The Hardest Day
He expected to be busy.
The call was supposed to come when someone or something was trying to take over a major city or continent or the whole planet. Solar system, even. The call would probably go through JARVIS, who wouldn’t want to disturb him or the Avengers while they were kicking ass and taking names. The AI would take a message and relay it to him after the battle. He’d be so jacked up on adrenaline and the after-fight high would keep him from thinking about it too much. He’d take the message, make the necessary calls, and be able to handle it. That’s how it was supposed to happen.
He was poking around in a stew pot on the stove in his new kitchen, wondering if he should have added another bag of baby carrots to the chicken noodle soup that Sam claimed was a Wilson family secret when his phone rings. It sat on the table behind him, and Natasha picked it up before he can turn around. He was used to her answering his phone calls when she crashed at his apartment. He went back to stirring, humming happily.
“Steve.”
He turned around, immediately on guard because he’s never heard Natasha sound like that before. Well, yeah, he has. Just before the bunker-buster slammed into the weapons depot/evil mastermind’s lair at Camp Lehigh. As he leaned to take the phone from her, Sam walked into the kitchen, iPod in hand. Steve remembered, just like that, the conversation he’d had with Peggy’s family a week ago, about how she’d been going downhill since fall. How she probably wouldn’t make it to see Easter. His mouth went dry, and his heart kicked hard behind his sternum. His hand wrapped around the slim phone, and he somehow put it to his ear. “This is Steve Rogers.”
As he listened to the grim-voiced man on the other end, he could physically feel the blood leaving his fingers, his nose, his ears. A cold chill whispered up his spine. He couldn’t open his mouth to respond, but it wasn’t like he’d be able to formulate a reply if he could. There weren’t words for this. He fought to keep his breathing normal, fought to push air past the rock in his chest. He stared at the fridge. He couldn’t look at Sam. He couldn’t look at Natasha. He just. Couldn’t. The voice on the phone (son, nephew, uncle, cousin thrice removed, he doesn’t know, never asked, how could he never have asked) stopped. He thinks they are done talking. His jaw works as he tries to summon enough spit to talk.
“Thank you.”
That’s all he can say.
He’s so damned useless.
The dial tone tells him that the man had hung up. He presses the screen to turn off the call needlessly. It’s all repetition, now. Repetition. Routine. He has to finish the soup. He has to finish the mission. Just like when Bucky. When Bucky. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms loose. His whole body was loose. Numb. He was cold. She was cold, now, too. He shut his eyes, but the images still came. Peggy, lying in bed with transparent orange bottles littering her bedside table. Forgetting that he was sitting right next to her. The coughing. Just like Ma.
He shook his head violently, clearing his mind. He opened his eyes, and Sam was standing in the same spot, iPod still in his hands. Natasha still sat at the table, but she stood up and slid behind him to stir the soup. He turned with her.
“I can do that.”
“No, Steve. You need to sit down.” She stood in the way, and he reached around her and snatched the spoon from her hand. Soup splashed, not hitting either of them. Thank God. He stared at her.
“No. I can do this. Let me.” He blinked and took a deep breath. “Let me do this.”
Natasha looked like she was going to argue, but then Sam was at her shoulder, leading her away from him. He’s talking to her, explaining that he needs space, that they should wait out in the living room for him. He looked at Sam, and Sam looked at him with the look he wore so often around him lately. If you need to talk, I’m here.
He can’t respond this time. He shook his head and went back to the soup. He’s got to finish the soup. He opens the bag of baby carrots and dumps them into the pot, sending more boiling soup splashing. This time, it lands on his arms, and red burns blossom on his pale Irish skin. He stared at the marks, and watched them fade again. He didn’t feel that. He stirs the soup and stares out the window, into the dark clouds of January and the snow floating in the air. The street lights already illuminated the drifts left by the nor’easter that rolled through a day ago.