Oh Captain, My Captain
Providence
Steven Grant Rogers found himself oddly fearing for his life, and it wasn't even from a super-villain.
The woman, Lea Ann Shea, was tall, inhumanely beautiful and slender. Reddish hair curled down past her hips in a riotous cascade, complementing her flawless skin, high cheekbones, and lush, full, blood-red lips. Her face was ageless, and her golden eyes had vertical slits instead of pupils, like a cat. Her gown was a flowing affair of deep green. She was intelligent, beautiful, and had been after him all evening.
Steve was scared. As in, some long-forgotten instinct made running away from the highly beautiful woman paramount to his continued survival.
“You certainly are tenacious, Captain.” She was here again, considering him as some collector might look at the height and build of a prize pony. Or a show dog. It was really off-putting. “Buried in the heart of winter and yet you live.”
Steve backed slightly at the mention of his time under ice. “Erm... thank you, Ma'am?”
“Oh, so precious,” she laughed, a chorus of bells a shade out of tune. Long fingers ending in nails painted carmine reached out for him. Steve swallowed, backing slightly as her claws brushed aside the lapels of his jacket, retreating as they approached his dogtags. The silence after the chorus in the parties was palpable, and for once he actually missed Tony.
“Ma'am... I really don't think we should do this.”
“Come,” she breathed, and it did distracting things to the front of the dress. It was almost unearthly, that magical air. “Spend a night with me. Is that not fair?”
The lines of her face was beautiful, a work of art by itself. If anything else, Steve could appreciate aesthetics. “Erm... I... don't mean that, ma'am, but, erm...”
“You are denying yourself,” she gazed at him, her expression palpably hungry. “Come, Captain.”
“Steve, please.” She reached a hand towards his shoulder, tracing one large bicep. “My, how strong you are.”
“Serum,” he automatically replied. “I was... very sickly as a child.”
“Mmm, I know,” she murmured. “Once upon a time, there was a little boy. His mother was a nurse, and his father hardly worth mentioning. Slowly, one by one, the boy was left to fend for himself, alone in the world save for the companions he made, save for the fragile bonds of friends.”
Steve swallowed. It sounded too close to his own story.
“The boy's art was fascinating, untainted by loss,” the woman continued. “And yet the boy remained strong in heart if not in body, willing to fight back. Willing to retaliate tooth and nail for what he thought right. Intelligent, too, and ruthless when needed, but also merciful.”
Lea Ann Shee. Mrs Barnes had talked about fairy stories, the fair folk, and the grisly origins behind them. Bucky's grandmother used to leave out little saucers of milk when she could. For luck, so she said. Mrs. Barnes had always known when the cops were going to be cracking down on the speak-easies, as if she had access to information no one else had, and acted accordingly. There were some ironclad truths to follow then, and one was that you jolly well did what Mrs Barnes told you or the place was burnt down. And not by the Mob, either.
“The Leanhaun Shee seeks the love of mortals.” the woman froze at his words. “If they refuse, she must be their slave; if they consent, they are hers, and can only escape by finding another to take their place. The fairy lives on their life, and they waste away. Death is no escape from her. She is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she persecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will not let them remain long on earth – this malignant phantom.”
“Yeats,” a slow smile formed on shapely lips. “He was affiliated with the Seelie, but he wasn't far off.”
Steve did one of the most sensible things he had ever done. He ran like hell.
In the distance, came the notes of a hunting horn, dark and clear-and the baying of hounds. It was a haunting, musical baying, ghostly and permeating like the night mist. Steve's boots still thudded on the road as he took it straight up Fifth Avenue towards Stark Tower, which not only held a lot of security in the form of Iron Man, but more importantly held plenty of cold iron. Mrs Barnes had left out dishes of cold milk for a reason, but Steve really doubted that any fairy would even approach a place with so much metal – and with a great probability of the metal being cold iron – as the general vicinity of Tony Stark.
“I have never met a man who obeyed his instincts more,” came the sudden comment from the shadows, and Steve jerked his head back, barely panting.
From the shadows erupted a slender dark-haired man, peering at him with orange eyes. His attire, a form of light leather armour, seemed to blend into the shadows. Steve noted the presence of two long wrapped bundles slung casually over one shoulder. “Come if you wish to evade her.”
“The... the Lea-”
“Speak of such creatures and very often they can appear.”
His lips clamped shut immediately.
“Very good.” the man peered at him. There was none of the supernatural presence that had accompanied the woman, the faerie, but a supreme confidence even after dusk. A confidence that could only have come from knowledge of things that lay in darkness. “Follow me. My master sent me to escort you.”
“I... I need to contact someone,” he spluttered as they walked in the opposite direction of the Stark Tower. “Anyone- my-”
“You can wait lest she catches up to you,” the man peered at him. “Well, she didn't get close enough to draw blood, at any rate.”
“Blood?” Steve shrugged. “Why?”
“She can track you anywhere with blood. Or hair. Or nail clippings. The shop is warded. The tower is not. For all its human security, it will not stop the Sidhe or the lesser powers of Fae.”
Faced with little choice, Steve just fell in step behind the orange-eyed man. “And you're...?”
“You may call me... Dermot.” the man considered. “I am told that it is the diminutive of my original name in these times.”
Steve could feel his eyebrows climb. “Steve Rogers.”
“If you give a wizard your name from your own lips, they could control your life.”
Captain America tensed. “You mean-”
“I have no magical power, perhaps that is fortunate for you,” the man, Dermot, stopped before a low-roofed house. Crescents on the roof gleamed gold in the faint street-lights. “My master has it. He has already heard of you, the man out of time.”
Steve's feet carried him into the shop, leaving his boots at the entrance, past a panelled hallway and into a small waiting room where a pale-skinned, dark-haired man awaited him.
“Excellent, Diarmuid,” the man nodded towards the servant, Dermot. “Good evening, Captain.”
“...Evening,” Steve decided. Manners always had a place, and so far no monsters were about to eat his face or control his mind. Plus, they helped him escape from an evil faerie, which was another plus point.
“It appears that my servant's errand in another world had brought the Leanansidhe into this one,” the man mused. “She has taken a shine to you, as you could probably guess. Did you make an agreement with her?”
“Oh, er...” Steve swallowed. “I ran away before I could answer.”
“Very good,” Watanuki observed. “Binding one of Faerie, especially one as powerful as the Leanansidhe, causes them to hate you. And faeries tend to have extremely long memories.”
“So... what do I do now?” Steve asked.
The man's smile widened. “Would you care for a drink? I'm told that it is very soothing.”
While SHIELD was scrambling to locate a missing Captain America, the man himself strolled into the penthouse apartment of one Tony Stark.
“Hi, Tony!” Steve called cheerily, cheeks rosy-red as he waltzed in and then immediately fell flat onto the nearest couch.
All the remaining Avengers, and Phil Coulson, stared at him with what could charitably be called a WTF expression. Well, Steve was gloriously drunk, after all.
Coulson was the first to recover. “Captain Rogers?”
"Steeeeeve." Steve Rogers slurred happily. “CaptainRogers makes it sound like I'm in trouble…”
“You were absent without official leave.” Coulson felt compelled to point out.
Steve waved a hand negligently, and nearly knocked over a dumbstruck Tony. “Pssssh. What are they going to do? Ground me? I'm a, a, a grown man. Fury ain't my mother.”
Coulson nodded gravely. “Be that as it may, would you sign these, please?"
Captain America, even if he was wearing loose fitting jeans, flannel, and was drunk as a skunk, smiled and lit up the room. He took the marker and very carefully, very seriously signed his name on a mint condition comic book, fingers lingering wistfully on the cartoon caricatures. “Buck, if only you could see how right the grand dame was...”
Clint let loose a long whistle as Steve's face fell forward. “Waiter, I'll have what he's having.”
In another world, in a shop protected by a barrier, a bean nighe and a shopkeeper and his servant got riotously drunk as well, and the party continued well until dawn.
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