Why wouldn’t they? I dug out bugs the last time I was there. But I wouldn’t put it past them to try again.”

There was someone mulling over the other side of the phone.

Steve’s head slammed into a door as his body was flung against it. He needs to go, he needs to get out. Where is he? He needs to get out.

The inevitable will happen.

No, not now.

Get him out.

“Right, and I assume the phone you have is no better. I can get you a state-of-the-art one. Maybe even make you some exclusive features, eh?”

Sure sure, whatever. 

“Whatever makes you happy, Stark. I have to go back to my apartment. Damage control and all. Then I have to report to Shield.” 

No no, not yet. 

“Whatever they want to do with the aftermath. Captain America talk and all.”

Steve fumbles with the sudden keys in his hands. Out, out, out.

“Augh, that sounds like a pain, Grandpa. Well, I’ll let you go.”

The door bursts open. He’s stumbling like a drunk as his legs threaten to cave in beneath him.

“Oh, and what color?”

“Red.”

“Got it.”

The door slams shut.

-

There is something happening.

The lights and streaks of the street passed by with no real issue. The noises of people did not bother Steve one bit.

The way his body was fighting against him was the main issue.

The way his body was locked up as he stared at that familiar screen of his flip phone.

8:38 pm.

52 minutes till scheduled maintenance.

It was a countdown timer in his head. And for what?

Maintenance. The floating words in his head gave no way for explanation. Floating on clouds while suffering from wave after wave of tremors, cold sweats, and cramps was not something the man was attuned to. Or at least he suspected as another bout of nausea swept through him.

Spare him, please.

-

34 minutes till scheduled maintenance.

Getting ready in 4 minutes. Necessity: complete control.

Control over what?

The machine.

What machine? The phone? Steve went to fish out his phone, squirming from his seated position by his bathroom’s toilet. Out comes the device along with a crumpled twenty.

No, the machine. The system. The human body.

The human body. This voice was silly. Steve couldn’t help but throw his head back, laughing.

Oh, to be away from all of this.

“Sure, come and take it.” His voice laughed drily. He was so tired.

The light that Steve stared straight at became all but dim. The whistling of the wind flooded his ears as he sank into the familiar warmth of an open abyss. The pain, the agony of whatever was happening to him, faded.

Maybe this was for the better.

-

Hot liquid agony.

-