This is not the Endgame

Sam dropped by the bar the following week just to check on Ava. He looked carefully, but any bruise she might have gotten had faded; she was wearing a sheer foundation, so it he'd have been able to tell. She did look exhausted, if you looked past her smile, with red-rimmed eyes and bags under them. She also seemed to be trying to use blusher to put some color in her face; it wasn't notably successful. But then this was something you'd have to look for; her smile was beguiling as usual, drawing attention. It wavered quite substantially when she saw him, but she put down the peanuts and a napkin pleasantly.

"Bud light?"

"Sure," he said, and waited until she'd returned with the beverage. "I don't want to harass you while you're working, I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I appreciate your consideration," she said, placing the glass on the napkin. "I'll be fine." She shot him a look. "And I got asthma medication from my doctor. I'm set."

He accepted the lack of details; it was her right to decline to provide specifics, and she associated him with Bucky. "I won't keep you. But if you need anything, just want to get coffee or anything and talk, please call." He handed her a business card, then paid for his beer. She made change on the spot, tucking the card into her apron pocket without looking it. Sam placed the odds of her tossing it into recycling without even looking at it at about 70%. Well, he'd done what he could. He drank the beer, which he didn't really want, then left.

He reported this to Wanda, who liked Ava too and was worried about both Ava and Bucky, but when he and Wanda went to the bar the next week, there was a new waitress who didn't know anything beyond that a waitress had quit for a better opportunity.

Spring came, beautiful and green. Bucky was backing off his plans a bit, instead of going to summer school, he was going to do an internship for credit at a development company and bump up his therapy. He and Steve talked about this; Steve was doing classes. Bucky also complained that the rent was going up another $400, residents were leaving in droves, but Bucky was feeling mean about it and signed a lease. Inspired by the money the US had paid Steve for being experimented on with probably illegal protocols--and it was decidedly unethical despite Steve being a volunteer--Bucky was suing the Austrians and the Russians. The Austrians promptly had begun negotiating a settlement with his lawyers, but the Russians were digging their heels in. His human rights lawyer, one of the best on the planet, had cracked her knuckles and was creating havoc.

Then in late June, the property manager told him that the owner's plans to scrape the building and put up luxury apartments was off the table, since had been discovered that it had landmark status, granted decades prior; one owner had applied for the status and it had been finalized during a sale of the property; the current owner didn't know of the status and there was no bronze marker for the designation. Steve dropped by at this time, hoping that Bucky might be home. He frowned as he saw a moving company bringing out a few boxes; their truck had well-protected furniture inside, a wardrobe box, and a few more boxes, and this looked to be the last of the goods; the engine of the truck started up and the door was dropped and secured. Bucky had good things to say about all of the tenants he knew, which by this time was all of the remaining ones.

"That's good," Steve remarked. Bucky eyed his friend.

"What's up?" he asked warily.

"I bought the building," Steve said.

"You bought the building."

"Yeah. Something to anchor me here, provide a home. Make it possible for other people to make their homes too. It has so much potential, Buck." Bucky rubbed the back of his head.

"You realize that the repairs are going to be so extensive and expensive that you'll price everybody out," he said.

"No, I'm not interested in turning a profit. This is about doing what's right, which is to provide low-cost housing for people that isn't in a sick building. The mold and mildew and the roaches are bad for you, but at least there's no asbestos. I'm eating the initial costs, the units will be priced to cover taxes and upkeep going forward, pay for the super, because I don't know how to fix most things. There are some tax loopholes I can exploit to accomplish this. " He looked at his friend carefully. "Will that be weird for you? Will you want to stay?"

"Well, yeah," Bucky said. "I like it here. And Sam wouldn't be thrilled to help me move again." Steve grinned.

"I overlooked it for awhile, Buck, but where you are is my home." Bucky rolled his eyes but smiled back.

"Sap."

The day after the sale, Steve invited a member of the landmark designation committee out to visit. The member had blanched, listened to the history of the designation, and recommended that Steve apply to have it delisted since the event that led to its designation was minor and the building was in such bad condition. He applied, and under new streamlined procedures, the delisting was processed in four months. Meanwhile, he rolled back the newest rent increase, although he didn't take new tenants. He hired a company to restore the exterior and drag the building into the 21st century. He examined the list of his tenants in the records the former owner had provided, and his heart sank to see that Ava had accepted a buyout offer for her lease around the time of his purchase. It might have been her moving out, that day he'd been by. Bucky hadn't known she was moving and was quiet when he found out. But he was pleased that Steve was going to be the new landlord; Steve had plans to grandfather the remaining tenants and make the building clean, safe, up-to-date, mildewless, and pest-free. Some walls would be altered to make a few of the apartments bigger, two and three bedrooms, but most would be retained as studios or one bedrooms. Finishes would be of good quality but not luxurious, in order to keep the apartments affordable. Steve had a construction manager, who also ran interference with the city. Apparently, the prior owner had managed to avoid the mandatory inspections somehow, and they were appalled with the condition of the building. But this also got him tax breaks with the city. His status as the former Captain America also helped out; his project was given unofficial priorities, and he made sure he was on hand with each inspection--and there were a ton of them--to shake hands and pose for selfies. He didn't exploit his status to cut corners, but he didn't mind being put at the head of queues to get work done faster. It was better for his tenants, and it was going to be a long process.

Bucky was doing very well in school, as expected; he'd always been a fine student with an agile and inquisitive mind. He enjoyed his classes and his summer internship; he was doing a lot of errand running, but found ways to turn that to his benefit too, by talking to anyone and everyone he came into contact with, discovering the different jobs available in architecture and the building trades, what training and education was needed, how everybody's jobs related and how things got done in general sorts of order. He felt that he was in the correct niche for himself; he enjoyed the challenges that his mentor was tasked with as a liaison between construction, architecture, and the project manager. There was some office work, as with the management of blueprints. He liked that the job could include so many different pieces, and what those would be would be largely dependent on the firm he joined. He also spent some time with surveyors, so he would understand that dimension of building. Steve was always eager to hear about his studies and they traded stories. He was also busy with classes and keeping tabs on the building. The plaster walls were all being taken down, and the spaces behind fumigated and insulated, the wiring harness and plumbing modernized. There were enough empty apartments that residents could shuffle between them so that their apartments could be worked on. The next phase would be to install double-pane windows, refinish the floors, and put up the walls and paint. Then fixtures and tile would be installed, then the public areas restored. A new front door had been installed already, one where you needed a security number to bypass the lock. And there was an intercom system so that residents could buzz in their guests.

In the fall, acting on the advice of his therapist, Steve joined a support group for survivors of the Hiatus, the time between the Snap and the Unsnappening. He heard about everybody's traumas, from individual shocks like seeing a pet dog dissolve into ash, to the monumental ones that everybody shared, like seeing the airplanes fall from the sky, hearing gunshots as the dust bunnies were shot, mistaken as home intruders. He was recognized, but nobody pressed him for his account of what the Avengers did. A lot of wounds, both for those who had suffered from the shortages and privations caused by the Snap and those who had been dust bunnies for five years to find that everyone who had remained had moved on and had the attendant headaches of proving identity, trying to recover assets, fighting with banks and insurance companies and credit scores, were either not healed or were reopened. Mourning the people who had been killed as a result of the Snap or the deprivations that occurred in the months afterward. Another member of this group was Ava, which was a surprise to each of them. They stayed at a wary distance from each other for almost two months. It also took time for the other survivors to decide to trust Steve.

Right before Thanksgiving, Eva rushed into the session right before it was due to start, offering cookies. She looked wonderful; cheeks flushed with cold and a new chic hairstyle; a good eight inches had been cut off and her hair swung freely to just below her shoulders. "You look happy," Marty, the counselor in charge of the group, commented.

"I feel good," she said, sitting down after swinging her coat over the back of her chair. "I just got a new job. I start the Monday after the holiday." The group congratulated her. "It's the first time in a long time where I feel like I'm not just putting one foot in front of the other, just getting by. It's not a hope, either. It's a better position than I really thought I could qualify for these days, and I feel like I have future again. Like the light at the end of the tunnel isn't just a big old freight train barreling toward me." This statement produced a more mixed response; while others were glad for her, some were stuck in the state she said she'd left, and one man cried because he still felt hopeless. So it took some of the shiny off her news, and Steve was sorry to see her happiness fade. Marty took charge and addressed the reactions to the good news.

"Hey, congratulations," Steve told her quietly after group, coming over to hold her coat. "That's great news. I'm sorry that not everybody could be happy for you." She shrugged.

"I understand, it's hard to hear somebody happy when you're feeling like your life is in the crapper," she said, also quietly. "But I've had sixteen unsuccessful interviews in a little over six months, so I feel like I deserve the win."

"I agree," he said. "Would you let me take you out to dinner to celebrate?" She hesitated.

"I usually go to this pub after group," she said, hedging. "I usually need a pick-me-up and they have food and entertainment on Tuesday nights."

"Fine with me," he said, and she nodded. "What kind of entertainment?" he asked after they reached the street.

"The first Tuesday every month is country or bluegrass music," she said. "Second Tuesday is Celtic or folk. Third is jazz or blues, and the fourth, and the fifth if there is one in a month is the owner's choice. It's always music that patrons can sing along with. It's fun."

"I didn't know you sang," he said. "My barbershop quartet days are far behind me."

"I have good pitch, but my voice isn't actually very good. It doesn't matter, though, it's all in good fun, and nobody in the crowd sings very loudly. It all blends."

There was a trio at the pub, piano, standup bass, and drums, this being jazz night. Steve was pleased that he knew a lot of the music--they were called old standards now, but he could remember when they were just the newest popular music. The musicians were playing instrumentals when they got there, found a table, and ordered their dinners. The pub, he saw, wasn't anything special to look at, not particularly cozy, but it was large enough to accommodate the crowd and the musicians on a small dais, the beer was good, and so was the shepherds pie he ordered. Ava ordered a chicken salad, and not much was said while they were eating. Steve's attention was drawn to a screen above the combo's heads which flicked on, then "How High the Moon" displayed, followed by lyrics as the music played. Steve vaguely remembered the song from a movie the year before Pearl Harbor, but didn't know it well. They played it up tempo, and Ava sang along in harmony. He sang too, but the melody. He'd lost the hang of harmony. They stayed a few hours, then called it a night.

The winter was light that year, cold, but without much snow. Steve and Ava got into the habit of going to the pub together when they could manage it; he was still working on classes and had apartment things to deal with, so it wasn't every week. And sometimes she had to work late too. But gradually friendship grew between them, and they started to become friends, but Bucky was never a topic of their conversation. She was the first to learn that Congress had subpoenaed him for testimony regarding his role in the Unsnappening. "I'm not looking forward to it," he said grimly. "I know there will be interest in the Pym particles, but Scott said that Hank destroyed all his research regarding them so that this couldn't happen. Hope was furious, but Hank did it anyway. While I was gone, Congress subpoenaed everybody that they could lay hands on; they've just learned that I'm back."

"Who's Hank?" she asked.

"Hank Pym, an inventor, used to work with SHIELD before he got fed up and quit. He worked with Scott to equip him as Ant Man, Hope is Hank's daughter. But Hank died last year, a stroke. That should be the end of Pym particles since Hank was very secretive about them, very controlling. So there's no accessible way I know of to do time travel again. Banner operated the machine, even though Scott's the electrical engineer and actually had the experience in the quantum realm. Professor Hulk was just pleased to have something to contribute that wasn't smashing." Steve shook his head as he remembered. "Seven PhDs, but he couldn't figure out how to make the time travel work."

"Seven PhDs?" Ava asked, puzzled. "In what?"

"Uh, let's see. Radiophysics, biochemistry... nuclear physics for sure, he got that at Cal Tech. I'm not certain about the other ones."

"Nope," she said firmly, and Steve looked at her in surprise. "You only need one PhD, and that's to show you can conduct research. You wouldn't need closely linked PhDs, and the guy would have to be around retirement age if he'd earned them all anyway. No program is going to keep admitting you for PhDs, that's for sure. He's earned one, the rest are probably honorary."

"Huh," Steve said, thinking that over. "It might explain why Stark wasn't hostile to him. Tony always thought he was the smartest guy around, I can't see him being happy around somebody who outclassed him in measurable achievements." He sighed. "I'm not comfortable with Banner any more. He said he reached a compromise that blended him and the Hulk, but what it looks like to me is that he took Hulk's physique and unique color and used his personality. Hulk had a distinct personality, you know. He wasn't as smart as Banner but far from stupid, and he had a definite sense of humor, protective, and Thor said that on Sakaar he wanted to prove that he was... I guess that he could be respected for his skills and abilities. And Bruce pretty much annihilated that, this whole personality. Now he's 'family friendly' and poses for selfies with the children of film directors, does some stupid-looking dance move." He scowled. "And now I have to prepare with a lawyer, take time away from my other things. I understand my responsibilities to the people and the government, but it's going to be a pain. It's going to ... suck, to dredge up all that again, both for me and for everybody else. I'm not proud of how I kind of gave up, Nat was the one who held what was left of the Avengers together, I just ran a therapy group--badly. And this will be a public hearing." He rubbed his forehead.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"No, but thanks. I wish there was, but I just have to describe what I did and know of that time. Be accountable for myself. And it's going to be bad for some of us. Clint was never officially held to account for what he did during the Hiatus, his executions without due process. Tony's going to be a bone of contention, and it will probably splash over on his widow and kid. I'll respond truthfully to whatever questions I'm asked--my lawyer has gotten a general outline of the questions I'm likely to be asked, but I don't want to go back into all that, and I don't want to make trouble. It's going to be rough."

"If you think of anything..."

"I'll let you know. It'll be at the end of January. I might not be welcome in the group afterward. I'll have to tell them before I go, they deserve to know."

He invited her to Christmas with Wanda, Sam, Bucky, and himself, but she declined. Her sister was at the end of her contract with Doctors Without Borders and was coming by for the holiday before going on to a new position in Milwaukee.

Group before Christmas was small, with everybody busy preparing for the holiday. Ava shrugged. "I put up some decorations, did my shopping. I finally have an oven, so I can make a normal dinner. So amazing." Steve hadn't actually gotten around to considering appliances for the building, so he asked Bucky when they got together again.

"It would be really nice," Bucky said. "Be nice to be able to make a roast, something that will last for a couple of days. Maybe branch out into lasagna, stuff like that. Maybe learn how to make bread and biscuits. I feel like I'm always cooking because it takes so many calories to keep me going." Steve nodded thoughtfully, deciding to make sure that residents, which would include him when his current lease was up, would have full stoves.

Steve's impending Congressional testimony cast a little pall over the superheroes' Christmas. The three dust bunnies had felt awkward at missing out on all the suffering and were concerned about what it meant for him and the other Avengers who hadn't been dusted. Everybody knew that Steve wouldn't sugarcoat anything. At the same time, Steve was looking forward to getting past the Snap/Hiatus/Unsnappening events and looking forward to happiness rather than duty. Both he and Bucky had done well in their classes, and Bucky was on track to graduate early, after the summer session, with his associate's degree.

January turned cold, ice seemed to be everywhere, which irritated both Steve and Bucky since both had spent more than sufficient time in cold storage. The rift between the two friends was essentially healed; Bucky had mostly needed a sincere apology and acknowledgement of the damage Steve had done, a little time to adjust his thinking, and a reason he could understand for his best friend dropping him like a bomb after the Unsnappening. Steve continued to devote himself to cosseting Bucky, bringing him little treats when he came to look at something in the building or for their study sessions, a painting he created in studio to brighten up his friend's bland apartment. Listening and talking. And there were hugs and the friendly and affectionate touches that both men craved after so much isolation in their lives. Bucky finally started to date a little, aimlessly, his sex drive returning to normal as he tapered off the antidepressants. He never made it past one night stands or a couple of dates, not enough to introduce a woman to his best friend, anyway. And Steve was increasingly nervous about his testimony in Congress. There Bucky encouraged him, keeping him level until it was time to go.

He took the train down to Washington. The trip was uneventful, and he picked up his valise on his way to the Hyatt Regency near Capitol Hill; given the circumstances where he didn't want to be here, he thought he might as well suffer in comfort, at least. They had a fitness center and pool there for him to work out his stress, and amenities like dry cleaning. The next morning, he showered and shaved, peering at himself in the steamy mirror, combing his hair in the style he'd worn it during the war reluctantly. He hadn't liked cutting his hair, shaving off his beard, but impressions were everything, and he didn't want anybody to think that longer hair meant that he could be disregarded. He needed to do it anyway, since he was wearing his uniform he felt like he needed to comply with regulations. There were still morons out there who thought that hair length correlated with a man's character somehow. He donned his uniform, also reluctantly, gave everything a once-over to make sure everything was correct--and it was-- before picking up his overcoat and heading downstairs to meet his lawyer before heading over to the Hill.