Chapter Text
“Wow. This is . . . not what I expected.”
Sitting on the front steps of his porch, Steve Rogers watched Tony Stark and Bruce Banner step out of the flashy car. Bruce looked apologetic about parking on the grass. Tony looked indifferent.
“What brings you out to the boondocks?” Tony asked Steve.
Steve looked at the two of them in a calculating state of mind.
“Well,” Steve said, when neither Bruce nor Tony moved. “I had hoped to find some peace and quiet.” He stood up and reentered the log cabin, letting the door shut pointedly behind him.
He could understand Tony’s surprise. When Nick Fury had shown him three living options—an apartment in Brooklyn, an apartment in Manhattan, and a cabin in the woods—Steve had tapped the last photograph and asked why it had been included. “It’s a way out of the city,” Fury had explained.
You can take the guy outta the city, Steve thought, shaking his head morosely.
“Here I thought Clint’s place was small,” Natasha mused from the kitchen.
“I resent that,” Clint replied, seated across from her.
Steve ground his teeth. “I don’t recall inviting you,” he informed them.
“No lost love for your new family?” Natasha asked.
Steve gave her a look that said, You’re not my family, so clearly it would have been redundant to verbalize. Feeling cornered, he retreated to his bedroom.
“I can only wonder where the rest of you shall sleep,” the god of thunder greeted, lounging on his bed. “There is hardly room for six.”
Breathing in through his nose, Steve said, “You won’t be sleeping here.”
“Aye? You have more suitable accommodations prepared?” Thor asked, with enough hopefulness Steve felt like a jerk for replying:
“No, but I have a door I can escort you to. There’s been a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstandings,” Tony assured. Steve nearly cracked a tooth. “You’re in the right place.”
“How did you all get here?” Steve demanded, turning to face him.
“I plied Fury’s secrets and sent the location to interested parties,” Tony sniffed. “Interested parties being myself, of course. Wow,” he added, sneaking his way around Steve and picking up a clock. “I thought these went extinct.”
Thor said assertively, “I hunger. Let us procure a meal.”
Tony set down the clock and reached for his pocket, pulling out a telephone. “I’m on it. Anyone else craving seafood?”
“No,” Clint objected from the table. “No shellfish.”
“Three large lobster tails, coming right up,” Tony replied, already dialing.
“No,” Clint repeated. “Stark—”
“Happy, I’m gonna need about twelve of my usual orders,” Tony interrupted. “You know what? Let’s make it an even number, round it up to twenty.”
There was a response from the other end of the telephone, but Steve had already moved away.
“Leaving already?” Natasha asked him.
Steve’s hands shook as he gathered up his coat. He did not need it, but he hated not having one around. Who knew what would happen if he woke up in the arctic without one?
Natasha followed him outside. She watched him retrieve his bike, gripping it in both hands impotently. “Leave me,” Steve rasped.
“You can’t go home.”
Steve’s posture wilted. Hunching over the handlebars, he gasped suddenly. Alarmed at his own behavior, he strained to compose himself, stiffening his back so he did not crumple. He had a strong feeling that, if he fell, he would not get up again.
This can’t be happening.
“I don’t think you’re the hugging type,” Natasha went on, stepping forward. When she was close enough to do so, she rested a hand over his wrist. Her fingers were surprisingly warm against his skin. Everyone feels cold, Steve did not say. I’m told I run hot. Like a fever. He stared at his own hands, gripping the bike and the jacket haphazardly. She lingered, her hand encircling his wrist, then spiriting away the keys from his palm.
“They’ll leave,” Natasha offered, and Steve shook his head, already accepting his fate.
I don’t want them to. I don’t need them to. “That’s okay,” he said.
For a moment, Natasha leaned against his arm. Then she stepped back. Steve drew in a shallow breath. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve heard worse lies,” Natasha said. He looked at her, her green eyes searching his own. Then she offered him the keys. “If you aren’t back in an hour, they’ll assume the worst,” she said.
“And you?” Steve prompted.
Natasha smiled. “The worst for us,” she said cryptically, “may not be the worst for you.”
. o .
Steve drove. He drove until the sun vanished below the horizon, plunging the world into semi-darkness.
Two hours passed, and he still had not committed to an answer.
He had intended to make a brief pit stop at the Retreat before carrying on his way to rediscover America. It had seemed like a healthy way to cope with his circumstances. Better get used to it. You are never going back, he thought, driving down a long empty road.
He could not accept it. It did not matter that he had fought an alien army on behalf of a country claiming to be his own. None of it had resonated with him. Even their voices had sounded wrong, pulling him out of a reality he had been trying to accept.
You went under. You woke up. And that’s that.
Steve knew he had done the right thing; he did not regret the lives he had saved that day. He just regretted waking up the next and finding out almost seventy years had passed.
Pulling over on the road’s shoulder, Steve sat on his bike and looked up at the black sky, asking the stars, Which way do I go?
Natasha was right: there was no way home. For better or worse—he was already there.
He swallowed down the anguished cry that wanted to rise out of him, running both hands over his head. What do I do, what do I do? he begged no one.
He remembered feeling that small, that lonely, on the Front, after Bucky’s death. It had seemed so simple, signing up for War, ready to do what was right, even if it meant dying for his country. Living—that was the real challenge. Persevering.
He reached up for his neck, fished out the dog tags, and held onto them in a closed fist. A solemn reminder: You are Steve Rogers, you are going to be just fine. Then he let them slide through his fingers, kicked up the kickstand, and roared back down the road.
. o .
“Finally,” Tony Stark said, looking up from the kitchen table, where all five of Steve’s unwelcome guests had congregated. They had a board game open in front of them, although Steve did not know what it was. “We’re wagering our souls, right?” Tony said, cutting cards.
Clint looked thoughtfully at Thor, who said gravely, “With or without their attachments?”
Tony paused mid-shuffle, then reached for a second small pile of cards, shuffling them in silence.
Steve stepped forward, wondering if he was somehow dreaming.
The scene seemed strange: moonlight reflected off the waters and cast a white shadow through the window, illuminating Thor’s striking features. Thor presided at the head of the table; to his left cowered Bruce; next to the good Doctor, Tony Stark shuffled through the third and final deck of cards next to a vacant chair; Natasha and Clint rounded out the set, the latter still browsing a box of Chinese takeout with a pair of chopsticks.
A string of empty takeout boxes littered the counter. “Seafood,” Steve repeated skeptically.
“Uh-huh. See, food, seafood,” Tony agreed skeptically, laying out the third shuffled deck. “Don’t take it personally, I wouldn’t expect a fossil to—” There was an unsubtle kicking-of-shins sound, followed by a wheeze from their resident comedian. “I wouldn’t expect a fossil to get it,” Tony finished adamantly, glaring at Natasha. “Final warning, one more time and I’m filing a compl—ow!”
Steve took a seat at the table, casting a rebuking look at Natasha, who looked unfazed. Bruce had almost succeeded in shrinking out of sight when Steve netted him verbally: “Dr. Banner.” Bruce winced but peered up at him dolefully. “What is this?”
“It’s—uh—”
“The only board game we could find,” Tony interjected. Tony then picked up his chair and set it down extremely close to Steve’s. Rather than finding the proximity annoying, Steve found it weirdly comforting.
“Ever heard of clue?” Clint asked.
“Aye,” Thor said. “I have—”
“No,” Tony interrupted again. Steve understood why he had been kicked in the shin, twice. “No.” Then Tony surgically extracted one card from each of the three piles before placing the trio into a small envelope. “The killer,” he announced, laying the packet on top of the board. “The weapon,” he added, distributing a handful of silver trinkets across the board. “And the scene of the crime,” he added, tapping one corner labeled Library meaningfully.
He then stacked the remaining cards into a single pile, shuffled them again, and began distributing them.
“You’re just like your Pa,” Steve told Tony, intending to join the almost familial atmosphere with a meaningful contribution. “Same flare for the dramatic.”
The silence was ice-cold.
“I just meant—”
Tony finished dealing cards in silence. Steve physically ached with discomfort, the profound longing to be home.
He swallowed back an attempt to reconcile, picking up his cards instead.
There was silence for a long moment.
Then Tony leaned in towards Steve with an audible creaking-of-chair sound.
Steve did not hide his hand, because he had no inkling about what the game was actually about. Tony made a, “Hm,” sound, then looked expectantly around the table. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and set it on the table.
Clint asked, “How much?”
Whistling like he had not heard the question, Tony flipped open the wallet and began thumbing a stack of bills.
They all watched as he pulled out a few hundred dollar bills, laying them on the table.
Clint said, “Don’t be cheap.”
Tony just whistled, replacing his wallet in his pocket, waiting.
Clint looked between the bait and his own hand a few times. At last, Tony sighed, reaching forward to reclaim the bait.
A handful of cards landed on the table. Clint swiped up his monetary reward with a luxurious sigh.
Tony swiped up the facedown cards and hummed again. Bruce made a sad noise. Tony looked up at him expectantly.
Clint pushed back his chair and reclaimed his takeout with a triumphant little laugh. They all watched him cackle maniacally to himself as he abandoned the room, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.
Tony merely sifted through his handful of cards, looking up at Bruce, whose eyes were just visible over the edge of the table.
Then Thor said, “I shall roll first,” and grasped the dice.
Tony said, “What does Thor, son of Odin, desire?”
“Only my fair lady,” Thor said jovially, shaking the dice in his palm. Bruce watched him curiously.
Tony wheedled, “I happen to have it on good authority you like food.”
“Aye,” Thor agreed, prolonging the roll. “Who does not?”
Tony reached under the table and produced a box labeled, Frosted Pop-Tarts.
Thor paused mid-roll.
“Ahhhh,” Thor said with a twinkle in his eye. “A bargain, you strike?” He reached into his own pocket and produced a flask. “Asgardian’s finest, aged for a thousand years.”
Bruce stared at the flask. Steve felt the palpable hunger in Tony’s eyes as he, too, stared at the flask.
“It is not meant for mortal men,” Thor said.
Tony swallowed. Then he said, “I want it.”
“Surrender your cards,” Thor said, checkmating himself.
Tony blinked out of his trance, scowling. “No. No.” Furiously, he retracted the Pop-Tarts. Thor retracted his own flask, still smiling, at peace with himself. Then, to rub it in, Thor uncapped the flask—even from across the table, Steve could smell the surprisingly warm aroma emitting from it, like a fire crackling in the hearth—and lifted it to his lips.
Tony made a sad little trumpet sound. Bruce watched Thor drink intently, then, with sudden fear, asked, “Uh, is that—are you sure about—”
“I know more than well to hold my drink,” Thor placated, slightly louder but still composed, a gentle giant’s smile on his face. He offered the flask to Bruce, who stared at it with owlish eyes.
Tony seethed, “Touch it and I will—” He blinked as a stack of cards suddenly landed in front of him. Bruce hurried away from the table, retreating to the small living area instead.
Somewhat mollified, Tony reached for the cards. Natasha swiped them up first.
“I like this game,” Thor said, setting the flask on the table and looking at Natasha, who swapped her cards for the flask. “Ah. I see that I am winning. Captain,” he added lightly, “perhaps you would aid me in besting Stark?”
Steve started to fold down his pile—he had no idea what was going on, but he suspected he would be better off keeping his mouth shut and going along with it—when Tony slapped his hand over his, interrupting him.
Tony held his hand in place for a few moments. Then: “Name your price.”
Got a time machine in your back pocket? “I don’t have one.”
“Everyone’s got one.”
“In case you haven’t noticed—” I’m not everyone.
“You got a bike.”
“Nothing’s wrong with my bike.”
“Could use a tune-up.”
“Nothing’s wrong with my bike,” Steve insisted, teetering on the edge of real anger. Reeling himself in, he shook Tony’s hand off and said, “Thor—”
“I’ll suck your dick.”
“Tony,” Steve snapped.
Clint hahed! loudly from Steve’s bedroom. Bruce whined, “Don’t do it here.” Thor laughed, reaching forward and triumphantly swiping the cards from Steve’s hand.
“It is just you and I now, Stark,” Thor said cheerily, leaning back in his chair. “What say you?”
Tony said, “Miss Scarlet, candlestick, library.”
There was a pause. Then Natasha reached for the envelope, slid out the cards, and began turning them face-up on the table.
The first was clearly Miss Scarlet. The second was the candlestick.
Natasha flashed the card at Tony and Steve first. Steve saw Tony pale a shade, then flush with outrage.
“Billiard room,” Natasha announced, laying down the card. “You’re out.”
Tony pushed his chair back noisily. “C’mon, Tony, don’t sulk,” Steve told him.
Tony stormed over to the couch, shooing Bruce off it. Bruce evicted himself so quickly he landed on the floor with an audible thump, then scrambled to vacate the premises so Tony could sulk properly.
Thor brayed with belated laughter, standing up and declaring, “Behold—your king triumphs before you!”
. o .
A very upbeat, very loud number started playing from his bedroom. Steve sighed silently in resignation.
Tony leveraged himself upright and groaned, “I’m gonna kill them. I am going to—” He startled badly when he saw Steve wiping down the counter. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Steve protested.
Tony waved him off, dismissing him, and said, “Star Wars,” like it meant something to Steve.
Must be a science fiction novel, Steve decided.
Tony thumped a fist on the closed door. The music paused. “Password?” Clint asked.
“Fuck off,” Tony replied.
“Password?”
“Fuck. Off.”
The music resumed. Tony growled, reaching into a pocket, pulling out a small metal device. He jimmied it into the lock, then forced the door open. “How dare you,” he exclaimed, slamming the door shut behind him. “You sons of bitches, you absolute mother—”
The music looped back on itself, louder than before, drowning out the rest of Tony’s tirade.
Steve found some peace under the stars, sitting on the cool porch, resenting the cool night more than he should.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tony asked suddenly, making Steve start, turning sharply to look at him. “We’re watching the goddamn movie.”
I gathered that. Steve kept his mouth shut. Two days ago, he was fighting aliens. He felt he had earned a little peace.
Not with the Avengers around.
With a sigh, Steve pushed himself upright. Tony chivvied him along with impatient hand gestures and urgings of, “Let’s go,” and, “Not getting any younger,” which almost got a rise out of him.
Almost.
Be more on my game if I had a chance to catch my breath, Steve did not remind them.
The Avengers had piled like prairie dogs on the single mattress, which Steve considered luxurious for one man and pretty unforgiving for five. Thor alone had claimed nearly two-thirds of the available space. “What’s wrong with you?” Steve asked, forgetting to check his own ire. “What’s the matter with you, huh?” His heart was twisting and twisting, but he kept his voice in check as he added, “You know, people died—”
“Okay,” Tony said, giving him a two-handed shove from behind, slipping around him to drag Clint off the bed. Clint hit the floor with an audible thud as Tony claimed his spot beside the king. “Everybody shut up,” he ordered, reaching out for the tiny telephone held in Thor’s outstretched hand.
The same loud, upbeat music as before resumed.
Steve stared incredulously at the scene before him, trying to decipher the mixed feelings in his gut. Part of him was hungry—hungry for family, hungry for love, hungry for home and kinship and purpose. Another part of him was sick: sick of being coddled and treated like an outsider and subjected to the misery of displacement.
Steve looked at Clint, lying on the floor, hands folded over his chest and a concentrating frown on his face, and then the others, all piled around Thor, all watching the tiny telephone intently.
With a shake of his head, Steve said, “Night, gang,” and left.