Work Text:
Bucky's the only one that knows. The others, the commandos, they only met Steve after the serum, when he was already different, not normal. It's easy enough to wave away their concern, to tell them it's just adrenaline that has him light-headed after a long battle, that it's a side-effect, nothing to be worried about. Bucky, though, Bucky's known Steve longer than anyone left alive, since the day Steve went to the orphanage. Bucky's seen Steve sick, he's seen him dizzy, he's seen him unable to breathe. He's been scared for Steve's life more than once, Steve knows that, even if neither of them would ever acknowledge it. Steve can't fool Bucky.
So Bucky's the only one that knows, and sometimes, Steve thinks that if Bucky had never found out, Steve wouldn't have made it more than six months. He thinks that if only he and Bucky can watch each other's backs, they'll both make it to the end of the war, and then Steve can go back to being a civilian and it won't matter any more, none of this will matter any more.
In the end, though, Steve's the one who messes it up, who doesn't do a good enough job of watching Bucky's back. In the end, neither of them makes it to the end of the war. But that's in the future, and right now Steve can't stand up any more, Steve's collapsing on a fallen log with his heart thundering in his ears, and Bucky sits beside him and pushes gently on his back, manoeuvring until Steve's head is between his knees.
“I thought the magic potion they gave you was supposed to stop all this crap,” he says, and Steve can't tell if the disappointment in his voice is because of the serum or because of Steve.
“Yeah,” he says, “me too.”
----
After the first mission -- immediately after, when the city's still smoking and everyone's still in their singed, bloody costumes -- they go for food. Shawarma, apparently, not that Steve can really focus on what it tastes like, let alone what it's called. He can feel the tell-tale odd shifting in his chest, the light-headedness that's his body letting him know that he's not in charge. He knows what comes next, and all he can think about is getting through this meal without anyone noticing, getting through before it gets worse.
He leans heavily on his hand and stares down at the table, fixing his eyes on an odd-shaped stain. It slips in and out of focus. He hopes no-one's trying to talk to him -- all he can hear is the lurching thump of his heart in his ears, and all he can think about is not now, not now, let me just get through this.
“Steve?” a voice says near his ear, and then he's aware of a hand on his shoulder. He summons all his strength and looks up, managing not to squint. It's Bruce, smiling down at him.
“Falling asleep, there, buddy,” he says.
Steve looks around to see everyone getting up. “--water pressure is amazing,” Stark's saying. “Might as well hole up there until the debrief.”
“Tony's invited us to his tower,” says Bruce to Steve. “Seeing as how most of us don't have anywhere in the city.”
Stark catches his eye and makes a face that Steve can't interpret. “Yeah, Captain Spangles, even you.”
Steve swallows. He doesn't know if he can stand up, let alone make it to Stark's tower. “I have an apartment,” he says. “In Brooklyn.”
Something flickers across Stark's face. “Oh, well, if it's in Brooklyn,” he says, and Steve winces internally. The team fought well, but there's still plenty of cracks, and he knows he needs to start trying to fix them. Right now, though, the last thing he wants is to be around people he barely knows, people whose view of Captain America is based entirely on comics and propaganda movies and doesn't include character flaws or weakness. And those are the only people that are left.
“I just need a little time,” he says, but Stark's already out the door, talking to someone on his phone. Team-building will have to wait.
Once they're all gone, Steve staggers to his feet, leaning against the table as the world tilts and spins. His heart feels like it's spinning, too, turning over and over in his chest, like it's just been waiting for him to give it permission to go all out.
He makes it to the bathroom before passing out. When he comes round, his heartbeat's slowing, and someone's hammering on the door. The voice isn't familiar, though, and Steve takes a moment to be grateful that his team are a safe distance away.
Now all he has to do is keep them there.
----
Steve doesn't have a whole lot of memories of his mother, and he clings to the ones he does have, replays them in his mind often so that they don't fade. There's one where she's washing clothes in a tub in their tiny apartment. The tub fills most of the main room, and mom has moved her bed out of the way. The window's open, and it's summer outside, and Steve's telling her some kind of joke because she's laughing, suds up her arms and wet patches on her dress and she's laughing. That's Steve's favourite memory of her, even if he can't remember what the joke was.
Steve's least favourite memory is of the two of them sitting at the folding table. It's still summer, but this time there's no laughing. Steve's gripping the table with one hand and his mother's arm with the other, and she's telling him breathe, sweetheart, it's OK, just breathe through it, you'll be fine. The weird thing about the memory is that the part of it that relates to Steve's lungs, to the way his chest just wouldn't expand properly and his throat was tight and he was desperate, so desperate for just a little more air, that part has long since faded to a few vague impressions. The expression on his mom's face, though, the tremor in her voice and the fear in her eyes, they're as bright and clear as if they happened yesterday. It's the clearest image Steve has of his mother, and he wishes he could reach back through time and offer her some comfort, tell her that everything's going to be fine, that he's going to be fine. Sometimes, when he's half asleep and not thinking rationally, he thinks if only he could remember the joke, he could tell it to her, and she would stop looking scared and start laughing.
He never does remember it, though.
----
The second mission comes hard on the heels of the first. Steve's been hoping for a little down time, time to maybe get to know this new city that wears the ghost of the one Steve grew up in, maybe even time to try and show Stark that he didn't refuse his invitation out of a lack of respect. It's barely twenty-four hours after Thor goes back to Asgard, though (and Steve's slept for sixteen of those) when the phone that SHIELD issued him goes off. It's Fury.
“We have a situation that needs your attention,” he says.
“All right,” says Steve. “Where shall I meet you?”
“Stark Tower,” says Fury. “The rest of the team's already there.”
Of course they are, remembers Steve. They're all staying there, Clint and Natasha and Bruce. It's good, that they're making friends, forging bonds. It's the best way to improve performance, to make sure that their missions go as smoothly as possible. It's ideal, really.
It's perfect.
----
The mission's in Los Angeles this time. Steve's been there a few times before, back when he was selling war bonds. It's different now, of course, just like everything. For one thing, the traffic has to be seen to be believed. For another, the mountains Steve remembers are invisible now, as if someone picked them up and moved them somewhere else.
“It's the smog,” says Bruce when he catches Steve frowning at the yellow air. “There's a temperature inversion.”
Steve doesn't really know what a temperature inversion is, but he knows what smog is, remembers it from any number of Brooklyn days when he would stand bent over with his hands gripping his knees tight enough to bruise, entirely focussed on somehow getting air into his lungs through the minute hole that his throat had become. He scowls out of the window and wonders how the world came to be this way.
“Auto industry's got a lot to answer for,” says Bruce, and Stark raises his hands.
“Don't look at me,” he says. “I was weapons of mass destruction, remember? Killing people the good old-fashioned way.”
Steve raises his eyebrows at Stark's flippancy, but then the plane banks and they spot the problem -- a great, pulsating hemisphere in the middle of the city, belching poisonous-looking green smoke, the buildings around it reduced to rubble -- and there's no time to deal with their interpersonal problems.
“All right, Avengers,” says Steve, “let's go.”
----
The hemisphere, as it turns out, comes with a large number of things that look like people but act like robots. Drones, Stark calls them over the radio, like the remote-controlled planes. Steve isn't sure whether they're living beings in any way that he understands it, but he is sure that there are way too many of them and they just keep on coming, pouring out of the hemisphere in every direction. Thor would be a big help right now, but Thor's in Asgard, and so Steve has to make do with what he's got. He splits the team, one member in each cardinal direction, with the Hulk on the hemisphere itself, trying to smash his way through. Damage control: not his favourite strategy, but right now the best way to prevent more civilian casualties. He eyes the smoke, and sends Natasha and Clint to the upwind directions. Who knows what's burning to make something that colour.
After three hours, Steve acknowledges to himself that this is not going to be the quick, clean job he was hoping for.
“Where the hell are all these guys coming from?” asks Clint over the comm for what seems like the twelfth time.
“More important question,” says Stark, “who let the sex offender onto our comm link?”
“What are you talking about?” says Natasha.
“You know,” says Stark, and then does some kind of exaggerated heavy breathing. “The Darth Vader thing. Cap, is that you?”
Steve's stomach lurches as he realises it is him. His throat's tightening up, the breath wheezing in his chest, not a lot, but apparently enough for the others to hear it. He should have anticipated this, should have known it would happen the moment he saw the smoke. Now he's on the back foot, reduced to damage control of a different kind.
“I think it's some kind of interference,” he says, taking out a drone with his shield. “My radio took a hit.”
“You should be more careful,” says Stark. “I know everything was made of wood back in your day, but state-of-the-art equipment doesn't grow on trees, you kno--”
Steve rips the radio out of his ear and crushes it under his boot. It's a bad idea, bad leadership, but so is having his team not trust him because they think he's going to keel over in an emergency situation. Maybe he's not perfect, but he has enough experience with smoke-filled battlefields to know that he can operate with far less oxygen than the average human. It's painful, and he'll pay for it later, but that's not the important thing. The important thing is that he's allowed to do his job.
Another hour, and Steve's forced to face the fact that fighting without air is making him less effective. He's clumsy, punches going wide and shield missing its target as often as not. His chest feels like it's on fire, and even though intellectually he knows he can get by with the tiny amount of air he's drawing into his lungs, even though he knows that panicking is the worst thing he can do in this situation, emotionally it's getting harder and harder to convince himself.
Steve notices his fingernails have started to take on a bluish tinge just as there's a roar and an almighty crash from the direction of the hemisphere and a white light spills out in waves. The drones fall as it passes over them, and then it hits Steve in the chest like something physical, and he finds himself on his back, gasping and heaving. He closes his eyes for a second. Don't panic, focus, focus.
Steve's not perfect, but he does recover a lot faster than the average human being. By the time Natasha appears beside him, the smoke's clearing a little, and he's sitting up, throat barely constricted any more.
“You all right?” she says, helping him to his feet.
“Sure,” says Steve. “Just a little winded. Got knocked down.”
“We all did,” says Natasha, and then Stark's landing beside them.
“Another day, another city semi-destroyed by megalomaniacal aliens,” he says. “So what gives with the radio silence, fearless leader? Thought you were into caring and sharing.”
“It broke,” says Steve. “I dropped it somewhere.” He has no idea where the smashed radio is, and he's not sure that finding it won't raise more questions than it solves.
Stark sighs. “Are you one of those people who's allergic to technology?” he says. “You are, aren't you? Captain Luddite, broadcasting live from the Stone Age. You know, maybe I'll make you another one out of popsicle sticks and crazy glue. We can see if it'll run on steam. Got to warn you, though, it'll make your ear real hot.”
Steve doesn't have the energy to tell Stark that he's just fine with technology, especially since that'll probably lead to more questions about how his radio got broken, so he just lets him talk, retrieving his shield and walking with the two of them back to where the plane landed. Clint and a dehulked Bruce join them after a couple of minutes, and an argument starts up about whether the drones were mind-controlled or just mindless. It's irrelevant, really, and verges on ridiculous at times, but the three of them (with the occasional input from Natasha) seem to be enjoying themselves, and it keeps on going until Stark falls asleep halfway across the continent, by which point Steve is pretty sure he was just arguing with himself.
When they arrive at Stark Tower, Natasha, Clint and Bruce disappear off to their respective rooms. Apparently their staying with Stark was not a one-time arrangement.
“I'll call you a cab,” says Stark.
“Thanks,” says Steve. “I can pay.”
“You know it costs more than a nickel to get across the city these days, right?” says Stark, but before Steve can answer, he's off across the room, talking to his computer, and Steve's alone.
----
After the serum, there's a lot of tests. Speed, endurance, lung capacity. They want to know if it worked, if it made him not just taller and broader but better.
The results are enough to warrant champagne all round. Steve can sprint faster than a horse. He can keep running for over 24 hours. He can hold his breath for thirty minutes before reaching the point of suffocation.
“You're perfect,” says Howard, grinning and raising his glass in Steve's direction.
Steve doesn't have a glass. Not much point wasting champagne on the man who can't get drunk.
“Nobody's perfect,” he says.
----
After the Los Angeles mission, there's a lull, of sorts. No aliens attacking the earth. No particular reason for the team to get together. Of course, the occasional comment from Fury makes it clear to Steve that the rest of the Avengers are together, whenever they're in town. It makes sense. Why not stay in a luxuriously appointed billionaire's penthouse if you have the chance? But there's no reason for Steve to go over there, and Stark doesn't invite him, so he stays in his little apartment and tries to decide what he's going to do next.
A couple of weeks pass. Steve talks to Fury most days, rarely to anyone else. He explores Brooklyn. Some streets have no associations at all: they're entirely different, from the buildings down to the people he sees on the street and the languages they speak. Other places steal the breath from his chest. He sees Bucky at fourteen laughing on street corners. He sees girls in bright red lipstick and white blouses looking through him like he doesn't exist. And one day he starts to see auras just around the corner from where the orphanage used to be, and it's not until he gets back to the apartment that he realises they're not a memory.
The ache in his head comes on slow, the way it always has since the serum. It's something Steve's been grateful for, the few hours he has to find himself somewhere to hide. He doesn't need that this time, and he's beyond grateful for the door of his apartment and the distance between him and anyone that might see his weakness and care. On the other hand, the serum means that there's no point trying to take any painkillers, that there's nothing between him and the impending wall of misery but time.
Steve closes the curtains, shuts off all the lights, everything electronic. He turns off his phone and fills a gallon jug with water. He puts the jug next to his bed along with a cup and a plastic bucket, and he stops to think for a moment about how much easier this is than back in the war, when he didn't have anything resembling curtains and privacy. The thought's interrupted by the slow sliding of pain under his consciousness, and he sits down on the bed and bends over to take off his shoes before it's too late.
----
He has no idea how much time has passed when he comes to himself to find a shadowy figure standing at the foot of his bed. He sits up sharply, flipping on the light. Lucky for him, the pain's mostly dissipated, or both he and the intruder would probably be finding themselves treated to a second run of the last meal Steve ate.
“You're not answering your phone,” says the intruder. It's Natasha, dressed in a sweater and jeans but somehow managing to make them look like a catsuit.
“Uh,” says Steve. “I think the battery ran down.” He knows how to recharge the phone, of course, but with any luck playing the idiot will buy him out of any awkward questions.
Natasha gives him a pointed stare. He realises he's fully clothed, apart from his shoes, and glances at the clock beside the bed (an old fashioned one, clockwork, with hands and a face). It's one o'clock, and a quick glance at the window tells Steve it's night-time. So Steve is sleeping at a perfectly reasonable hour. In his clothes. That's normal.
“It's kinda late,” he says. Natasha seems to take that as an invitation to sit down.
“Bad burrito?” she says, and Steve realises she's looking at the bucket.
“Ceiling leaks sometimes,” he says, surprised at how easily the lie rolls off his tongue. Natasha stares at him again, and Steve feels like she knows all his secrets.
“He'd invite you again, if you wanted,” she says.
Steve frowns. “What?” he says. “Who?”
“Tony,” says Natasha. “You don't have to sit out here and sulk just because you said no the first time.”
Steve blinks. He's been alone in his apartment for two weeks, and now Natasha is sitting on his bed in the middle of the night telling him -- what? Telling him that he should be making nice with Stark?
“I like it here,” he says. “I like having the place to myself.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow. She's like a walking lie-detector, Steve knows that. Still, he stares back, mutinous. Even if he did want to move in with Stark and the others, the bucket and the water jug are there to remind him that there's no way he could.
“You should turn on your phone,” Natasha says finally, getting up off the bed and walking toward the door. “There might be an emergency.”
“The battery's dead,” says Steve again, and Natasha turns in the doorway and regards him without smiling.
“Right,” she says. “Of course.”
----
Bucky's silent for the first hour after they escape from the HYDRA base. His eyes are shadowed, cheeks hollow, and Steve clenches his fists as they march, swearing to himself that he'll take care of Bucky now, that he won't let him go off on his own again. He's always watched Bucky's back, just like Bucky watches his. He won't let it happen again.
After an hour, Bucky turns to Steve, looking down and then up, as if he's forgotten Steve's new height. “So what happened?” he asks.
“I finally got through the enlistment board,” says Steve, and Bucky snorts.
“You gain a hundred pounds of muscle and all you can think about is getting to fight in this godforsaken place?” he says. “Least I know you still like to make life difficult for yourself.”
Steve grins at him, relief washing through him. Bucky looks like death warmed over, but he's still Bucky. “Couldn't leave you out here on your own,” he says.
“So, what?” says Bucky. “I know boot camp toughens you up, but I'm pretty sure it's never made anyone grow six inches before.”
“I'm part of an experiment,” Steve says. “To make the perfect soldier.”
“Perfect?” says Bucky, and Steve shrugs.
“Better, anyway,” he says. “They made me better.”
Bucky stares at him for a moment as they march. “Perfect, as in, you're not gonna get sick any more?”
Steve nods. “Haven't had an asthma attack since the experiment,” he says. “No heart troubles, either.”
Bucky stops dead, then, and Steve marches on a few paces before he realises and goes back, pulling Bucky out of the way of the giant tank they've captured as it trundles on.
“Serious?” says Bucky.
“Serious,” says Steve. “You all right?”
Bucky shakes his head. “Just -- I'm glad, Steve. You have no idea.”
Steve thinks he has an idea. He doesn't remember having scarlet fever, not really, but he does remember waking up and seeing Bucky sitting by his bed looking like he hadn't slept in days. He remembers Bucky holding him by the arms in some alleyway, staring into his face and saying Jesus Steve, breathe will you? Don't die, don't you fucking die. He remembers waking up after passing out, with his heart thundering and Bucky looking blank and tired beside him. Thought you were gone for sure this time.
And now Bucky's standing by the side of a mud track in a freezing forest thousands of miles from home, and he's been shot at and kidnapped and experimented on and he's looking at Steve like he just got the best gift in the world. And it turns out later that Steve's wrong about being perfect, it turns out that he's wrong about not being sick any more, but he never forgets the look on Bucky's face.
“They didn't make you better,” says Bucky. “They just gave you what you always should've had.”
He shoulders his weapon and steps back onto the road. Steve follows, watching Bucky's back, like he always does.
----
Two months after the formation of the Avengers, Thor comes back. Unfortunately, he's followed by a woman who makes Loki seem well-adjusted.
“She is Amora,” says Thor to Steve as they're sheltering behind a rock from the ravening horde of shadow creatures that have just appeared out of nowhere.
“She seems pretty mad at you,” Steve notes, and Thor grimaces.
“Our history is long and storied,” he says, which Steve supposes is his way of saying it's complicated. Apparently Asgard has a never-ending supply of slightly insane sorcerors who have a complicated relationship with their crown prince.
“Guys,” says Clint over the comm. “Shadow thingies look like they're an illusion. Just shot one and the arrow went straight through.”
Steve raises his eyebrows at Thor, and the two of them charge, only to be hit by something orange and foul-smelling coming out of Amora's staff. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Thor going down like a ton of bricks, but he can't help him, because he feels like someone's hit his chest with a sledgehammer. He drops to his knees, vision fading in and out, and for a second he thinks he actually has some kind of projectile lodged in his chest, but then he realises the pain he's feeling is coming from his heart. It's wrenching, like someone's reaching in there and squeezing, and he wonders if maybe that's what she's doing, if she's reaching in there somehow and crushing his heart. The world's going black at the edges, and he clutches his chest with one hand, scrabbling at the dirt with the other, trying to find something, anything to cling on to.
“Steve?” says a voice somewhere outside his head. It's muffled, and he doesn't recognise whose it is, can't even tell if it's a man or a woman, like he's hearing it through heavy static. His name again, and then something louder, distorted, words that Steve can't make out. Everything's going quiet, like he's sinking into deep water, and there's nothing any more except the feeling of his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
And then there's a jolt of pain, different this time, like something burning and snapping across his skin, and Steve gasps in a breath and hears a deep roaring noise and someone saying “--and to that I say, fuck you, Rogers.”
He opens his eyes and sees Stark's blurry face in front of him. Blinking, Steve sucks in another breath and tries to get up, but Stark's metal-clad hand lands in the middle of his chest, and Steve bites back a groan. It hurts like something's broken every one of his ribs. The roaring's still going, although Steve's not convinced it's not inside his head rather than outside.
“Oh no you don't, sunshine,” Stark says. “No-one gets to have a heart attack right in front of me and then just shrug it off. That's my party piece, and trademark infringement is definitely not your colour.”
“He all right?” Clint's voice says from somewhere to Steve's left, and Steve realises they're on the rooftop, high above the fight with Amora.
“He's not dead, thanks to the magic of electricity,” says Stark. “See, Cap, I told you the twenty-first century was an age of wonders.”
“We had electricity in the forties,” Steve says, his voice coming out more gravelly than he would like. “I need to help Thor.”
“I think practically kicking it right in front of him was more motivating to him than any amount of shield-flinging,” says Stark. “Maybe you should pull that trick on every mission. None of us would ever have to lift a finger again.”
Steve shakes his head, and realises that the roaring's definitely coming from somewhere else. Down below, in fact. And it sounds a whole lot like Thor.
Stark leans over the parapet, and then looks back at Steve and grins.
“He likes you,” he says. “He really likes you.”
----
“OK, so what the hell happened?” says Fury, leaning against the door of the med-bay and not looking impressed in the slightest. Steve carefully keeps his gaze trained on the readout of the treadmill. Thirty minutes and counting. He hopes they don't make him go the full forty-eight hours to prove he's fit. Steve likes to run, but treadmills get pretty boring after a while.
“It was a spell to steal all the strength from its victim,” says Thor. “It works only momentarily.”
“Which is why you went down and got right back up again,” says Bruce from where he's checking Steve's vitals. “But it doesn't explain what it did to Steve's heart.”
“I do not know,” says Thor. He stares up at Steve. “The spell is intended for Asgardians. Perhaps it is more dangerous for humans.”
“Right,” Bruce says. “Maybe if it had been someone less,” he gestures, “super, it would've been instantly fatal.”
“Hm,” says Fury, and then cross the room, standing right in Steve's line of sight. “That what you think, Cap?”
Steve's pretty sure the spell did exactly what it was intended to do. He keeps his face blank. “I don't pretend to understand alien magic, sir,” he says.
Fury's quiet for a moment, watching him, and Steve is reminded uncomfortably of Natasha sitting at the bottom of his bed and fixing him with that stare. “How do you feel now?” he asks.
“Just fine,” says Steve, which is true. He's not even winded, his body completely recovered, both from the incipient heart failure and the electric shock that Stark gave him. It's just his conscience that's troubled now.
Fury watches him a second longer, then seems to come to a decision. “Fine,” he says. “Doctor Banner, I want a full diagnostic.” He sweeps out of the room, and Bruce gives Steve a rueful smile.
“I guess that mean forty-seven point five hours to go,” he says. “Sorry, Steve.”
Thor grunts, and then steps up onto the treadmill that's next to Steve's. Steve throws him a look as Thor starts to jog, and Thor grins at him.
“Running to nowhere is tedious work, my friend,” he says. “But all tasks are accomplished faster with bosom companions.”
“You don't have to do that,” says Steve.
“No,” Thor agrees. “I do not.”
He lapses into silence, and the two of them run on.
----
The problem with tests, as it turns out, is that they don't simulate real conditions. Running on a treadmill for six hours is not the same as sprinting through clouds of smoke, dodging shells and trying to make sure that everybody gets out alive. Holding your breath for thirty minutes in a lab is not the same as being dunked into the ocean without warning, breathing in enough salt water to fill half your lungs before you even know what's happened. Going thirty rounds with a practice dummy is not like single-handedly fighting three platoons when you've got four broken ribs and even the healing factor isn't fast enough.
The serum's made Steve taller, faster, more agile. It's given his heart and lungs strength and stamina. Drugs and infections get flushed out of his bloodstream before he's even had the chance to feel their effects.
Asthma's not an infection, though, and neither are nervous disorders and heart problems. The serum's given Steve a lot, but it hasn't taken anything away from him, even the things he never wanted in the first place. It takes longer, now, a lot longer, because his heart and lungs have strength and stamina. If he lived a normal life, he would be cured to all intents and purposes.
But Steve Rogers doesn't live a normal life.
----
They've been fighting a guerilla action in the mountains of Latveria for three days when Steve and Stark get cut off from the rest of the team during a howling blizzard. It's intentional, at first, them splitting up into smaller groups. Then Stark's suit takes a hit and it becomes less intentional.
“Dammit,” Stark yells over the shrieking wind, landing beside Steve. “Nothing from up there, either. The comm link is definitely down.”
“Can you fix it?” Steve yells back. It's a dumb question. Stark can fix anything, Steve knows that. The question is really how long.
“Sure,” Stark yells. “But we need to get the hell out of this weather.”
There's a cave not far away. Steve remembers seeing it on the way up, and he leads the way, the lights of Stark's suit illuminating the driving snow. Steve didn't like cold weather even before he was frozen for seventy years. It always used to settle in his chest.
It turns out the cave is pretty shallow -- deep enough for Stark to work, but not enough for them to get fully out of the cold. The wind's blowing in the other direction, thankfully, but there's a thick drift of snow at the entrance, deep enough that Steve has to wade through it, up to his chest. Stark pulls open a panel on his arm and produces a couple of tools.
“Should take a few hours,” he says, “depending on how burned out the components are. Lucky for us I set up a remote version of JARVIS in the suit in case I ever didn't want the real one to know what I was up to.” He pauses, like he's listening to something, and then says “Well, maybe I want to have an affair with another AI, did you think of that?”
Steve sighs, managing to avoid rolling his eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks.
“Right now, you can help by sitting in the corner and not speaking until you're spoken to,” says Stark. “And don't touch anything. I've seen how your giant sausage fingers interact with my tech.”
Steve bites back an annoyed reply and heads to a spot where he can see out through the part of the cave entrance that isn't drifted up with snow. It's not the warmest place to sit, but at least he can stop them from getting caught unawares. Outside, the snow is swirling through the trees, dancing like dust motes in the light that's spilling out of the entrance from Stark's suit. It's beautiful, mesmerising, and Steve watches and waits.
Some time later, Steve becomes aware that someone's poking him in the face. He blinks open his eyes and frowns at Stark, who's looming over him. He realises he's half-covered in drifted snow, his face mostly numb and his breath rasping in his lungs. Damn.
“Jesus, Cap,” says Stark. “You got a real thing for falling asleep in sub-zero temperatures. What is that, some kind of fetish? Because I can recommend some way less life-threatening fetishes.”
Steve does roll his eyes this time, but Stark's frowning. “What the hell is that noise you're making?” he demands.
“Nothing,” Steve manages. “Just... just got...” He can't finish the sentence, the air in his lungs exhausted before he makes it all the way through the third word. It's not nothing, he realises, and it's becoming less and less of nothing by the moment.
Stark looks blank for a second, then incredulous. “JARVIS says you're having an asthma attack,” he says. “Come on, JARVIS, this is a perfect specimen of American masculinity you're talking about here.”
“I'm not having an asthma attack,” says Steve. That's what he tries to say, anyway. It would have sounded much more convincing if he'd been capable of producing more than a couple of mangled words. His stomach twists in foreboding. He's worked so hard, been so careful, for months, and to be so stupid as to let this happen, in front of Stark of all people. Stark who has a computer that can tell him exactly what's going on, Stark who's smarter than Steve will ever be, who Steve can't fob off because he already knows.
The breath scrapes through Steve's throat with a hideous creaking sound, and the truth sinks into his stomach. It's over. There's no way out of this, not now. All the same, he can't quite bring himself to throw in the towel, not yet, and he shakes his head furiously, as if doing so will somehow counteract the way his lungs sound like a broken set of bellows.
“Shit,” says Stark. “You are, aren't you? You're having a fucking asthma attack in a cave in the middle of nowhere, Latveria.” He crouches down to peer into Steve's face. “I hope you realise this is seriously inconsiderate.”
Steve leans forward, trying to ease the pressure on his lungs. He can't really concentrate on what Stark is saying. Even the thick feeling of despair at the implications of all this is fading into greyness. The only thing that's in sharp focus is the way his lungs are burning, begging for more air. He closes his eyes briefly. He'll be fine, physically, at least. This is just a minor blip, like in Los Angeles, whatever the nagging voice at the back of his mind is saying.
“What do I do?” says Stark. “JARVIS?” he pauses for a second, then shakes his head. “Well, I don't actually have any purified oxygen, so-- Well, fine, next time I'll add an entire hospital wing to the suit, that should solve the problem. Cap? Cap, come on.” He straightens up, running his hand over his chin and then pressing both palms flat against the back of his helmet. “This is stupid. This is not happening. Can people die from asthma attacks? JARVIS?”
Steve flaps a hand in his general direction. He wants to tell Stark that he's not going to die (he's not going to die), but he doesn't have the air.
“Seriously?” says Stark. “Fuck.” He drops down to his knees in front of Steve and grabs him by the upper arms. “Steve, don't die. If you die, I will absolutely defect to Russia and build them some world-changing tech. Or China. You wouldn't want that, right?”
Stark's wide-eyed, looking frayed around the edges, and Steve curls a hand around his forearm, gripping the smooth metal more tightly than he'd intended. “Don't need--” he says, then forces as much air behind the next word as he can. “--oxygen.”
Stark frowns. “Um, OK,” he says. “So, when did you progress from super soldier to alien lifeform?”
Steve pulls in a breath, hearing the way it whistles and cracks in his chest. It really does sound like he's dying. He's not dying (maybe he's dying).
“Not... much,” he says. He can run his body on less oxygen than most people. He's not going to die. Not in a blizzard in a cave with Tony Stark panicking in front of him. He will not die.
“Forgive me if I don't find that very convincing,” Stark says, and shakes his head. “OK, close your eyes, close your eyes,” he says. “Imagine you're on a -- a beach. Or, no, not a beach, all those waves, too much stress. A lagoon, a beautiful lagoon, with cocktails and waitresses, in, like, flapper costumes or whatever the hell they had back in the forties.”
Steve frowns at him. “What... doing?” he coughs out.
“I'm trying to calm you down!” Stark says.
Steve rolls his eyes. “...terrible...” he says.
“Well, yeah,” says Stark. “There's a reason people around me are rarely calm. By the way, I think I'm probably the worst person to get stranded with when you're dying of an asthma attack.”
Steve can't manage to put together enough breath to either agree or disagree with that one. This is the worst attack he's had since before the serum. He tries to draw a breath, and there's no wheezing, no rattling, nothing. There's no breath at all, no air making it through his closed throat. He blinks at Stark, and Stark blinks back.
“What is it?” he says.
With a lungful of air, Captain America can hold his breath for thirty minutes before reaching the point of suffocation.
Steve doesn't have a lungful of air.
“Cap?” says Stark, and Steve watches the black spots dancing in front of his eyes and remembers that this is the way he always thought he'd die before he got the serum. This, or his heart, or one of the fevers that burned through him every winter. Since the serum, he's assumed he'll die in battle, doing something useful (and he did, once, but that was a long time ago). Now, though, it's starting to seem like he was right the first time.
“OK, blue lips, that can't be good,” says Stark, and then, “JARVIS, Captain America is asphyxiating in front of me. What do I do? JARVIS, what the fuck do I do?”
Don't blame yourself, Steve thinks.
And then he passes out.
----
The first time Steve has an asthma attack after the serum, he doesn't even realise what's happening. It's been almost six months, and he's never had even a minor tightening of the chest. He assumes there's been a gas attack at first, is fumbling for his mask when he realises that none of the other soldiers weaving and dodging through the smoke-filled battlefield seem to be having any problems.
It's just Steve.
“Cap,” comes Dum-Dum's voice over the radio. “We've found the enemy dugout. Sending up a flare now.”
Steve looks over the sandbag-barrier he's crouched behind, and spots a single bullet being fired into the air, invisible to anyone with normal eyesight. A signal to no-one but him.
“Got it,” he says, ignoring his rasping breath (it can't be, it must just be a pocket of gas, localised). “On my way.”
“Steve?” It's Bucky's voice now. “You OK?”
“Caught a little gas, is all,” Steve says, already moving toward the source of the bullet, trying to force his breath to stop crackling in his lungs. “I'm fine.”
But when he scrambles down into the trench where the Commandos are waiting, he sees the frown that Bucky gives him and knows he's not convinced.
They take the dugout without any problems, the resistance nothing they can't handle, even with Steve unusually winded. Afterwards, he assures the squad that he's fine, just the gas, and they grin and clap him on the back and turn to head back to base. All except Bucky, who stares at Steve with that frown on his face.
“You all right?” Steve asks.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” says Bucky.
Steve shrugs and smiles. “I'm fine,” he says. “Aren't I always?” Bucky's still frowning, and Steve says, “Seriously, I just caught a faceful,” even though he doesn't remember smelling any gas at all. That's the only plausible explanation, though, so it must be true.
Bucky chews his lip. “As long as that's all it is,” he says, sounding unconvinced. Bucky's not convinced, but Steve is, and he stays convinced for as long as he can.
The alternative is more than he can bear.
----
When Steve comes round, the first thing he realises is that he isn't dead. The second is that the bone-deep cold he'd felt before is now just a slight chill in his extremities, and his breath is moving easily in and out of his lungs, although his throat feels a little sore. For a second, he's reminded of waking up in a fake recovery room in New York, the same disorientation, the same sense memory of having recently been so cold.
Then he opens his eyes to find Stark glaring at him from way too close.
“You know that was a dick move, right?” says Stark. “Do you know how many extra bodyguards I would've had to hire before telling Fury I killed Captain America? I'm not talking for, like, a day, either. That guy plays the long game.”
Steve coughs and sits up, his body feeling weirdly heavy. He looks down at himself and realises he's wearing Stark's suit. Stark's in a t-shirt and jeans, and he's shivering a little, the light from his fake heart pulsing through the thin cotton.
“What happened?” Steve asks, his voice a little raspy.
Stark stands up and half turns away. “Your body tried to choke you to death, is what happened,” he says. “And apparently you actually do need to breathe to stay alive, so the alien theory is out the window.”
Steve rubs his throat. The soreness is fading already. “Why am I wearing the suit?”
“Because JARVIS said the cold was setting you off,” Stark says. “So I figured hey, maybe you could do with another layer of clothing. You know, one with built-in temperature controls. That's what all the fashion-conscious men are wearing these days. I should know, I am Esquire's best-dressed man 2008 through 12.”
Steve frowns at him. It's still snowing a little outside, and Stark's breath clouds in the air, his cheeks and nose rosy with bold. Steve starts fumbling at the edges of the suit, trying to find a catch, but the metal fingers are thick and clumsy and he doesn't know how to work them.
“What are you doing?” Stark asks, turning toward him again.
“I'm fine now,” says Steve. “You need to put the suit back on before you get hypothermia.”
Stark's eyebrows head for his hairline. “Uh, do you remember what happened last time you got a little chilly?” he says. “Because I do, and I choose starting my new life as an ice-cube over having to attend Captain America's funeral. There's only so many crying eagles a guy can take, you know?”
Steve closes his eyes. “JARVIS,” he says, “could you please take the suit off me?”
There's a hissing noise, and chunks of metal start to fall off Steve. The cold air hits him in the chest, but there's no answering tightening of his throat.
“Et tu, JARVIS?” says Stark, shaking his head.
“Blizzard's easing off anyway,” says Steve. “I don't have the experience flying this thing to get us out of here. You need to wear it.”
Stark hesitates a moment, then rolls his eyes and starts putting the suit on. “I think we're missing the most important point here,” he says.
“What's that?” Steve asks, like he doesn't already know, like it's not all he's thought about since he opened his eyes.
“Uh, how about that you have freaking asthma,” says Stark. “Asthma that supposedly got serumed out of you in 1943. So, what? Is the serum wearing off? Because if so, we're gonna have to take in your costume.”
Steve shakes his head. He thinks about denying everything, but Stark saw it, and he maybe he barely knows Stark, but he knows enough to know that he won't be easily satisfied with lies. It's all over, and Steve is so tired.
“It's not wearing off,” he says.
“Well, then, what?” says Stark, putting on the helmet but leaving the faceplate up.
Steve shrugs. “It never--” he says, then looks up, forcing himself to meet Stark's eyes. “It never got rid of the asthma.”
Stark makes a face of utter incredulity. “Uh,” he says. “What? That's crazy talk.”
Steve sighs. “It stops me getting infections,” he says. “But it didn't cure any of the disorders. The things that come from inside.”
“The... Wait, what other...?” says Stark, then slams down the faceplate. “JARVIS, show me Captain Rogers' enlistment medical.” There's a pause, and then Stark starts muttering to himself. “Tuberculosis shouldn't be a problem, asthma, we've covered that, scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, colds, sinusitis, heart--” He stops, pulls up the faceplate. “Heart problems?” he says.
Steve closes his eyes. “And migraines,” he says. Might as well get it all out in the open now. “That's all, that's everything.”
There's a brief silence. “Wait,” Stark says. “So you're asking me to believe that you've had asthma, migraines and heart problems this whole time and no-one's noticed?”
Steve nods, opening his eyes. He wonders if this will count as a court-martial offence.
Stark's gaping at him. For once, he seems to be at a loss for words. Finally, he shuts his mouth. “When?”
Steve thinks back. “After the Chitauri attack,” he says. “Then that fight in Los Angeles. And Amora.”
“I shocked your heart,” says Stark, realisation creeping into his voice. “I shocked your heart and you said it was the magic.”
“It wasn't the magic,” says Steve, as if that's not obvious by now.
Stark looks like he's about to say something else, but then there's a crackle of static from the other side of the cave, and both of them turn to see the remote uplink from Stark's suit, still looking charred but now trailing wires and attached to a makeshift antenna.
“...read me?” says Natasha's voice through the white noise.
Stark bounds across the cave and grabs the device. “We're here!” he says. “Finally.”
“...regrouping... Lyotich Square...” says Natasha. “...mission's over.”
“Thank God,” says Stark, and then turns back to Steve. “Did I mention I hate caves?”
Steve gets to his feet and Stark darts forward, trying to grab his elbow. Steve shrugs him off.
“I'm fine,” he says. “We should go.”
Stark frowns at him. “You practically died in front of me, you tell me you have disorders and now we're just gonna go?” he says. “I know you're not into, like, actually having friends or anything, but seriously, Steve, this is stupid. You're going to get yourself killed.”
“You think I don't want friends?” Steve says, the surprise making him speak before he's had a chance to think about what he's saying.
Stark stares at him, shrugs. “Do you?”
Steve rubs a hand over his eyes. It's too late now, anyway.
“I'm really fine,” he says, and turns to face the freezing light of day. “Let's just go.”
----
Bucky's the only one who knows. Bucky's known Steve longer than anyone left alive, seen him sick, dizzy, unable to breathe. He's been scared for Steve's life more than once, and he realises that the serum failed to make Steve perfect weeks before Steve does. So when Steve's been dodging bullets for four days, running through thick forest, vaulting over mines and bear-traps, when Steve can't stand up any more and collapses on a fallen log with his heart thundering in his ears, Bucky sits beside him and pushes gently on his back, manoeuvring until Steve's head is between his knees.
“I don't understand,” Steve says, once his heart rate is close enough to normal that he can sit up. Bucky's hand falls to his side, and he stares bleakly into the distance.
“Come on, Steve,” he says. “You should know what it feels like to be on the verge of a heart attack. Not like you haven't been there before.”
Steve gapes at him. The serum fixed his heart. It's been months. That can't be what's happening here.
“It must be something else,” says Steve.
Bucky turns to looks at him, and the disappointment on his face is enough to take Steve's breath away. “Do you seriously believe that?” he says. “After the whole gas thing two weeks ago?”
Steve remembers back, the feeling of his chest tightening, the rasping in his lungs. It wasn't bad, wore off pretty fast, but it wasn't perfect, either. And as much as he doesn't want to believe it, Bucky's right: the main thing it was was familiar.
“Oh,” says Steve, and Bucky's face falls a little, like he was hoping that Steve would somehow find a way to explain it all away.
“Yeah,” he says.
They sit there in silence for a while, Steve feeling the way his heart is still a little too fast, a little too loud. It's like being haunted, he thinks. Like having something evil living in your body that you can't get rid of, no matter what you do.
“I can still fight,” he says, finally, and turns to face Bucky to make sure the message gets across.
Bucky's looking at him, face uneasy. “Steve--” he starts, but Steve shakes his head, digs his fingers into his knees and wills Bucky to understand.
“I can still do my job,” he says.
And Bucky swallows, nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I know you can.”
Steve lets his breath out, but Bucky's not done, a hand on Steve's shoulder and trouble in his eyes. “You gotta let me watch your back, though, Steve,” he says. “You gotta let someone look out for you.”
Bucky's always watched Steve's back, just like Steve watches his. Heck, Steve thinks that if he and Bucky can just do a good enough job at watching each other's backs, they might even make it through this war, and then Steve can go back to being a civilian and none of this will matter. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe the serum's wearing off. Maybe it never worked in the first place. Maybe Steve's going to die of an asthma attack one day after all.
“I thought the magic potion they gave you was supposed to stop all this crap,” says Bucky.
“Yeah,” says Steve. “Me too.”
----
They do the examination in Bruce's lab at Stark Tower, rather than on the helicarrier. It's the first time they've done it that way, and Steve thinks about asking why, but he knows any questions are just going to bring him closer to the inevitable answer. Because this is the end.
“Take a deep breath, and then blow into this as hard as you can,” says Bruce, and hands Steve a metal tube with a cardboard mouthpiece and a scale down the side. He takes it and fills his lungs with air, then blows.
The end of the tube explodes outwards with a crack, bouncing off the wall at the other end of the lab. Steve looks down at the half-demolished instrument, feeling a little sheepish.
“Sorry,” he says. “I hope it wasn't expensive.”
Bruce raises his eyebrows and scribbles something down. “I'm going to need a bigger graph,” he mutters.
“Hey.” Steve looks up and sees that Stark's appeared in the doorway. “You done here, guys? Because we've got shit to talk about in the situation room.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, and flashes Steve a grin.
Bruce flips the chart closed. “I think I can safely say this man's as healthy as a horse,” he says. “A horse with a really impressive lung capacity.” He looks at Steve. “You ready for this?”
Steve's never going to be ready for it. He gets off the bed and puts his shirt back on. “OK,” he says. “Let's go.”
----
The “situation room” turns out to be a living room on the ninety-first floor of Stark Tower. There's a number of squashy couches, a low, glass-topped coffee table covered in takeout pizza and bowls of candy, and a television screen that fills half of one wall. Thor lolls in an armchair. Natasha and Clint share a couch. Steve sits on the edge of the least luxurious-looking chair he can find and waits.
“I call this meeting to order,” says Stark, and drops into a chair. “Sooooo, it turns out Captain America's been lying to all of us.” He grins at Steve. “Pretty sure thou shalt not lie is in the Pledge of Allegiance, Steve.”
“You're thinking of the Bible,” says Bruce.
“That too,” says Stark.
“I'm sorry,” says Steve. He's not sure what else there is to say.
“Why did you not tell us immediately?” Thor asks. He looks confused rather than angry.
Steve rubs a hand over his eyes. “It wasn't stopping me from doing my job,” he says. “I thought it wasn't,” he amends, remembering the Amora situation. He should have told them then, once it became clear that he was unfit for duty. He's been kidding himself this whole time.
“Sure, job, whatever,” says Stark. “But you know, the part where you almost croaked today is kind of an issue, though.”
“You're right,” Steve says. “I failed you as a team-mate and as a leader. I have no defence for my actions. I had no right to put you all at risk.”
Stark stares at him, eyebrows rising. Clint leans forward. “You know this isn't a court-martial, right?” he says.
Not yet. Steve nods. “But I owe you all an explanation,” he says.
Stark looks like he's about to say something, but Natasha breaks in. “Yes,” she says. “Go ahead.”
Anything Steve says is going to sound woefully inadequate. He forces himself to keep his eyes from the ground. “I wanted to help,” he says. “During the war they needed every man they could get. And after -- I didn't think it would affect my performance. I'd always managed to keep it under control before.” Before, when he had Bucky watching his back,
“I think Natasha wants to know what the explanation is for you not telling us,” says Bruce, and Steve frowns at him. He thought that was what he'd just given.
“I'm medically unfit,” he says. “Fury would never have allowed me back in the field.” Will never allow me back in the field.
“He didn't say Fury, he said us,” says Stark. “You're an Avenger now, not a soldier.”
Steve looks from face to face. He's can't quite grasp the meaning of what Stark's saying. “If I'm unfit to be a soldier, I'm certainly unfit to be an Avenger,” he says finally.
Stark rolls his eyes. “Bruce, give me the list,” he says. Bruce passes over what looks like a cocktail napkin with a few scrawled words on it. “OK, Cap,” says Stark. “I have here the official list of qualifications you need to be an Avenger, as agreed upon at our AGM, which we had twenty minutes ago while you were in the shower.” He peers down at the napkin. “Now, it says here that you need to clean up the kitchen after you use it, check,” he makes a tick mark on the napkin. “You have to agree never to watch Batman and Robin in Stark Tower.” He glances up at Steve, and Steve stares. Stark shrugs. “OK, check, pretty sure you don't even know who Batman is. OK, three, you have to not be too much of a dick, uh... check, I guess. Four, you have to believe in truth, justice, and the American why--”
“It says way,” mutters Bruce.
“Well, it's lucky there isn't an item about being able to write like someone with opposable thumbs, or you'd be out on your ear,” says Stark. “OK, check, and five -- oh, you have to know how to charge your phone.” He looks up. “Sorry, Steve, guess you're out.”
Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it up wordlessly, glowing screen towards Stark. Stark beams.
“Well, our little boy's all grown up,” he says. “In that case, welcome to the team! Breakfast is from seven a.m. to three p.m., fresh towels are in your room, alien attacks are every other Tuesday, and Thursday night is canasta.” He leans forward and puts a hand to the side of his mouth. “You're definitely my partner. Thor might as well be announcing his cards on Perez Hilton for all the poker face he's got.”
Steve blinks at him, bewildered. “What?” he says. He rarely understands everything that Stark says, but this is such a stream of concentrated nonsense that it makes his head spin.
“He's saying we want you to move in to the tower,” says Bruce.
“Move in--?” says Steve. “But Fury's gonna kick me off the team.”
“Fury doesn't get to choose who's on the team,” says Clint. “We do.”
“Besides,” says Stark, “what he doesn't know can't hurt him, but what he does know can definitely hurt us, so keeping him in the dark about anything and everything is really the only logical course of action.”
Steve shakes his head. He's been waiting for the blow to fall ever since Stark first said the word asthma in that cave in Latveria, and now -- this? “I can't do my job,” he says. “I'm a liability to the team.”
“Come on, dude,” says Stark. “All of us have some physical weakness. I mean, my heart is run by a nuclear reactor, for Christ's sake. And we all know Bruce has a minor anger-management problem.”
Bruce shrugs and smiles.
“And Clint--” Stark waves at Clint, and Clint looks like he's thinking.
“Sometimes I run out of arrows,” he says.
Stark frowns. “Right,” he says. “Arrows. And Thor's, uh, Thor's--”
“I do not understand this concept of physical ailments,” says Thor. “Asgardian bodies do not suffer from such problems.”
Stark glares at Thor. “Whatever,” he says, and turns to Natasha. Natasha raises an eyebrow in his direction, and Stark throws up his hands.
“This is totally not the way I pictured this conversation going,” he says. Bruce leans forward and interrupts him.
“How many missions have we had together since we got started?” asks Bruce.
“Seven,” says Steve.
“And how many times have you been affected by your medical issues since then?” Bruce asks.
Steve hesitates. “Four,” he says. Five if you count the migraine, but he wasn't on a mission then.
“And how many times have you failed to complete the mission?”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “If Stark hadn't shocked my heart--” he starts, and Stark waves a hand.
“Sure,” he says. “And if Natasha hadn't opened that portal and if Hulk hadn't smashed that giant snowglobe and if you hadn't thrown your shield at that cut-price Godzilla.” He shrugs. “It's called being part of a team. We can do more stuff that way. And by the way, I seriously can't believe I am having to tell you this.”
“We watch each others backs,” says Clint. “Which, by the way, is way easier if we know what we're supposed to be watching out for.”
There's a long silence. Steve doesn't really understand what's happening, here, how this went from Captain America's been lying to us to we want you to move in to the tower. He barely knows these people, still, after all these months -- he hasn't had a chance to get to know them, even if he wanted to. Too much risk of slipping up. But now he can't fall any further, and somehow they're still here.
“You can still keep your place in Brooklyn,” says Natasha suddenly. “If you want.”
Steve blinks at her and it takes him a moment to remember what he said to her about liking his space. Natasha, though, she clearly remembers it, even though it was months ago. She's looking at him now, like she's waiting for an answer, and she's not smiling, but there's nothing of insincerity on her face, either.
“Steve?” Natasha says, and somewhere, under the tiredness and the confusion, Steve feels the glimmer of an idea that maybe, maybe, this isn't the end after all.
“I'd like that,” he says, and she smiles at him.
“So that's settled, then,” says Stark. “JARVIS, Steve's moving in. Play some old-timey music or something.”
“Hey, hey!” says Steve, raising his hands. “I didn't say I was moving in.” Even though when he thinks back, he thinks he might actually have said just that.
“Playing us hot and cold,” says Stark. “That's very Catholic schoolgirl of you, Cap.”
Steve rubs a hand over his eyes. “I'll stay tonight,” he says finally. “We can talk about it more in the morning.” It's been a long day, and the idea of going back to Brooklyn now, to his quiet, dark apartment is -- well. He might as well stay, if the others don't mind. They can figure all of this out later.
Stark shrugs. “You can check out any time you want,” he says, “and by the way, if you knew what the other half of that quote was, you'd probably be kind of creeped out.” He looks at his watch, then, and beams. “Hey, it's Thursday night. You know what that means?” He produces a pack of cards from nowhere. “Canasta! Steve, you're with me.”
Steve frowns. “He's serious about the whole canasta thing?” he says to Bruce.
Bruce shrugs. “He's got a problem. I'm trying to persuade him to go to Canasta Anonymous, but so far, no dice.”
“Thor, you can sit this one out,” says Stark. Thor makes a harrumphing noise.
“I will sit with Captain Steve and explain to him how the game is played,” he says.
“Great, now we're definitely going to lose,” says Stark. “Can you believe these two are canasta hustlers?” He jerks a thumb at Clint, who looks innocent, and Natasha, who looks unimpressed.
“It's not hustling if you already know we're better than you are,” she says.
“I just haven't hit my stride yet, is all,” says Stark. “And I never will, if Mr. Give-the-Game-Awaysson over here has his way. By the way, Thor, have I mentioned that Captain Steve sounds like a pirate name? We should get him an eyepatch.” He carries on, something about parrots and Long John Silver, a rambling monologue in the background. It's annoying, just like always, but there's something oddly comfortable about it, too. Steve glances around the room at these people he hardly knows at all and who know him better than anyone left alive, each of them here like they're completely at home. Steve hasn't felt at home since he came out of the ice, and he's startled by the sudden feeling that maybe one day, that might change.
Stark tosses the pack of cards to Natasha. “Deal Steve in,” he says.
Clint glances over at him as the cards fan out across the table. "You sure you want to play?" he says. "Tony gets pretty whiny when he loses. I wouldn't want you to get caught in the crossfire."
"Hey!" says Stark, and Steve finds himself smiling as he reaches down to pick up his hand.
"I appreciate the concern," he says, "but I think I'll be just fine."