Of Heroes and Myths

It was a long night, between the cleanup and the endless questions. Rhodes helped him oversee the mystics and gunmen loaded up into police vans, a lot of which belonged to hotel security. He and Rhodes shared a look. This was probably far from over.

Rushman disappeared again, although part oh him thought he’d hallucinated her return altogether. The woman in the silver dress (Agent 13 with SHIELD special forces, he learned) had gone with Fury to the hospital.

He found Pepper Potts over by Happy, who was being treated by some EMTs. At first glance, she seemed all right but shaken. He went to spare a word with her.

“Steve,” she said, her voice too grateful for him to bear as she went to give him a hug. “Thank you so much, you saved my life. Our — our lives.”

“Luckily I was in the right place at the right time.” He nodded to Happy. “Are you both all right?”

He gave Steve a thumbs-up while he winced as the healer knit his skin back together.

“We’ll be fine,” Pepper said. “Are you all right? Rhodey said you might have gotten — oh my God you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “It’s just a small scratch, it’s already stopped bleeding.” He needed to get away from her honest eyes and warm hands on his arm. It didn’t help that his chest still felt like it had been caved in, even though there was nothing to show for it. Like everything, he just had to wait for it to pass. He took a deep breath. “Listen—”

“Have you talked to Tony?” she cut in anxiously. “I’m sorry, I just…” She breathed in deep and let it out slowly. “It has been a very long night and I’m a little — overwhelmed. Of course, I should be used to this by now by how often Tony gets up to this sort of thing but I’m not and I can’t get ahold of Tony and I’m afraid I’m not very sure what I should do next, and that is not something I am used to feeling, I assure you.”

Steve took a moment to dissect the paragraph, though he grasped for anything comforting to say. “Is Tony busy with the suit?”

“JARVIS says he’s in the Tower which means he is intentionally ignoring my calls,” she said, tapping her fingers on her phone with more force than necessary. “I have left him six voicemails! Why won’t he call me back?!” she cried, turning helplessly to Happy.

“Has this been going on for a while?” Steve asked. “Rhodes said that he was worried about Tony shutting himself away.”

“Rhodey said that?” She thought for a moment. “I don’t know — I-I guess it started a few weeks ago? Oh God you must think that I’m overreacting, that I’m just some clingy girlfriend, but Tony wouldn’t ignore me like this, especially if I were in any danger, he just wouldn’t.”

Steve put a hand on her shoulder and assured her, “I don’t think you’re overreacting. It has been a long night, though. Happy, you okay with getting her out of here?”

“Yeah, I’ll definitely be feelin’ this in the morning, but no concussion, just a lot of blood. Head wounds’ll do that to you.”

“Okay.” Steve pursed his lips. Stark, what the hell are you doing, he thought as he watched Pepper visibly pulled herself together.

“It was good seeing you, though, Steve. I’m just sorry that it wasn’t in better circumstances,” she said.

“Hey, listen, when I talked to Rhodes earlier,” he said, not sure where he was going with this, “he asked me to stop by the Tower and check on Tony. I promised him I would.”

Well, ‘promise’ might have been a strong word, but Steve couldn’t regret it when Pepper looked so hopeful.

“You will?”

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “I have plans to go to New York soon—” (no he didn’t) “—so I’ll stop by and check up on him—” (he didn’t actually want to do that) “—and maybe knock some sense into him—“ (he might have wanted to that last part a little bit) “—he shouldn’t be worrying you like this.”

She gave him a watery smile and that alone was worth dealing with Stark. “I appreciate it, I really do.”

He said his goodbyes, leaving her in Happy’s hands and returned to his post. The pre-dawn light filled the sky before everything was finished and he could escape to the hospital, only to find Fury’s cooling corpse on a gurney, Agent 13 by his side.

He was too late. And his death was probably his fault.

Somewhere Steve was aware that he should feel worse, that he should be doing something other than quietly accepting Fury’s death, but he was too goddamn exhausted. The serum let him run on very little sleep, but this was into his bones. He was too weary, too heavy, to feel anything besides abject numbness.

His boss was dead and all Steve could focus on was that part of him was envious of Fury.

The rest of Steve realized that this, actually, was pretty fucked up, and tried to refocus his energies. This only led him back to other corpses he’s seen over the years, which did the opposite of what he intended. He purposefully breathed in and out slowly, walking into the room.

With the bloodied corpse.

He shook himself mentally. There was nothing he could do, nor not much he could have done differently. He hadn’t known who the real target was, there was no way to really prepare for what had happened. If only he had made his way to Fury’s side sooner. If only he hadn’t let his guard down. If only he had stretched out his hand a little farther, all this new body yet he still couldn’t reach Bucky when he needed Steve most, if only he hadn’t let Bucky down, let Bucky fall to his death, if only he had let go too, if only he had joined him down in the icy river valley—

He had to get out of there.

Steve walked out of the room, out of the hospital without any real thought to where he was going. The thick trees hid most of the sunrise, but Steve wasn’t paying any real attention to it anyway, running over the past night event’s obsessively, thinking of every little thing he could have done differently to have prevented this. He realized he wasn’t being very inconspicuous, still in his dirty suit with a bloodied rip in his shirt and his shield still on his back, but there was hardly a soul out at this time. In the quiet it was hard to believe any of this had happened.

The pain in his chest echoed through his body and he couldn’t help but check again that he hadn’t sustained any wounds. There was nothing there, of course nothing was there, nothing was ever there, no matter how heartbreakingly real it felt. What were real were Fury’s death and the traitors within the hotel security and the fact that everything in this night had been meticulously planned.

He turned on his heel. He couldn’t run away anymore.

He made his way back to the hospital, noticing a major increase in unmarked SUVs and SHIELD personnel. Steve walked past them, trying to hide his unease. Fury’s last words played back to him, and he wondered how much of it was true, and how deep of shit they were truly in. He needed to talk to Rhodes again. And find Rushman.

“Captain Rogers!”

He turned, watching as Brock Rumlow and the rest of the STRIKE team came up to him. Rumlow saluted.

“Secretary Pierce is here, Cap. Says he wants a word.”

“Okay,” he said, because what else was he supposed to say? He didn’t actually want to return to the hospital, to sit by Fury’s corpse.

Then again, Pierce was one of the last people to see Fury alive, and they had been in a fight. He glanced between the STRIKE team, a team he had once led and trusted, who was now bracketing his sides and back.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. And yet here he was, walking into the wolf’s den.

“Captain Rogers,” Pierce said once Steve passed through the seven layers of security and into a private office in the hospital. He grasped Steve’s hand. “I cannot begin to express my gratitude at your bravery tonight.”

Steve bit back mentioning that Rhodes or the other private security involved in the fight were just as brave, if not more so. It wasn’t really the time or place to discuss.

“Of course, sir,” he said instead.

“I rushed here as fast as I could. Poor Nick.” Pierce closed his eyes, placing a hand on his chest. “I almost can’t believe it. I thought Nick would be able to survive anything. But I guess three bullets to this chest will take out just about anybody.”

He paused and glanced at Steve, like he was considering if three bullets would take even Captain America out. Steve hoped never to test that.

“He saved my life, you know,” he continued. “Just before. He pushed me out of the way of the bullets, and for that, I will be forever grateful.”

Regardless of the fact that the last action done by Fury was getting in a fight with Pierce, it would have been impossible to see those bullets coming without super speed the likes of Quicksilver, let alone react quick enough to push someone else out of the way. Steve thought better of correcting him. “It was — noble of him,” he forced out. Pierce didn’t acknowledge the sentiment.

“Captain, I saw him speaking with you, before I was pulled out of there. I need to know what he said. It could be important in catching whoever killed him.”

“I… I don’t know if it’ll help,” Steve said, trying to buy a little time to figure out how he was going to get out of this. He was getting too nervous. He took a deep breath. “All he said was ‘don’t trust anyone.’ ”

Pierce’s eyes turned cold and calculating. “I wonder if that included himself.”

“I’m not sure. I’m sorry. Those were his last words.”

“Then maybe you could help me with his last action. I saw him give you my family heirloom. What happened to it?”

That threw Steve for a moment — he’d nearly forgotten about it. “I don’t know. I remember seeing it, but then it was gone. It must have gotten lost in the chaos.”

That was… not quite a lie. He’d been too distracted by the crushing pain in his chest to worry about what happened to that rusty pin. He met Pierce’s eye, and for a moment he saw something ugly flash behind them before he schooled himself.

“Captain, this attack endangered some very important people and killed my friend — at my benefit. Whoever is behind this made this incredibly personal to me. I don’t care who gets in my way, I will find out who did this. And I mean anyone.”

As far as threats go, it wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Understood,” Steve said. There was a breathe of silence while they sized each other up. “Excuse me.”

Steve walked out of the room and out of the hospital, meaning to get on his motorcycle and get out of the immediate area. He meant to, at least, until he saw Natalie Rushman leaning against an expensive black sports car.

Anger ripped through him and he stalked up to her, preparing to rip her a new one. He swallowed down that impulse at once, since he still remained hyperaware of the eyes on him by the numerous SHIELD agents still prowling around the grounds. Several of them were high-class mages, one of which had a chimera alongside them. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if there were elementals prowling around too, which to the outsider looking in, it might seem reasonable. After all, there was just a huge attack on the Secretary at his own banquet. Heightened security wouldn’t be given a second thought.

However to Steve, who had lived far too long in battle, it looked to like he was gearing for war. Yelling at someone who had even a modicum of an idea about what was going on wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

So he cooled his anger and walked up to Rushman like a normal person going about his normal day. Normally.

“I don’t believe I’m welcome here, anymore,” he said in way of greeting and scanned the area for snipers. “How about I take you up on your offer and we get to know each other better?”

She popped her gum. No longer was she in the flashy dress of the evening, but in jeans and a warm jacket. Her hair was down just past her shoulders, mostly hidden underneath her hood. He could just make out the shape of her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

“Why, Rogers,” she said, giving him a small smirk, “I thought you’d never ask.”

She tossed keys at him. “You can drive.” Steve opened the driver’s side door, letting her climb through first and into the passenger seat.

Steve, who had done the same thing for Bucky so often during the war, didn’t bat an eyelash. You see, it’s one thing to mask your presence, but if you started moving objects around, people were going to realize that something, or someone, was making it move. And that got people killed.

Getting in a car with a stranger he wouldn’t even trust with a coffee order, let alone to help escape SHIELD, was an absolutely terrible idea. Sure, he’d be driving, but to where? New York?

Then again, what choice did he really have? Rushman might not have helped with fending off the attack itself, but she had warned him that it was coming, for the amount of good it did. She had slipped through security to grab him his shield. Getting into a small car to an unknown destination sure made more sense than staying here, anyway.

So he got into the car. After adjusting the seat so his knees didn’t hit the steering wheel, he took off.

“Where are we going?” he ask. He’d been driving for about ten minutes with no direction in mind.

“Figuring that out’s the fun part, don’t you know?” she said. She opened the glove department and pulled out a map and some runes.

She tossed them once, frowned, then tossed them again. “They’re telling us to stay in DC.”

“And you trust them?”

“They haven’t steered me wrong before,” she answered cautiously.

“And which way would that be?”

Steve couldn’t read runes, never could. That had been Monty’s job, back during the war. Morita had been their radio tech and field medic and Frenchie, aka Dernier, had been a very enthusiastic pyrokinetic. Jones had learned some Hoodoo from his grandma, and damn hadn’t that saved their lives a few times. Just a little bit of extra luck here, a well placed curse there, with potions made with anything and everyone he could find. Bucky, though, had had a more subtle affinity with magic. He could do small things, like fix a gun so it never jammed or run out of bullets. He could shroud himself in shadows and silence his footsteps, melting past people who never noticed his presence, which was unbelievably useful in battle.

Dum Dum couldn’t do a lick of magic, although neither could Steve, despite the magic transformation that had been done to him. Dum Dum’s saving grace was his six years in the military and was full of battle experience, while Steve was still fresh off the entertainment circuit. Bucky used to say it was a damn good thing Steve was so pretty, otherwise they’d have kicked him off the team.

“Right now, in the direction of a safe place,” Rushman said, bringing him back to the present. “Turn left up here.”

“Are you going to tell me exactly where we’re going?”

“Only the runes know that, Rogers. Although I may ask them in exchange for information about the shooter.”

Steve cut her a sidelong glance, but acquiesced.

“He was strong. Fast. He had affinity over guns, so he never ran out of bullets. Had a metal arm.”

She whipped her head to look at him.

“And at the end of the fight, he disappeared.”

“A metal arm,” Rushman repeated softly. Steve glanced at her again, at the sudden realization on her face.

Maybe it said something about the day (days?) Steve was having, but nothing could go right. No sooner had he opened his mouth to question her before his car spun out, one of his back tires blown.

Steve didn’t think, just slammed on the gas and cut around the car ahead. That had definitely not been an accident and he did not want to meet whoever shot at them.

“Did you notice anyone following us?” he asked, swerving to dodge a car turning right. Rushman’s runes had disappeared and two guns were now in her hands, head swiveling around.

“No,” she answered, and that was what he was afraid of.

His other back tire blew, the steering wheel jerking and jumping in his iron grip, but Steve didn’t slow down, not until a roadblock appeared out of nowhere in front of him through fog. He slammed on the brakes, the back end of the car swerving to the left as he pulled right as he narrowly missed the barrier.

A dozen SHIELD agents, along with his STRIKE team, all armed to the teeth, quickly circled the vehicle. A helicopter roared overhead. Even if they managed to escape the barricade, there was no way they’d outrun that helicopter.

“Captain Rogers! Stand down and exit the vehicle slowly!” shouted Rumlow, automatic rifle held high.

Rumlow didn’t have magic either, but he made up for it in pure ruthlessness.

“Don’t look at me,” Rushman said. “Don’t acknowledge my presence. They don’t know I’m here.”

He could sense it now, the magic gathered to hide herself. Completely disappearing was trickier than sliding beyond someone’s consciousness, and acknowledging that something was there would dispel the magic. Either she might help him, or she was going to hide out until they had taken him away. The latter seemed way more likely, but he had to take a chance if they were going to get out of this.

“What should I do,” he murmured, barely moving his lips.

“CAPTAIN ROGERS!”

“How many of them can you take at once?”

“Get out of the car with your hands up!”

“Comfortably about six or seven. I don’t know what they can do yet.”

“That’ll have to do. Get out. I’ll get out after you and take out the ones on the outside.”

“What’s the signal?”

“Captain Rogers!” Rumlow called again, his finger moving to the trigger.

“They’ll drop. Now get out before he shoots us.”

Steve did as she said, getting out of the car slowly with his hands up. He stepped away from the door, but left it wide open. He could see one of the deflated tires now. It had been punctured by an arrow.

“Rumlow,” Steve greeted. He felt the slightest touch of Rushman’s finger against his neck, letting him know that she was out of the car. He needed to buy time for her. “And here I thought we were friends.”

He scoffed. “Oh please, Cap, we both knew we were never really friends. Especially not since your actions lead to the death of the Director.”

“Is that what they told you?”

The agent on his nine o’clock had a large bag with her, which Steve suspected was filled with water. Having an elemental on their side made Steve and Rushman’s escape that much harder.

“Doesn’t matter what I believe. All I know is that you’re gonna get what you deserve. Now, come quietly Captain, or you’ll get a bullet in your chest just like Fury.”

“On what grounds am I being arrested? Part of my rights to know why.”

“It’s also part of your rights to shut up!” Rumlow snapped as he held up a hand, making sure his teammates stayed in position while he stalked up to Steve, rifle still held high. “Get on your knees!”

Where was Rushman now? he thought, glancing back and forth between those surrounding him. The suspected elemental had her hand over the opening tip of her bag by her waist, ready to strike.

An arrow whizzed overhead, all eyes following it as Rushman caught it right before it hit her in the chest. It dispelled the magic hiding her presence, as she stood right next to one of the guards, ready to strike.

“Hawkeye?!” she said in disbelief just before the arrow exploded into a net and trapped her.

“I don’t think so, Natasha,” a man in purple said as he jumped down from the helicopter over head via a grappling hook.

The net wrapped close around her body, making her lose her balance. Two of the guards lifted up as she struggled. “What are you doing?! They are the ones who killed Fury, stop this!”

“I follow orders,” Hawkeye said.

Steve spurred into action. He took advantage of the momentary diversion to dip around Rumlow’s rifle and disarm him. He spun out of the way to dodge the elemental’s water whip and sank low to take out another gunman’s knees with a well-aimed kick.

Rushman thrashed in her captive’s grip, striking one in the face with a hidden knife in her boot. Blood spurted out as the gunman dropped her legs.

“Well, I order you to cut your crap and take down these double agents!” she said, crouching down before leaping back and head-butting the other gunman so hard he bit his tongue and stumbled away, blood pouring out his mouth.

“I follow orders,” he said again notching an arrow, “but not your orders.”

Steve’s shield was in the car still, doing a load of good for him as bullets sliced the air inches from his flesh. He kept his body in constant motion, spinning and diving and zigzagging around the men to keep his chances of being hit somewhere fatal as low as possible.

Rushman — Natasha? — even in ropes made capturing her difficult. She wiggled her wrists around so she could aim electric darts into two of the gunmen’s unprotected necks. A knife appeared in one hand, which she used along with the one in her boot to start cutting the net in two places, but it wasn’t going to be enough. They were still outnumbered 17 to 2, one of which was in a net, against twelve expertly trained gunman, three mages, one elemental, and one bowman.

“Clint Barton,” she snapped, rolling behind the car for cover, “stop helping these traitors or I’m gonna make you regret it.”

Steve was being as big of a distraction as he could to give Rushman enough time to get free, but he had his hands full trying to dodge magical blasts and that water whip. Keeping in the center of them made them more cautious, lest they take one of their own down with friendly fire, but he knew the odds. Their chance of this going well was low before Rushman was netted, but now it was nearly impossible.

Well, he’d worked with less before. He wasn’t going to back down now.

He knew the STRIKE team well enough to know how to exploit their weaknesses, but the others were wildcards, especially with that bowman, who Rushman definitely knew personally.

Steve could almost see a win for them, before the elemental wrapped Rushman up in the water, leaving only her face free.

“Freeze, Cap! Or she drowns where she stands!” Rumlow shouted. Steve hesitated too long for the elemental, and the water crept towards her mouth and nose.

Steve dropped his fighting stance slowly and put his hands up. Trust her or not, he was not going to be the reason she drowned to death.

“Hawkeye — I know you. Stop helping them!”

Rumlow ran over to Steve from behind, shouting at him to get on his knees, kicking the back of his knee when he didn’t go down fast enough. Steve could see little movements of Rushman, who was still furiously slicing through the netting.

“I have my orders,” Hawkeye said, notching another arrow and aiming it straight at Steve’s head. “My orders are to kill Captain America and the Black Widow at all costs.”

Steve tried to hide his surprise. Black Widow?

“You idiot!” she seethed. “We’re trying to find out who killed Fury! You know this isn’t right, why are you listening to them?!”

“Shut her up,” Rumlow said and nudged the end of his rifle against Steve’s head. “Are you gonna do it or you gonna let me have the honors?”

Steve watched as the water closed over Rushman/Black Widow’s nose and mouth. Steve new he had mere seconds to think of a contingency plan, or they were both going to end up dead in the middle of the road.

Whoever Hawkeye was, he was important to Rushman. Rushman knew him, claimed he wasn’t acting like he should. His brain couldn’t help but connect this to Tony and Pepper — what was going on? Could he trust Rushman’s reaction? It was the most emotional he’d seen, the most raw. It was possible that Hawkeye was under some magical enchantment if what she said were true.

“It’s my orders to kill Captain America. You’re on standby for containment,” Hawkeye said as he pulled back the arrow. “One shot and it’s all over. You won’t even feel a thing.”

He didn’t know Hawkeye, but he was out of time and out of ideas. His first instinct was to order Hawkeye around, of course Steve’s opinion was right and Hawkeye should just listen, but he didn’t think it was going to work that way. So Steve shoved that impulse down and, like always, took a huge risk.

“But you will,” Steve blurted. “I think she’s right, Hawkeye. This isn’t you. So why are you doing this?”

“I follow orders.”

“Quit listening to him!” Rumlow said. “Shoot him and be done with it!”

“You have your orders,” Steve said, forcing himself to look Hawkeye in the eye instead of at the tip of the arrow. “But you always have the choice in whether or not to follow them.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!”

“I have my orders, Cap.”

“Shoot him! Or I swear to God, it will not be pretty.”

“You always have a choice, Hawkeye. You can kill me now. Or,” Steve paused, not risking it to glance over at Rushman. If Hawkeye was going to let loose that arrow, he was going to look Steve in the eye while doing it. “Or, you can join us. To find out who really killed Fury. You know this is wrong, Hawkeye, I know you do. And I know that you’ll do the right thing. I believe in you.”

Rumlow knocked Steve in the head hard with his gun. “You better fucking shoot him now, or—”

“It’s not the easy choice!” Steve cut in again and took another blow to the head for his impertinence. “But it’s yours to make, and only yours.”

Rumlow stepped on Steve’s head, forcing him to bow. “That’s the last straw, Cap.”

Steve looked up as much as he could over at Rushman, who was staring at him like he was crazy. She’d spent just over two minutes in there so far, and he knew most people could hold their breath for up to three minutes before passing out, but if this didn’t work, that wouldn’t matter. There were still ten of their enemies who hadn’t been taken out, including the elemental and Hawkeye.

“Fight,” Rushman mouthed at him. The net had been cut. Steve just needed to take out the elemental and free her, and they might just have a chance.

“You have your orders,” Rumlow said, “so fucking follow them already!”

“I do have my orders,” Hawkeye agreed, “but they’re shit orders.”

He loosed the arrow and pierced Rumlow in the shoulder. No sooner than he had done so than something struck him hard in the foot, sweeping him off his feet and landing him hard on the pavement.

Steve sprung up and launched himself over the car and at the elemental, who had not expected this turn of events, or expected 220 pounds of super-soldier to barrel straight at her. Steve took advantage of having her attention divided and soon the water coffin spilled out onto the pavement as he forced her to focus on him. Rushman didn’t miss a beat, soaked to the bone but landing calmly on her feet before springing into action.

Hawkeye, still on the ground but not down for the count, loosed arrow after arrow into the remaining gunmen. Rushman covered him where he couldn’t, which left Steve alone to fight off this angry elemental.

Or until the helicopter started spilling rounds down on the scene, regardless of the friendly fire that might have occurred.

“I got it!” Hawkeye yelled. Steve wondered for a split second how he expected an arrow to take down a helicopter before three hit their mark and exploded, blowing off the tail and the blades. The helicopter swerved and crashed, sending debris everywhere.

Steve channeled all his anger and irritation about the night and Fury’s death into a last few strikes with the elemental, throwing her through a wall in the process. He turned and ran back towards the car, where the only two still conscious were Rushman and Hawkeye. Rushman was helping him to his feet as he came up to them.

“We need to get out of here,” he said, digging his shield out of the back seat of their trashed car. “You good?”

“In the head, finally, yeah,” he grimaced as Rushman leaned him against the car so she could take out her own bag, very pale and looking ill. “The body, not so much. Think I fucking broke my ankle — ow.”

He locked eyes with Rushman who nodded and said, “I know a place.”

Steve came to Hawkeye’s other side and they rushed off.

~*~

“Where did Captain America learn to steal a car?”

He glanced at the redheaded woman beside him. They were in a truck Steve had hotwired out of a nearby grocery store parking lot after they hightailed it away from the scene.

“That’s privileged information. Only people who tell me their real names get to know that.”

“Clint Barton!” Hawkeye immediately piped up from where he was spread out in the back seat. “My full name is Clinton Francis Barton and I will absolutely divulge… most information about myself to know that story.”

“Well?” he nodded towards the woman next to him.

“I will tell him if you don’t.”

“You know I’d kill you.”

“Worth it to know why Captain America knows how to hotwire a car.”

She sighed lightly. “Natasha Romanoff, codename Black Widow. I work, well, worked, for SHIELD and Fury. Names have power. You understand why I’m reluctant to give it.”

“Barton, that true?”

“Yes. Story?”

“I was in Nazi Germany. Now how much farther?”

“That’s it?”

“Should be right around that corner.”

“I’ve already taken this turn twice.”

“That can’t be it.”

“There may be an enchantment on the place, preventing visitors.”

Steve cast her a sidelong look. “And this is supposed to be a good hideout?”

“Theoretically, if we can find it. Stop off in that plaza. I’ll ask around.”

“We’ll ask around.”

“You’ll just attract attention. Don’t worry that pretty head of yours and stay with Clint, I’ll be right back.”

Steve watched her slide out of the car, leaving the seat damp. Barton eased himself up so he could look at Steve over the seat.

“So.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a lot of pain?”

“Oh I am, trust me,” he said. From this close Steve could see the sweat on his brow and the deep bags under his eyes. “The talking helps distract me. So. Nazi Germany?”

“It’s really not that interesting. It wasn’t exactly included in basic, but a few of the guys passed along that knowledge, in case you ever needed to get outta somewhere as fast as possible. Most of the people who knew it where actually women, since they were often drivers.”

“See! That’s interesting. Fuck. You know what? I’m just gonna fuckin’ — ungh — take these boots off. Please don’t get into another fight while I don’t have shoes on. Done it before, got a piece of glass in my foot. I don’t suggest — argh — there we go!” A pause. “The hell is this?”

Steve glanced back at the tiny rusted piece of something that he’d apparently pulled out of his boot. Steve snatched it out of Barton’s hand before he even realized what he was doing, smoothing over it gently with his hand.

It was a little bigger than a quarter and about as thick, with one edge curved and the others sharp and angled. He held it so preciously, gently smoothing over the flakey and rough sides with his thumb, like the simple action could brush away all the dirt and rust.

“Do you know what it is?” Barton asked and Steve startled.

“What? Uh, no, I don’t,” he said.

“Okay… well, we can we can ask Natasha when she comes back,” he said and gestured through the window where she was heading back to the car.

“Okay but also,” he continued haltingly. “I mean, it’s just. Ah, God, you know…” he rubbed his head, ruffling his blond hair. “Thanks, for what you said out there. I guess I can’t really,” he huffed a laugh and cleared his throat. “I looked up to you, you know? I mean I guess everyone does, but it was nice as an orphan kid to see someone succeed despite that. And I mean, c’mon, it’s not every day Captain America tells you he believes in you.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Steve said, tearing his eyes away from the fragment to look straight at Barton.

“Yeah, well.” He glanced back outside. Romanoff was nearly at the car door. “Couldn’t really let you down after that. So whatever happens, I want you to know that I’m in it now. Fuck those guys.”

“We’re fucking who now?” Romanoff asked as she slid back into the car.

“Whoever we’re going to go beg for a safe house as a thank you. Or a payment. I’m not particular.”

“What did you find out?” Steve asked and ignored Barton.

“The guy’s name is Sam Wilson. He’s a healer, or he used to be. Apparently he’s turned into a, and I’m quoting here, ‘a giant fuckfaced titpilot who’s got a spiky dildo up his ass’ and doesn’t help anyone anymore. He used to work part-time down at the VA, but he’s just up and abandoned everyone there. Not, of course, before he caused a scene that ended in a fight and broken furniture.”

“Let me guess,” Steve said, now seeing a pattern, “this happened a few weeks ago, this is completely out of the ordinary for him, and he’s pushing everyone he cares about away.”

Romanoff met his side-eye. “Looks like you got it all figured out, Captain.”

Steve sighed and turned the engine on. If only.

~*~

They found the house eventually. Even though they knew the address, they still managed to pass it another three times. Steve would be impressed if he wasn’t so irritated at the whole situation and running on no sleep. He just needed to get this over with.

They pulled over to the side of the road and got out, Romanoff still soaking wet and Barton still barefoot. Barton put on a brave face, sure, but that pain couldn’t be easy to manage.

“I expected uh, more of a, well, ‘house,’ part of the ‘safe house,’ ” Barton said and gestured to the lovely if unkempt garden in front of them.

“He’s used some heavy concealment charms,” Romanoff said to point out the obvious to Barton. “He really does not want any visitors.”

Even across the street Steve could feel the warning coming off in waves. It was more effective than any keep out signs to the point where it actually made you slightly nauseas. He watched as people unconsciously crossed the street away from the garden and birds even altered their paths overhead. If someone wanted to shun the world and tell everyone to fuck off, this would be a great way to do it.

In the midst of trepidation and nausea growing as they stood across from the garden, Steve could recognize they were stalling. Well, it’s not like Steve ever did anything in halves, and they were sitting ducks out here. He crossed the street, Romanoff helping Barton limp along behind him.

The barrier itself was less solid and more a general feeling of unease that grew with each step. A cold sweat started down Steve’s neck and he felt like something was breathing just over his shoulder, making him jumpy and anxious. He knew it was just the magic making him feel this way, but this wasn’t the sort of magic that dispelled once acknowledged. Barton and Romanoff weren’t doing much better, he thought, when he glanced back at their pale faces. Barton was muttering reassurances under his breath and Romanoff had clenched her jaw, hand unconsciously gripping the gun on her hip.

Passing through the gate of the garden was like trudging through the carnage of a recent battle. The magic of the barrier tasted like something spicy had spoiled in the back of his mouth and he heard Barton gag. The air sizzled ahead and suddenly a tall tower sprung into view, which had a skinny base and a large bulbous head about thirty yards up.

It was covered in siding and the occasional warped window with the front door still in place, like someone had taken a house and just twisted it into a new shape. Between the concealment charms, the barrier, and the transfiguration of a building this large, a truly impressive amount of magic went into this. It wouldn’t have surprised Steve if multiple people helped in creating this, or else the sorcerer would have to be incredibly strong.

Steve touched his shield on his back and knew it wasn’t just the magic that was making him uneasy.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair?” Barton called hopefully.

“Listen, we don’t know who or what we’re going to meet up there,” Steve said, glancing back at his two companions, “I’ll go up alone. Romanoff, you stay with Barton. If things go sour, you get yourselves out of here.”

“A Hero shouldn’t go off on his own, that never ends well,” Romanoff said. “Barton can manage himself.”

“Uh, no offence, but not gonna happen,” Barton said. “I’m coming with.”

“What, now that you don’t have to follow orders anymore you’re not going to listen to anyone?”

He looked at her. “Free will is a hell of a drug.”

Steve assessed both of them. “Well, I’m not carrying you,” he said finally.

Barton grinned. “Got that covered.” He pulled out an arrow and fired it just next to the highest window, a rope trailing behind it. He tugged twice to make sure it held strong, then opened his other arm for Romanoff to hold onto him.

Steve sighed inwardly. “We’re not going to ring the front door first?”

Romanoff arched an eyebrow and stepped behind Barton to wrap her arms around his neck. “Do you think he’s going to answer?”

“Last one’s there’s a rotten egg!” Barton called cheekily as the rope pulled both of them upward.

The danger was no joke, no matter how Barton was acting, and he wasn’t about to let an injured soldier take point. With one jump he reached midway up the tower and pushed off a window to take him to the top room, passing the two as he did so. He moved his shield to his arm before prying the window open and peeking inside. He didn’t see any movement, the whole place dark and quiet, so he slipped inside. Romanoff climbed through next, helping Barton through.

A gun clicked. “What are you doing in my house?”

Steve turned and held up his shield, to see a black man in workout clothes. Steve knew, suddenly and intrinsically, that he hated this man.

“Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?” Barton said before Steve could get a word out. “Obviously I need help. Now do me a favor and help me.”

The man — Sam Wilson, presumably — raised his eyebrows. “You break into my house and expect me to just go out of my way and help you? Fuck off, man.”

“I might be literally dying from these injuries. You just gonna let me die? The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Get out before I help the injuries win.”

“You wouldn’t—”

Wilson fired and Steve barely managed to block it before it landed between Barton’s eyes. He swallowed down the sudden and incredible disgust he had for Wilson and spoke to him.

“I know that we broke in,” Steve said, “but we really do need your help. Put the gun down and just hear us out.”

“I ain’t gotta do shit.”

“Well, seeing as you can’t even clean up after yourself, that much is obvious,” Romanoff said. “First time my runes ever steered me wrong.”

Steve never took his eyes off of Wilson, but let himself take in his peripheral vision. The room wasn’t completely dark, not with the light streaming from the window, but he could see the trash bags huddling in the kitchen, the piles of dirty dishes in the sink, the dust floating in the air like this was the first time the windows had been open in a long time. The air smelled stale from stagnation and the garbage odor wafted throughout the room. Takeout boxes littered the coffee table and floor along with more dishes, old food left out and flies buzzing around.

It was a few good weeks worth of filth, probably starting around the time when his personality changed. When he gave Barton a choice, Barton took it. Orders bounced right off him, because he had no free will to disobey. If Sam Wilson was acting like this when being asked for help, then—

“Okay, then don’t help us,” Steve said. He pushed against everything that was telling him not to help this guy, to just fuck him and leave. This was more important, Wilson was more important.

“Cap, I don’t know if you noticed, but I do actually—”

“Let us help you instead,” Steve stepped forward, headless of the gun. “We can help. I can help.”

“Man, I don’t need your help. I’m doing fine on my own.”

“Yeah, right,” Romanoff muttered behind him.

“Okay,” Steve agreed and ignored them. He walked up to Wilson slowly. “You don’t need our help. But I’ll still offer it. I’ll still give it. You don’t even have to ask.”

“We’ll put the couch cushions on the floor like we were kids.”

Wilson hesitated and Steve took his chance. He reached out to gently take the gun out of Wilson’s hands, who let go willingly.

“Go and rest. I got this. You don’t have to take this burden on by yourself.”

Wilson swallowed and nodded a little. “Okay,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

Steve started to smile before something crashed into Wilson, sending him flying backwards into a wall. The rest jumped into action. Steve looked around wildly for whatever came at him, as Romanoff and Barton dove behind the couch. But Steve had no idea what had hit Wilson; they were away from the windows and there were no bullet holes in the walls.

Wilson groaned in pain. “My hand, Jesus Christ, I think my hand’s broken!”

Steve kneeled down by Wilson’s side with his shield still out. Wilson pulled up his right hand, but there were no injuries. He opened his fist and flexed his fingers, and even though he grimaced, there nothing was wrong with him. In fact, nothing was different except a little piece of rusted metal that fell out of his palm, which, besides the sharp triangle cut out of one side, was almost identical to the one Barton had pulled out of his shoe.

Steve grabbed it and both he and Wilson looked at it curiously. Then what just happened dawned on Wilson.

“Oh my God, I just pointed a gun at Captain America’s head,” he said, eyes widening in horror. “I am so sorry, oh my God.”

“Okay, but you actually shot at me!” Barton piped up helpfully. “Don’t I get an apology?”

“I’m so sorry, man, I don’t know what was wrong with me. Listen, I’m so—”

“It’s alright,” Barton shrugged. “I get that feeling. Said some shit too, so, my bad.”

“C’mon,” Steve said and helped Wilson up, who swayed where he stood.

“Whoa,” he said, and had to hold on to Steve to stay steady. “I don’t think I’ve eaten in like, a while.”

“You got any food?”

“I can’t remember the last time I bought groceries so uh, probably nothing edible.” He turned, surveying his home like he was seeing it for the first time. “Shit,” he remarked. “This place is a dump.”

“You should see Clint’s apartment,” Romanoff said.

“I resent that.”

Wilson had turned pale and broke out in a cold sweat. He and Barton were now competing now about who felt and looked shittier, although Wilson was winning at this point. He needed a shower.

Steve started making executive decisions. Wilson (“Jesus, just call me Sam”) was obviously in no condition to try and heal Barton, who wasn’t dying, thank you very much, so he made Sam and Barton (“Clint’s fine, Cap, no need to be so formal”) sit down and get some rest. It was too early for lunch, only about nine in the morning (“only nine? I feel like I’ve aged ten years”), so Steve ordered enough breakfast food for a small army while he puttered around the kitchen. He kept having to (sometimes physically) force Sam to sit back down, since now he was overcome with guilt at the horror of having not just a guest, but “Captain goddamn America” clean up his filth and kept apologizing for the state of his house.

His protests were weak however, since his body, after weeks of neglect and who knew what else, didn’t lend him much strength. Clint could do little more than curl around the armrest in pain, although the medicine Sam had given them helped. Sam had lent Steve some clean clothes and he and Romanoff (“Well if they’re going to be on a first name basis we might as well all be, Steve”) spent some time cleaning up in the bathroom. Eventually Natasha made herself useful by braving the barrier and concealment charms and picking up the food, which startled the delivery guy when she appeared from thin air.

They ate mostly in silence, everyone scarfing down their pancakes and eggs like it was the last time they would ever have to eat again, and let the exhaustion fall over them now that they finally had a chance to rest. Even Natasha looked drained and that confirmed Steve’s assumption that she’d had about as much sleep as he had.

Sleeping arrangements were met with much protest, since there were only two beds and a couch and everyone felt like they had to stay up and discuss the mess they were in.

“We’re all exhausted. We’re not gonna be any use in trying to figure out what’s going on. Once we’ve all had a little sleep, we’ll come look at it again with fresh eyes.”

“All right, mom,” Clint said. Steve glared at him.

Eventually it was decided (or rather, Steve decided) that Sam would get his own bed and Clint and Natasha would share the guest bed (“But what if she slits my throat while I sleep?” “We’ve slept in the same room before. You let me stay at your apartment all the time.” “Yeah but what if this time—”) and Steve would get the couch.

Sam let Clint have the bathroom first while Steve guided Sam down to his room.

Sam’s room wasn’t any better than the rest of the house, which was covered in dirty laundry and more takeout boxes. Steve spent fifteen minutes gathering the boxes into a new trash bag and tore off the sheets despite more of Sam’s protests. Steve shooed him out of the room to go wash up in the bathroom, now that Clint had finished and collapsed on the bed in the guestroom.

He paused when he took down clean sheets from Sam’s closet, revealing the carefully folded American flag and a photo of a much younger, healthier looking Sam next to a blond man. They were laughing.

Steve closed the closet doors, knowing he’d just breached Sam’s privacy, and quickly made the bed with military precision. He kicked the dirty laundry out of the way so he could reach the window and threw it open to let fresh air in.

When Sam came back fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and in clean clothes, he swatted the laundry basket out of Steve’s hand.

“I am thirty-one goddamn years old, I am not letting another grown-ass man do my laundry.”

Sam fell asleep mere moments after his head hit the pillow. Steve backed away and quietly closed the door behind him. Clint and Natasha, despite both of their protests, were fast asleep when Steve walked by the bedroom door, Clint face down and taking up two-thirds of the bed and Natasha curled away on the remaining third. He softly shut that door as well, and sat down hard on the couch.

Sleep pulled at him, but something stopped his eyes from closing. He pulled out the two strange rusted metal pieces from earlier and held them in his hands. He smoothed over the surfaces, cradling these fragments, and wondered what they could be. Clint and Sam seemed completely surprised at finding these fragments, and it still didn’t explain what had thrown Sam against a wall. In fact, Clint had been hit too, but none of the gunmen around them had fired. His ankle wasn’t even broken, despite his words.

And maybe it was his imagination, but the fragment from Clint’s boot seemed a little less rusted than before, especially compared to Sam’s piece. When he put them together for comparison, the straight edges smoothed over and stuck together leaving the curve along the outside. They were connected like they were always meant to be together.

So, it was magic. But what kind? What had happened to Sam and Clint?

This cyclical thinking would get him nowhere, but he couldn’t sleep. Instead he threw himself into cleaning every inch of the living room and kitchen, going so far as to wash the dishes by hand so the dishwasher wouldn’t wake anyone up. He gathered the garbage, and with little else to do with it, tossed it out the window to be dealt with later. The only thing he couldn’t do was vacuum, but at that point his eyes were so tired and his body so heavy, and could barely keep his eyes open.

It was barely one in the afternoon, and Steve had been up for almost thirty-six hours now. He’d gone longer, pushed himself harder, and had vague thoughts of doing a perimeter check, but instead he fell onto the couch and let the exhaustion pull him under.