Chapter Text
*****
I could hear him coming, and that was worrying enough. Roaring with the fury of an injured lion, it was impossible not to hear him. That fact alone was chilling. Ever since I’d altered him, Steve had moved with an impossible grace, a quiet that seemed to muffle his steps as if he melded through the shadows themselves. But now I could hear every stomping bootfall, every wall-trembling slam of his fist on what I assumed were desks. Every snarled order that only became impotently louder the more often they were ignored.
It wasn’t that they were intentionally disobeying. He was simply asking for the impossible. And each time that frustrating chasm between what he wanted and what was possible grew wider, he shouted louder to be heard across it. Truth be told, it was doing nothing for my headache.
I bent over my tools and worked faster. There wasn’t much time before Steve turned his ire towards my door and I was already squinting back against the throbbing pain behind my right temple. The fine green mist of acid stung my eyes and did nothing to improve my mood, nor did the bite as it found every tiny nick and scrape on the fingers of my dominant hand. Almost done. Almost there.
Were I a smarter man, I would have remembered gloves. Or goggles. Were I a smarter man, I would have verified what the military deemed ‘fully stocked’ before arriving in the first place. Were I a smarter man, I wouldn’t be risking the tips of my fingers on this grated rasp, tossing powdered acids and very expensive sucralose into the mouth of the Blend-o-Tron device. It was a strange little machine, simple enough in structure, but not without its flaws. Flaws I was already eager to design out. Another throb of my head urged me that improvements would have to wait. Maybe later. When I wasn’t so blisteringly sober.
Just how much should Steve’s rage and volume worry me, I wondered. In all the time I’ve known him, Rogers’ love language had been less ‘slamming cabinet doors’ and more ‘silent fuming while scrubbing dishes’. Any other day, I would have loved a front row seat to watch my Star Spangled Sonofabitch demonstrate to the ink slingers and the ninety-day wonders the precise reason why he was removed from the USO roster. But not today. Not when I knew the reason behind that rage. And certainly not when I was next on his list of targets.
I knew they couldn’t give him what he wanted. Neither would I.
I heard heavy boots approach my door, and with all the speed I could muster, I poured in the last ingredient and slammed the lid on the Blend-o-Tron.
“Stark!” I heard my name barked as he slammed open my door. It had been locked, but I guess that didn’t matter against those muscles. Steve’s face was the picture of fury, pin-prick pupils made his angelic blue eyes demonic, and the red in his face wasn’t boyish blush. His shoulders were squared, ready for a fight I knew was coming. But it wasn’t going to be the fight he wanted. As he opened his mouth to bellow whatever it was he was planning on bellowing, I slammed my finger onto the blender’s power button and was instantly deafened. Oops. I motioned helplessly. Sorry buddy, can’t hear you. His expression flickered with confusion. It bought me precious moments to think.
As the spinning blades gleefully shrieked, threatening to split my skull with their cacophony, Steve levelled a dangerous scowl at me. I smiled politely in return and gestured with my eyes for him to close the door he’d so rudely bashed inward. With a grunt I more saw than heard, he turned to do as asked. It was then that I finally got a look at the sorry state he was in.
Three days ago he’d left on a mission with his elite (if grabbag) team of Howling Commandos, co-lead with his second in command, Sgt James Barnes. Three days ago, they left the base with the wild howls and vigor of men with a deathwish. Three days ago, one of them had gotten that wish.
Three days ago was apparently the last time Steve had slept. Dark circles hollowed his eyes, and his usually pristine jaw had a messy flocking of stubble. He scratched at it and I saw the tremble in his eternally steady hand. The man was running on nothing but adrenaline and spite. Three days without slowing. Three days without stopping. Three days refusing to acknowledge the truth.
I wished I had three days to decide how to handle him. But I didn’t have nearly that luxury. Still, I could let the Blend-o-Tron whir and scream until he either decided to leave or until he had calmed down enough to talk. Arms crossed over his chest, he continued to scowl. But he wasn’t trying to roar over the howl of the blender, so I was optimistic that in a few more moments, I could restore silence and be met with a calm, reasonable blond wall of a man. I released my finger from the power button.
“You’re going to take me through the gorge.” Rogers set a new record for destroying my expectations.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a quick answer, drawing out a second glass as I set about my work. Mystery brown liquor. Mystery clear liquor. Through a mesh sieve no doubt meant for some terribly important Army shenanigans, I strained my freshly Blend-o-Troned liquid into either glass.
“I am doing no such thing,” I finally replied, licking my fingers clean. The mixture was sweet and tart. I’d have to thank Jarvis for the recipe when I got back to civilization.
Steve, on the other hand, twitched as if I’d just pissed all over a photograph of his mother and his rage heightened proportionally. “Then I’m taking your plane.”
“ You are doing no such thing,” I replied calmly, careful to match his head-throbbing snarl with my own casual calm. A trick I’d learned ages ago to take the legs out from under stuffed-shirts used to calling all the shots. It had served me well.
Steve’s glare darkened further, a feat in itself, and he squared his shoulders, lowering his head like a lion about to charge. “Who’s going to stop me?” he rumbled dangerously. “You?”
Okay, that’s enough. “Does threatening me make you feel better, Rogers?” I asked with an unimpressed scowl of my own.
“Yes!”
“Then by all means, continue.” I swept a hand graciously towards him, plunking a straw into either glass and giving it a stir. His eyes darted towards the clinking, distracted.
“What are you doing?”
Now we were getting somewhere. I slid one drink towards Steve, picking up the other to sip. It wasn’t exactly to recipe, but it would rid me of my demons. “A pair of Suffering Bastards for a pair of suffering bastards.”
Steve studied the drinks as if I’d offered him poison, but slowly moved closer. Good. All was going to plan. We’d share a nice drink, I’d smooth down the glass shards in my skull, he’d cool some of the fire in his and finally see reason.
“Fly me out to the gorge!” God damn it.
“Steven, no . You look like you haven’t slept in three days. How long has it been since Barnes fell off the train?”
“Since I dropped him,” he corrected.
I threw up my hands. “Whatever! Same thing! How long?”
The furious fire guttered for a moment, and I thought I saw a glimpse of something beneath all that rage. Then it was all-consuming again. “Three days.”
I planted my palms on the now-sticky wooden desktop, locking eyes with him. “Steven. Listen to me. It is over . There is nothing left.”
My words made that roaring shell of flame flicker, and I saw the shift in his eyes. Drawing his breath, drawing shoulders up and firm, he made one last desperate attempt to save James before he was gone forever. “This is your last chance before I take that plane myself.”
“And what makes you think I’m going to let you do that?”
“Your compliance is not a factor,” Steve snarled venomously.
“Rogers, listen to yourself! It has been three days ! There is a blizzard out there!” I assumed that last part. I couldn’t really tell. My skin was on fire and I was sweating like a whore in church. I needed that drink.
“I was promised that everything possible would be done!”
“And I was promised a fully stocked bar, but you see this? Did you see what I was doing when you stormed in?” I threw the still-sticky grating plane in his direction. It skittered off the edge of the desk and landed at his feet. “Zesting limes to make my own cordial. Like a plebian.”
I snatched up my drink, not bothering to hide the tremor in my hand. Gulping it down, the familiar burn of the mystery liquors burned my throat. My favorite kind of pain. With a gasp, I slammed it back down to the desktop.
“But of course you didn’t notice, Mr Self-Righteous. Can’t even see past your own nose – others are suffering too, ya know.”
It was a dirty blow, maybe. Even before the serum, Steve had never been one to put his own wants and needs first. He was the kind to light himself on fire to keep others warm. To accuse otherwise was a strike to the core of who he was. The fire guttered again. I’d nicked the fuel line and the engine was losing power, albeit slowly.
“A single helicopter pass doesn’t cut it, Howard.” Steve persisted, but he was starting to lose his fangs.
“And a white liquor and a brown liquor does not a ‘fully stocked bar’ make, Steven!”
“You owe me!” he boomed again.
I was almost surprised by his sudden rush forward. I was absolutely surprised by my own. “I made you!”
“Erskine made me!”
“No!” I yelled, slamming the glass so hard on the desktop that it shattered. “Erskine sourced the parts, but I did the fabrication. You are MY work. MY soldier. You are MY greatest creation!”
Somehow, at some point, I had crossed around, closing the gap between us. My hands cupped his face, palms pressing into fury-hot cheeks. The fire in his eyes was dying, but his blue eyes were are ferocious as ever.
“Erskine --” he began.
“Erskine is DEAD!”
The words hung in the air, echoing off the walls like the tolls of a mourning bell. Steve stared at me, eyes wide, jaw wide, stunned into silence.
“Abe is dead,” I repeated, feeling a growl come to my own voice. “Barnes is dead. They’re gone. Forever. And it doesn’t matter how hard you bluster or how hot you rage, nothing you do will change that. That is life . That is war . And war doesn’t give two fucks who you think owes you anything.”
The flames in his eyes sputtered and finally died. Like sand through an hourglass, the last shattered pieces of his world tumbled. Tiny. And desperately out of control.
Steve wavered on his feet, a flood of emotions washing behind his eyes. Confusion. Panic. Frustration. Disbelief. And then all at once, I saw the realization slam into him like a wave. All at once he was teetering on the unenviable border between complete madness and overwhelming despair.
I searched myself for regret and found none. Only pity. His breath was coming in short, tight gasps, like a man drowning. Face cradled in my hands, his eyes were wild and desperate. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to reassure him and tell him that no matter how badly this hurt now, everything would be okay. That despite this, despite everything that had happened, there was a light on the other side. That most stories have a happy ending if you wait long enough.
There were cracks in the dam, and with a trembling lip and welling eyes it finally burst. His powerful hands went to his scalp, tugging at his hair as though maybe he could wake himself up from this nightmare, clawing at his skin as the twin rivers of agony and self-blame carved their way down his cheeks. A desperate wail, the sound of a soul dying, filled the room that had only moments ago been gripped in silence. Crippled by the tragedy of his own existence, he started to fall in on himself.
I saw the pinpricks of blood starting as he scratched and gouged at his own skin, and worried of the damage he could do even to himself, I grabbed his wrists to restrain him. To my surprise, Steve fell forward, his arms wrapping around me, face buried in the collar of shirt. To my surprise, I wrapped my arms around him in kind.
I was never good with the stickier emotions. Anger made sense. Joy was easy. But sadness? Grief? Mourning? They were like metal shavings, impossible to see, but holy hell could you feel them. They lodged in your skin, worked their way into your veins, up to your heart where they were sure to kill you. Emotions like those, I preferred to grant a quick death by way of liquid poison. But that wasn’t an option for him. Steve was going to feel every horrible, torturous, aching moment of grief. And there was nothing I could do to save him.
There was no magic pill that would affect him long enough to make the hurting stop. His body would work through it too fast. I couldn’t drown it for him either, for the same reason. I was helpless. I was hopeless. Too-big sobs were wracking his too-big body and I had no idea how to fix this. How to spare him from this pain.
I, the smartest man in the Western Hemisphere and beyond, didn’t know how to solve this problem.
The injured whimpers in my ear, the shuddering shoulders in my arms, the gulping gasps for breath around such a desperate, soul-deep hurt… It broke my heart. And Heartbreak and I do not get along.
There was nothing I wanted more than to run. To rip myself away and cleanse my body of the contagious emotions he was infecting me with, sanitize it from the inside out with burning alcohol. And yet despite my want, I knew I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t abandon him to struggle by himself. Not this time. Not alone.
I couldn’t drug his pain away. I couldn’t drown it. But maybe I could suffocate it.
He didn’t resist when I shifted, tilting his face towards me. His eyes didn’t search mine as I studied the way the red tinge of tears made that blue so very bright. And when my lips met his, he jerked only slightly.
I held him there in that kiss, and he trembled and twitched against the pain in his heart and in his head. I held him there, and he gasped and gulped air around our lips, panting out breaths between hitches and sobs. I held him there and slowly, but oh so surely, every ounce of fight drained out of him.
Steve didn’t fight. And he didn’t draw back. Little by little his breathing slowed and finally became steady. He didn’t fight me when my fingers carded through his thick blond hair, and he didn’t fight when my tongue flicked against his lips, pushing gently but firmly forward beyond. He didn’t fight as my tongue tasted his own. Little by little, the whimpering softened and died.
He was so placid, so malleable. Vulnerable even. I considered briefly coaxing him to retire with me in private for the evening. Maybe experiment to see just how placid and malleable he could really be. I may not know how to soothe the ache of grief, but I was well versed in all manner of pleasures to counteract it.
If I had known that this would be my first and only chance to be so close to him, I think I would have tried harder. If I had known that in a few short days, he would join James Barnes in the cold embrace, I would have done so many things differently. If I had known how quickly history would unfurl before us, I would have fought God himself to change the flow.
But here, in the present, there was life. And against the furnace warmth of his chest, and the hitching sobs in my ear, we were not History yet. We were happening now, and time was an open door, still fresh and full of wonder. Most stories are happy if you end them at the right moment.