the soldier

June 19^th, 2016

Avengers Facility, New York, USA.

He could still taste ash in his mouth.

Steve rubbed at his damp hair, and eyed the blurry reflection of himself in his fogged up mirror. He didn’t feel any less filthy, despite his long shower and the layers of skin he must have sloughed off in the name of cleanliness. Maybe it had something to do with the screaming still echoing around in his head too. What a shitshow.

Lagos was weeks behind him now, but Rumlow’s scarred face still swam in the forefront of his mind.

He knew you…

In the mirror, the blurred contours of his face could have been anyone. In the mirror, he imagined Bucky again.

Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky.

It was like watching him fall all over again. It was debilitating, it was distracting, it was plain fucking weakness. Knowing he was out there, hurting, broken – it was like he was missing an organ or something.

And it had cost more than bruises and blood.

It had cost lives.

His fault…

Steve abandoned the bathroom, wandering back out into the light-filled airy space he was supposed to call his own. Tony had given him rooms that overlooked the large quadrangle agents and Avengers alike used to train. Whilst he appreciated the gesture – watching people running laps was familiar, and oftentimes soothing – nothing about the ultra-modern, ultra-white rooms appealed to him.

Part of him knew it was his own fault.

The others had adapted to make it their own; even Natasha had a throw blanket or two, and Bruce had painted his own over, despite the doctor being absent more than he was present at the facility.

Steve couldn’t seem to pin down what he wanted. Not really. He didn’t know what colour he wanted it painted, didn’t know what kind of couch he preferred, or if a poster or a painting would add some interest to a blank wall. Part of him knew that he couldn’t make it a home. Not without- not without Bucky. It felt a little like a betrayal to make a home for himself, whilst Bucky was without one.

I ask you accept and facilitate my partner’s return to the US.

The words of Ghost – the nightmarish spectre that often loomed in his own dreams – seemed to him, echoic of his own private musings. When Natasha spoke about her, it was with a surprising warmth he wasn’t sure she realised she was conveying, and with so much respect that Steve had made an internal distinction between the woman Natasha called family and teacher, and the assassin he was coming to realise he owed.

We will not be found until he can return.

He deserves forgiveness.

Aleksandrina Nikolaevna Romanov was a washed-out photograph in uniform, the power behind Natasha’s right hook, and a person who had suffered, it seemed, often for the sake of suffering. Ghost was a monster that lived in the shadows, a merciless being, the reason Rumlow was in chains, and Bucky was alive.

Steve didn’t know if Ghost deserved forgiveness, but he believed in paying his debts.

Below him, men and women in grey fatigues kept running around and around and around. Some things never change…

At the edge of his hearing, he picked up on a familiar string of words, and turned. Super-enhanced senses tended to do away with privacy, and usually he tried his best to tune out, or pretend he couldn’t hear or see the things he could, but this time he knew ignorance would do more harm than good.

The youngest member of his team had been torturing herself since they had returned.

Wanda’s room wasn’t far from his own – after her initial training period, after all suspicions had been cleared – she’d picked it herself. Despite the uncontrollable stirrings of unease she still managed to inspire in him, he knew it was for the best. Unmoored from her country, her brother, from her very core values, he knew she needed leadership.

And after all, that was his schtick right?

He tried to curb the slight bitterness to his own thoughts unsuccessfully.

Her door was open – maybe a deliberate cry for company, perhaps a subconscious one – and he had full view of her television screen from the hall. Lagos, in flames and ruin, as they had left it, played across the screen.

“What legal authority does an enhanced individual like Wanda Maximoff have to operate in Nigeria-?”

Steve switched it off, and set the abandoned remote down where he had found it. Wanda didn’t react, didn’t unfurl from her hunched position at the edge of her mattress. Devoid of her strange energy, out of the red-uniform she donned, sleeves drawn up over her palms, Wanda looked her age.

“It’s my fault.” Her voice was hoarse; Steve knew she had been crying herself to sleep.

She was just a kid. “That’s not true.” At his easy response, she curled into herself a little more.

“Turn the TV back on.” She finally turned to look at him. She looked wan and pale. He recognised the bone-deep guilt on her features. He’d seen it on himself before. “They’re being very specific.” At this, some of her usual bite came back into her voice, accent thickening as it was want to do when her control was fraying.

“I should have clocked that bomb vest long before you had to deal with it.” It was true, whether she could accept it or not. His own failures were not hers, and yet she was baring the crux of it. He eased off the doorframe and sat beside her. The faint flurries of warning sprang up at the proximity to her, but he knew to acknowledge it would only hurt her more. “Rumlow said ‘Bucky’, and all of a sudden I was a sixteen-year-old kid again in Brooklyn.” Your Bucky. “And people died. It’s on me.”

Wanda stared at him, eyes piercing, and even though she said she wouldn’t invade their minds again, he couldn’t help but get the sensation she was there with him. Finally, she looked away again. “it’s on both of us.” It wasn’t much of a concession, but it was better than it was.

“This job…” He paused, unsure how best to frame his thoughts. Perhaps it would be better if she was reading his thoughts. Maybe someone else could make better sense of them. “We try to save as many people as we can. Sometimes that doesn’t mean everybody. But if we can’t find a way to live with that, then next time…” He could hear Bucky screaming over the noise of the train, could feel frost on his face- “maybe nobody gets saved.”

How close had he been to giving up back then? Too close. He could still remember the errant thoughts that had crossed his mind just after Bucky slipped from his grip. He could still remember the way he had swayed for a moment, on the edge, uncertain as to whether or not he should keep holding on, or let himself fall too…

Sudden movement made him turn, and it was a mark of how tired he was that Wanda reacted first. “Vis! We talked about this…” her tone was gently reproachful, but it was enough to make the android that had just walked through the wall smile sheepishly.

Vision turned to gesture at the door. “Yes, but the door was open, so I assumed that…” He cut himself off, dropping his hand awkwardly. It was a human gesture, and beside him Wanda shook her head, disbelieving. There was a faint upturn to her lips though, the closest she’d come to smiling in days. “Captain Rogers wished to know when Mr. Stark was arriving.”

Ah. Right.

“Thank you. We’ll be right down.” Another wave of exhaustion hit him, and he wondered if he could rescind the notion, wondered if it’d be too rude to just crawl back to his own room and go to sleep. For someone who slept for seventy-years, he thought he’d be better rested.

“I’ll…use the door.” Vision said, strolling out of the room with a gait just too smooth to be natural. He paused, and turned back to them. “Oh, and apparently, he’s brought a guest.”

“We know who it is?” Steve asked, unable to keep the note of wariness out of his voice. Knowing Tony, it could have been another scientist, a boatload of strippers, or-

“The Secretary of State.”

Great.

Thaddeus Ross wasn’t an outwardly imposing man. Physically, at least, he looked to be another old white man in charge, in a suit that was made from tax-payer’s dollars, in front of a room of people that would do his bidding. Except Ross wasn’t standing in the Oval Office, or the Senate calling the shots – he was facing down the Avengers nonchalantly. It was this, Steve thought, that made him different.

“Five years ago, I had a heart attack…” Ross raised his arms, imitating the swing of a golf-club. “and dropped right in the middle of my back-swing. Turned out it was the best round of my life, because after thirteen-hours of surgery and a triple bypass, I found something forty-years in the Army never taught me.” He paused. Steve watched Rhodes shift expectantly, and fought the urge to do the same. Military men all had the same cadence, and Steve couldn’t help but think of Colonel Phillips. Ross didn’t make them wait for the punchline; “Perspective.”

As of yet, Steve wasn’t sure where this was going. Tony hadn’t given much of an indication either; he had silent ceded the floor to Ross, and was brooding in the corner behind him. Steve could feel his gaze on him occasionally, the back of his neck prickling. Whatever it was, it was bad. Tony never liked staying silent for too long.

“The world owes the Avengers an unpayable debt. You have fought for us, protected us, risked your lives. But while a great many people see you as heroes, there are some who would prefer the word vigilantes.” Ross’s eyes lingered for a moment on Wanda as he spoke. Steve felt the distinct prickling of unease. This was not a social call.

Beside him, Natasha shifted. “And what word would you use, Mr. Secretary?” Her tone was pleasant enough, and the slight smile on her full-lips screamed polite interest, but Steve knew her. And he knew she was growing just as uncomfortable as him.

Ross didn’t seem to buy her façade; his face hardened, and his light tone vanished. “How about ‘dangerous?’” Natasha didn’t drop her eyes, and neither did Ross. “What else would you call a U.S. based group of enhanced individuals who routinely ignore sovereign borders, and inflict their will wherever they choose,” What? Steve looked around, hoping to find someone else irritated about the bullshit Ross was spewing, “and who, frankly, seem unconcerned about what they leave behind.”

Unconcerned-

Steve looked at Wanda. She as shrinking in on herself again, black-painted nails tightening around her own arms, locking herself in and down. At the head of the table, Ross stepped aside, and the screen came to life behind him. The world map with yellow dots scattered around took him a moment to comprehend, and in that time, footage had already begun to play.

“New York.”

Chitauri rained from the sky in some blasphemous parody of the plague, buildings crumbled, smoke rose. The streets weren’t safe. The skies weren’t safe. No one was safe. There was blood spreading and thickening in his uniform – he couldn’t feel the pain of whatever wound he had gained, he was running on adrenaline and terror. He would feel it soon. His breath came hard, but the Chitauri came down harder still-

“Washington D.C.”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” That pain was different. That pain was deep and raw and intangible. Cold hands around his throat, a pale face twisting in a snarl. Gunshots and fire, and a deep, deep sense of knowing. He would die here. They would all die here; trapped in a falling Helicarrier. “Help him.” The croak of a dying woman. “He knows you.”

“Sokovia.”

The air was thin enough to make him light-headed. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen drawing tears to his eyes as he beheld the endless expanse of sky around them. He was tired in a bone-deep way, his whole body felt like one raw bruise. It was better and it was worse; because he wasn’t alone this time. Natasha at his side trying to hide the way her breathing was shallow, bleeding visibly but still upright, a sad smile curling her lips; “There's worse ways to go. Where else am I gonna get a view like this?”

“Lagos.”

“He remembered you. He got all weepy about it 'til they put his brain back in a blender. He wanted you to know something. He said to me, ‘Please tell Rogers... When you gotta go, you gotta go.’”

Steve felt his body tense and jump with the need to hit something. Hard. “Okay.” He bit out, watching Wanda again. Her distress was palpable, and it was a wonder she wasn’t releasing any energy as she sat and stared in mute horror at the faces of the dead on the screen. “That’s enough.” There was nothing diplomatic about his tone. Wanda ducked her head and turned away from the screen, looking very hard at the wood of the table.

Ross nodded to his lackey, who switched off the footage. “For the past four years you’ve operated with unlimited power and no supervision.” Steve forced himself to look back at the man speaking. This was it. Steve could feel the other shoe drop. “That’s an arrangement the governments of the world can no longer tolerate. But I think we have a solution.” The lackey handed him a thick document. Ross hefted it in his hands for a moment, looking considering. Then he moved deliberately towards Wanda, and sat it in front of her. “The Sokovia Accords.”

Wanda’s stare was still blank, seemingly uncomprehending as she picked up the accord. Rhodey seemed to notice it too, and he extended his hand. Wanda slid it towards him and recoiled back into her seat.

“Approved by one-hundred-and-seventeen countries, it states that the Avengers shall no longer be a private organization.” For the first time, Natasha moved in her seat, shifting to clasp her hands in front of her on the table. It served to let her loose hair swing slightly in front of her, shielding her expression somewhat. Her brow had creased, but her eyes had gone shuttered. “Instead, they’ll operate under the supervision of a United Nations panel, only when and if that panel deems it necessary.” Ross’ pacing brought him closer and Steve felt that same urge again.

“The Avengers were formed to make the world a safer place. I feel we’ve done that.” Steve looked at Natasha again. For a moment her eyes darted to him, and then away again and her lips pursed. He didn’t know what she was trying to tell him.

Ross was unimpressed and unswayed. “Tell me, Captain, do you know where Thor and Banner are right now?” The way he said Captain felt like an insult. Steve didn’t have an answer, but he looked up to meet Ross’ eyes anyway. “If I misplaced a couple of 30 megaton nukes, you can bet there’d be consequences.” The low simmering ball of anger in his gut expanded. Consequences. Like he was a child. Nukes. Like Bruce and Thor weren’t people. Opposite him, Sam had started to frown.

“Compromise. Reassurance. That’s how the world works. Believe me,” Ross made another slow revolution of the room, settling in front of them all again, “this is the middle ground.”

“So, there are contingencies.” Rhodey tapped the Accords lightly as he spoke.

Ross nodded, “Three days from now, the UN meets in Vienna to ratify the Accords.” Steve twisted in his seat, and looked at Tony. He caught the flicker of the other man’s eyes, the quick movement down to the piece of tech in his grip telling Steve he’d been looking at him too. After a beat, with the feeling of a tired sigh, Tony met his gaze. “Talk it over.”

He’d made up his mind.

Steve felt his jaw click as he clenched it tight and turned away. Ross and his lackey packed up quickly. “And if we come to a decision you don’t like?” Natasha asked, back to that unfailingly polite half-smile.

Ross paused. “Then you retire.”

Natasha’s smile bloomed as Ross kept watching her, and Steve knew just how unsettling it could be. He was unsurprised to watch Ross turn away first. The second he was gone, Natasha dropped her smile, and nodded once to herself. Just like Tony, Steve got the feeling she’d also come to a decision. Difference was, he wasn’t sure what it was.

Natasha watched Steve stand and leave the room. It hadn’t been a good time to exit, what with tensions high and arguments thrown down. Sam and Rhodey still stood in an uneasy mirror image behind the armchair, both men with arms crossed and brows furrowed – albeit Sam with more concern on his expressive face as he watched Steve go too. Wanda was still cowering, just a little, in the corner of the couch, Vision occupying the other end, still watching Wanda with a warm, quiet concern.

“Agendas change.”

That was what Steve had said.

“Our very strength invites challenge. Challenge incites conflict. And conflict breeds catastrophe.”

That was what Vision offered.

“If we can't accept limitations, we're boundaryless, we're no better than the bad guys.”

That was Tony’s guilty conscience.

Natasha knew a lot about guilt. She also knew a lot about compartmentalization. She knew about conflict and catastrophe and agendas, and she knew that to say she agreed with them all would be foolish. Because she did, and she didn’t.

She had to sign. She had to sign, or… retire. Because Natasha also knew what retirement meant when it was said like that; like a threat. So, she had to sign, because if she was retired then what she wanted, her own agenda might slip through her fingers. As she had told Steve, if they had one hand on the wheel, they could still steer. Natasha wanted resources. She wanted eyes and ears. She wanted Steve to understand that to sign was to keep their heads above water.

Most of all, she wanted her. Aleksandrina.

Once – when she had been fourteen, and in the field for the first time – her mark had gotten away. It hadn’t been any fault of her own, her cover had stayed intact, but he had just left, distracted by trinkets and easier, looser, fuller women. Natasha had tracked him down, slowly and painstakingly. She had forced herself through snow and night to get him back, and when she’d returned to the Academy, she’d nearly lost the fingers of her left hand to frostbite.

The Matron had been torn between pride and rage, but Aleksandrina had been amused. Natasha could still picture the faint light in the woman’s eyes, the slight curl to her mouth as she listened to Natasha’s debrief. She could still hear her too, the words that had been praise as she was escorted to her room; Вы как собака с костью. You are like a dog with a bone.

Like a dog with a bone.

Defiant stubbornness was an apt descriptor for the way she fixated on targets. It was the same energy that had brought her to brawl with the other boys in her village, too small to do any damage, too young to remember much but the feeling of bruises and broken bones. It was the same force that made her the best: the best dancer, the best killer, the best Widow.

She knew what she had to do.