1.
It wasn't supposed to be, and in the end it wasn't, a difficult mission. SHIELD had let him know in the morning that they had managed to locate a small group of terrorists, and was demanding their capture before any attack on the civilian population could occur. Steve didn't ask for details, trusting his superiors to make the right decisions. He was able to assemble the Avengers right away. Clint and Natasha were ready for any mission at all times, and Bruce hadn't been elbows-deep into any research that Steve wouldn't understand even if he really tried. Tony just needed a little push. But when Steve told him that this shady group had some of his weapons in their possession and were planning to use them against innocent people, he was ready immediately.
The group was small, they were hiding in the middle of the woods in the northern United States, and although they were really well equipped, they posed no threat. Of course, caution was in order. However, when the Hulk joined the action, everything went smoothly. Most of the group was dead or captured within the first few minutes.
Steve's stomach twisted at one point and he quickly checked all of his team members with a quick glance. It was all too easy, and his intuition told him that something was going to go wrong sooner or later.
In the end, he figured it could have ended much worse. The only casualty was himself when he didn't have time to dodge a flying chunk of wall thrown by the Hulk. No one on his team was injured, the mission was a success and that would be the most important thing to their superiors. He didn't do so badly either. He only ended up with a dislocated shoulder, which Natasha put back in place with a skillful but not very delicate movement. Still, an uncomfortable feeling of defeat settled around his stomach and a tense atmosphere hung in the air. They joked and talked on the way there, and Steve watched with a smile, knowing that they were just like a group of good friends. Now there were four individuals sitting in front of him, each lost in their own head, trying to deal with the recent events in their own way.
He sat on the floor of the quinjet, his head resting on the seat as his eyes roamed over the team. Tony sat in the front, muttering something to himself and watching one of the radars. At first glance he might have appeared calm, but Steve could clearly sense the tension in his shoulders and see two deep furrows between his brows. Natasha and Clint sat in their seats, buckled in their seatbelts, both dozing quietly. He knew that they were fully aware of what was going on in their surroundings, that they were only half asleep. Bruce lay on the floor wrapped in a blanket, his completely blank gaze fixed on a single point in front of him.
On an imaginary list in his head, he wrote down the next item he would have to do when he returned. First, he'd have to write up a mission report and then he'd go talk to everyone right after. Reassure them that it wasn't their fault. They did the best they could, but they just can't always save everyone. And he will have to ask Bruce not to blame himself for what happened to Steve. It wasn't his fault, and it wasn't Hulk's fault either. It was a mere accident, Steve was simply standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, right in the trajectory of the flying rubble. He wasn't fast enough to jump or even raise his shield to protect himself even a little bit from the impact.
Bruce closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, and slowly sat back in his seat. He buckled his seatbelt, wrapped himself more tightly in the blanket, and leaned his head back. Steve knew he was tired and would sleep the day away as soon as possible. The transformation to the Hulk and back always wore him out so much. He smiled sympathetically.
"You'd better buckle up too, Cap," Tony said quietly, glancing at him for a moment, "we're about to land."
"Okay," he nodded, lifting himself up on one arm and sitting down. He suppressed a pained groan, not wanting to upset Bruce even more. His shoulder was back in place, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. He knew that within an hour, maybe two, he would be feeling perfectly healthy again, but until then it was going to hurt and he just had to deal with it.
"Do you want help?" Tony grinned, mischievous amusement sparking in his eyes. Steve was sure Tony was only saying it to tease him, not because he was actually offering help. So he just shook his head, buckled his seatbelt and let out a long but quiet sigh.
They landed smoothly but none of them had the energy to get up.
Steve was the first to stand, slowly strapping the shield to his back as he pressed his left arm against his body, trying to move it as little as possible.
"I'm going to go give my report. You guys get some rest. You did a great job today," he smiled slightly at them. The only reaction he got was from Tony, who wiggled his eyebrows in amusement and mock-saluted. (is that even a word? XD)
---
He twirled the pen in his fingers and gazed thoughtfully out the window. He needed to write up his report, talk to Bruce, and then get home and finally get a good night's sleep. Write the report, talk to Bruce and go to sleep. He repeated it over and over again, like a mantra.
He was tired. Thanks to the super soldier's serum, he might have gone a few days without sleep, but that didn't change the fact that he was exhasted. He'd barely slept the last few nights, whenever he closed his eyes, the memories came flooding back. It happened to him from time to time, thankfully not too often.
With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and shook his shoulder experimentally. It didn't hurt anymore. At least something good, he thought bitterly, and finally started writing.
Short, bare sentences joined into paragraphs in front of him. He described everything he needed to, the entire course of the mission, but not in much detail. Only Fury would read it anyway, then have someone transcribe it into the computer, print it out, file it, bury it, and forget about it.
One of the activists detonated a bomb strapped to his vest. Two children were killed in the blast.
An unpleasant feeling gripped his insides again, he closed his eyes for a few moments and took a deep breath. They wanted to save them, but it was impossible. Not even Hulk with his strength, Tony with his suit or himself with his shield could prevent the explosion. They were standing in close proximity, and if it weren't for Hulk and Tony...
Thanks to the timely intervention of Hulk and Iron Man, no team members were injured.
He finished the sentence and put the pen down. Again, he saw before his eyes two huge green hands grabbing Natasha and Clint like chess pieces, clutching them as Hulk jumped as far as possible with them. Tony took him, grabbed him tightly, and flew away with him. The pressure wave of the bomb hit them, of course, and Stark lost control of the jets for a moment. But other than that, no one was hurt. Except the two kids.
He ran his hands over his face, stood up and stifled a yawn. He took the report to Fury, exchanged only a few words with him, and finally asked where he could find Banner.
"He should be in his quarters, sleeping," Fury replied simply, already reading the report. He saw his eye drift down to the last few sentences before looking up at him again. "You did your best, Rogers."
"I know, sir," he nodded.
"No need to blame yourself for what happened."
"I know, sir," he repeated, returning the look.
"Good. You may leave," he waved him off with a hand. Steve didn’t hesitate, he left the room and went straight to Bruce. If he was asleep, Steve wouldn't wake him and would talk to him tomorrow. But he sincerely hoped he was still awake. He was worried about Bruce most of all. Natasha and Clint had been through worse, and he knew they would deal with the deaths of those children best on their own. He would ask them later, of course, but not for a few days. But Bruce wasn't a spy. He wasn't a soldier, he was a scientist with a heart of gold. He was even more worried about him than he was about Tony, though he should talk to him too. Just to show him that he was there for him if he needed to talk. To give him moral support. He knew full well that Tony would just shrug it off, tell him he was fine and that Steve worried too much. He even called him a mother hen once. Steve hadn't forgiven him for that ever since, even though he secretly grinned in amusement.
He knocked lightly on the door and listened. There was a creak of the bed, shuffling footsteps, and the next moment the door opened before him, and Bruce's tired, pale face appeared in the crack. Perhaps Steve was seeing things, but Bruce’s eyes seemed a little red.
"Am I interrupting, Dr. Banner?" He asked with a gentle smile. Bruce shook his head, stepped back and invited Steve in. Steve sat down in the only chair, Bruce flopped back down on the bed and draped the blanket over his shoulders.
"What do you need, Steve?" He asked. His voice was low, flat and hoarse, and he tried to smile, but all he managed was a grimace.
"I just wanted to talk to you about today..." he began lightly. Bruce shook his head and sighed.
"I'm so sorry. I swear I didn't mean to hurt you, and actually, neither did the other guy."
"That's not what I'm talking about," he smiled. "Besides, everything's fine now. Look." He twisted his shoulder to back up his words, relieving Bruce of at least one pang of guilt.
"I'm glad. I guess being a supersoldier isn't so bad after all," he chuckled softly. Steve merely nodded and leaned his elbows on his knees, enlaced his fingers and he stared at them thoughtfully.
"Listen, Dr. Banner... What happened today wasn't anyone's fault. We did what we could, but sometimes we just can't save everyone."
Bruce kept his gaze on the floor, his mouth twisting in an unhappy grimace.
"They were just kids," he finally sputtered, burying his face in his hands.
"Yes," Steve nodded, "I know. And believe me, if we could do anything differently to help them, we would. But you know yourself that it was impossible. The man was scared, he didn't want to negotiate, he didn't want to fight. He wanted to end it. And the fact that he had those kids with him...' Steve closed his eyes, his stomach twisting, and it was only by force of will that he managed to speak calmly and evenly. "It was cruel. But that's what some people do. It's disgusting, and I hate it myself with all my heart, but believe me, there's no point in beating yourself up."
"I know that, Steve," Bruce sputtered, daring to look him in the eye. "I know that, but... I just... I keep seeing them when I close my eyes. They were just little kids..." he repeated.
"You're not a god, Dr. Banner. Neither am I, nor anyone else from our team. We can't make miracles."
He reached out and put a hand on Banner’s shoulder. "Don't forget the lives we've already saved together."
Bruce nodded, took a shaky breath and seemed to calm down at least a little.
"Thank you, Steve. I still feel terrible," he chuckled bitterly, "but I think I'll be okay. After I get some sleep."
"Sure."
Steve understood, got up immediately and headed for the door. "Get a good night's sleep, Dr. Banner. And if you ever need to talk again, you know you can talk to me."
"I'll keep that in mind. Good night."
"Good night."
Steve went out into the hallway, closing the door behind him and putting on the leather jacket he'd been carrying. It was time to go home. To eat and sleep. He walked to the nearest bus stop and waited for his connection.
Pretty soon after waking up from the ice, he realized that he liked travelling by bus or train. Of course, he usually preferred his motorcycle. It was faster when he was really in a hurry to get somewhere, but when he had time, he liked to spend it on the seat of the bus. He did have to take two, sometimes three, connections and then walk the rest of the way, but he didn't mind. It seemed to him that it was good to slow down in these hectic times.
He didn't have to do anything but look around, taking in the other passengers or buildings and the general bustle outside the windows. Sometimes he sketched in the small sketchbook he always carried in his pocket, sometimes he read. And he was pleased to find that he wasn't the only person doing it. There was the occasional individual who preferred a book more than their mobile phone. A week ago, a girl had even sat down next to him with a large notebook in her hand and she began to write in it in neat handwriting. He peeked over her shoulder and read a couple sentences while she watched him sketch.
Other times he listened to the conversations of others, even though he knew in his gut that he shouldn't be doing that. But he couldn't help himself. He was learning so many new things, and at the same time he realized that although the world had changed a lot in seventy years, in some ways it had remained the same. He was just sorry to see how much modern technology had alienated family members from each other. They sat next to each other, but instead of talking and enjoying each other's presence, they kept their eyes glued to their mobile phone screens. And why is that? To keep in touch with people who weren't there? Modern technology has brought the world so close and connected that it has actually separated them.
After waking up, he was given his own mobile phone and all its functions were explained to him. He learned to use it only for messaging and making phone calls, that's all he needed. Sometimes not even that little. It was common for him to leave his mobile phone on his desk for days, dead, and it didn't bother him at all.
"Mommy, look, a plane!" called a little girl next to him. She was standing on the seat facing the window, pointing her finger at the white line in the sky.
"That's amazing, sweetheart," she got a disinterested response. The little girl's mother was looking at something in her own glowing box, not paying any attention to her daughter.
"We flew in one of these when we were at the sea, didn't we?" the child continued.
"Uh-huh."
"And it was so big!"
"Exactly..."
"And the fly ladies were very nice."
"Jessica, sit down and stop shouting," her mother said, looking up for a moment. The little girl obeyed, sitting down and looking frowningly ahead of her, kicking her feet back and forth. Steve smiled. He didn't like the woman's actions at all, but who was he to judge her?
He pulled a sketchbook and pencil from his pocket and placed it on his knee so that little Jessica could see it. She paid no attention to him for a moment, but when he began to draw a teddy bear in quick strokes, she became curious about his actions.
"Wow," she breathed softly, fixing her big brown eyes on him. Steve realized she reminded him of Tony when he saw something that absolutely fascinated him. He chuckled softly at that.
"You draw very nicely," she whispered.
"Thank you," he winked at her, finishing the details in the bear's face, and carefully removed the paper from the sketchbook and handed it to her. She blinked in surprise, turning first to her mother, but she paid them not the slightest attention. Finally, Jessica took the paper, her face lighting up with a genuine, happy smile.
"Thank you. It's beautiful. Mom, look, the man drew me a teddy bear!"
"That's wonderful, sweetheart," the woman repeated, unconcerned.
"Where did you learn that?" The little one continued to ask. The bus pulled over to the side of the road, along with the other cars, and a fire truck sped past them. Steve narrowed his eyes, the truck's horn blaring so loudly that his ears pricked painfully.
"Alone, at home. I've been drawing since I was a kid," he replied to the girl, smiling again. He noticed that her mother was already paying at least minimal attention to them. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and looked him over, not looking happy.
"Do you paint with watercolors too?"
"Just pencil," he winked at her. "What about you, do you like to paint?"
"Very much! In pre-school we paint there every day! And Mommy keeps every picture I do, don’t you?"
She turned again to her mother, who lowered her phone for a moment and nodded. "Of course. They're all in my drawer."
"Come on, we're getting out," the woman suddenly called, grabbing Jessica's hand and walking with her to the door. The girl waved, smiled like sunshine, and thanked him once more for the picture. As the door closed behind them, Steve could hear her mother telling her never to talk to strangers. He hid the sketchbook and looked out the window. In the distance he could see gray smoke rising into the sky.
Steve got off four stops later and headed home. He walked slowly past crowded garbage cans, people constantly in a hurry to get somewhere, and fast food stands. The smell of smoke stung his nose, and the closer he got to home, the stronger the smell became. At the same time, he could hear the hum of a fire hose, people shouting and the distant crackle of fire. He already felt sorry for the poor guy whose apartment had burned down. At the same time, he wondered if he had left the window open. The fire must have been near his apartment and if the smoke and soot got inside, it would smell like a smokehouse.
He came around the corner and was stunned to find that it was his apartment and the one next door that was on fire.