Chapter Text
As the shield flies over Manhattan, it thinks of the names on the bombs aboard the Valkyrie (may it never see the blasted thing again). It knew a few of them. London. Paris. New York. It has heard of several more. Warsaw, Manilla, Stalingrad, Nanking. It has never seen these cities for itself but the stories have always spoken for themselves. There are only so many ways to articulate complete destruction, and all combined of them could never be enough.
Devastation comes for everything. Everything has its turn. Nothing is immortal, except maybe it. New York almost met a similar fate to those cities, if not for him .
So perhaps, the shield thinks, as Stark— voice easily identifiable through his armor, which the shield has to admit is brilliant— carries it over the crumbling buildings and ruined pavement and cowering people of Park Avenue, this is New York’s turn. Of course, the sheer scale of destruction was nowhere near alike yet, but if this invasion (for that was what it was) were allowed to continue for much longer, there was no telling what the city would look like.
Everything he did to spare it would all be for naught, the shield thinks. It is a terrible thought, but it has had those before. No, now is no time to dwell on the worst. The only thing that remains is to keep the worst from happening.
“Cap!” Iron Man calls as it is thrown across the air, and the shield snaps its gaze back to him in shock. The suit grows ever so smaller in the shield’s view, and though the shield’s senses have always been impeccable it surely must have misheard—
—only it lands into a familiar grasp all the same, a painfully familiar grasp, and for a moment the shield can’t believe it. It won’t believe it, because surely this was like the Valkyrie or the heating facility or the boxes or the Smithsonian— just another dream, another trick of its own wishes.
But the universe has never cared what the shield thinks. It has simply tossed whatever came its way like he tossed it into their enemies, because both knew the shield could take it. And in turn, the shield has never resented either of them, because it knows they trusted it.
The shield knows many things. It knows several more.
It knows the rough calluses on his palms as he plucks it out of the air before sliding the straps neatly between the familiar curves of his left arm (the only proper way to hold it) in one fluid motion. Only one person knew how to wield it so flawlessly, only one person the shield would permit to use it as such.
And even though he looks older, worn and exhausted, he is unmistakable. Not that time ever stood a chance at concealing him. No matter what, it is him , it was always him .
It’s you, it thinks.
It really is you.
His death was a thought that occurred to it in the Valkyrie, in the heating facility in Greenland, in the particularly dark moments inside the boxes, at the Smithsonian and every day since. Each time, it had cast the thought aside. It knew well that if it went down that train of thought, it would never come back. It saw how Barnes’ death had destroyed him once, after all, and nearly destroyed it. So the idea lurked in the back of its thoughts, like some kind of monster in a cave waiting to strike, never quite leaving and filling it with dread.
But those thoughts didn’t matter now. He is here, he is alive, and everything is right with the world.
Then reality sets in through the fog of bliss, and the shield notices several things that are incredibly wrong.
For instance, what the hell is wrong with his hair? Hasn’t he gotten it cut? How can he see through those bangs? Where is his armor? Does he even have armor? Is that a t-shirt? Oh, who is it kidding, there WAS NO SHIRT ANYMORE. Where is his weapon? Has he just been fighting with his bare hands against an unknown alien species?
And has he been winning ?
God, no wonder the shield likes him so much.
“You’re Steve, that’s all,” someone says, dryly. The shield breaks its gaze with him for the first time in what seems like years to see a man with closely cropped brown hair and a smirk on his face. He lets an arrow loose from a bow in his hand, which embeds itself in the head of an alien.
Stark lands next to them in his suit. He looks up at him, seemingly just as disbelieving as it was.
“Really, that’s all?” Stark says. “Because I was definitely under the impression—”
“Stark!” a woman with red hair interrupts. She had been looking at the shield with an almost incredulous look on her face, but now her gaze is fully focused on Stark with a fierce glare.
Stark throws up his arms theatrically, a word the shield was starting to notice was as good a descriptor for him as it was for his father. “Alright, uh, Steve. The gang’s all here. What’s our next move?”
Oh yes, of course! This is battle, this is war. The shield was born in it, for it, and would not stop until it was done.
What will you do now, it asks, and it knows he is thinking the same thing. And of course, he has his answer.
“ What do we know about the portal?”
Whenever the shield is unsure of what to do, it turns to him for guidance. His tutelage has served it well for the duration of the war, and it sees no reason to stop now.
Which is why the longer it fights on the tower with Romanov the redhead and Barton the archer, the more wary it becomes. He seems willing to fight alongside them, but he never quite turns his back to either of them, and when he glances at them over his shoulder, it is with wariness in his eyes and a rigidness in his shoulders.
Allies are different from friends, especially on the battlefield, but it also knows his first instinct is to trust, not harm. Either something had happened since the months (had it really been that long?) since the shield has last seen him , or he has had bad experiences with them.
The shield looks at him again. The tatters of his shirt hang awkwardly on his frame, as though it doesn’t belong to him . His sneakers are the kind of dull white that gave up its vitality long ago trying to hide the faintly brown splotches on its surface. Perhaps it is both.
So whenever he sends the shield flying from his hand away from him , the shield feels uneasy. The shield always makes sure it knows where they are and what they are doing, carefully watching exactly where they aim their weapons. They never aim at him , but the uneasiness doesn’t go away.
This… Thor, as the others called him, is a bit of a different story. It vaguely recalls the name mentioned by HYDRA, which had an unusual interest in Norse mythology. The connection makes it hesitant, but he isn’t. In fact, he seemed more confused and exhausted, in the way he only allowed himself to be after a days long assault among allies he could trust.
Besides, rather than be hostile the prince seems all too eager to engage in cheerful conversation, as though battle was some kind of game. It is the kind of confidence the shield could admire, but not in a situation like this, when they were surrounded and the enemy was showing no signs of giving up. He exudes the kind of confident air that could get people killed.
Then the shield gets close enough at the exact moment when Thor strikes with his hammer, and—
Oh, the shield thinks. Okay, that was— that was impressive, if not completely amazing. The shield is about a few meters away, it can feel the vibrations from that hit echoing across its surface. Artillery fire, the shield thinks, only a thousand times more resonant and powerful.
The shield had considered the prince’s choice of weapon quite unusual, even more so than Barton’s, but had shrugged it off. The shield is more than aware of its own anachronistic status, and on the battlefield anything that works works.
And just based on what the shield can feel from all the way over here, the hammer does far more than just work. The shield quickly reevaluates its opinion. Thor would probably be okay doing whatever the hell he wanted if he kept doing that. It wonders what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that blow. It has been a while since it has faced an actual challenge, but that is an idle question for later. Right now, this would have to suffice.
And then the Hulk— honestly, the less thought about the Hulk, the better. It tries to pull from its memory something comparable and comes up with little. A volcanic eruption near Naples in 1944, a severe storm at Omaha a few months after. Forces of nature that stopped for no man, uncaring for anything. The shield fears a few things, but even it had enough sense to fear that.
So the shield fears the Hulk too, cannot bear to look directly at him lest it lose its nerve. Thor mentioned, off-hand, that he had managed to “command” the beast, which he profusely denied until he gave up and properly focused on the battle at hand. The shield suspects there is much to this story it is not privy to, but it agrees with him . Forces of nature are not meant to be tamed, and the Hulk was nothing less.
Where even was… it? Him? Before all this? He looked humanoid enough, but then again appearances were deceiving.
Still, the shield supposes, if anyone could it would be him . Goodness knows the shield is not easy to impress, but he had a way of commanding respect.
(The shield also supposes Thor’s words have to be true to some extent. He would never permit having such a destructive loose cannon so close to civilians if there was no way to direct it.)
Later, what seems like hours later, they are lying on the floor, practically at Stark’s feet in a way he would never normally never allow himself to be- “Captain Rogers,” a voice spoke from above.
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, as though too exhausted to argue, which the shield is pretty sure is a sign of the apocalypse. His gaze weakly flits upwards to the man’s eyes for a brief moment but eventually settles on the soles of his shoes. They are nice shoes, the shield can admit, but this is no time for admiration.
The new visitor, who Romanov had introduced as Director Fury of SHIELD, looks him up and down. His gaze lingers on the shield for a moment, and it looks back in defiance. His sternness sort of reminds the shield of General Phillips, of all people, if he had an even drier sense of humor and far more secrets.
So, really, nothing like General Philips.
The name clearly does not reassure him . If anything, he tenses up even more, as if preparing for another battle, before finally meeting the director’s gaze. The shield vaguely wonders how long it took for someone to come up with a string of words to fit such a long acronym, and how long it would take for the shield to force them to change it. Someone he was so clearly hesitant about sharing its name would simply not do.
“We’ve been searching for you for a while now.”
And something must have gone wrong, if he was so wary of them. The shield looks to Romanov, still standing at Fury’s side. Where was Barton?
Fury stops in what the shield could only presume was a dramatic speech, as though waiting for a response. He didn’t give him one.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to apologize for the little show before,” Fury continues, sounding about as apologetic as he seemed, which was absolutely not. “We believed you could pose a threat to the people of New York.”
If the shield could laugh, it would. Pose a threat? Does Fury know who he was talking to, or what he had been doing the past few hours? Did anyone?
He apparently agrees, because whatever face he gave in response prompts Romanov to add wryly, “In hindsight, that wasn’t our smartest decision.”
He remains silent, letting the two stew in the awkwardness, or expecting them to speak up again. “So?” he asks roughly. It was the first time he has spoken since Fury approached. Even his voice betrays his exhaustion. “how about now?”
“Unfortunately, despite your act of bravery, your unknown identity means you would continue to be perceived as a threat to the public.” Ah yes, because his master plan to destroy New York is to all but give his life to protect it from bombs and aliens. That was definitely a coherent and conducive plan. “Unless you are willing to confirm that you are Captain America.”
Several things happen at once. Romanov tilts her head ever so slightly in his direction, as though to get a better look at his expression. In the shield’s periphery, it notices four figures dressed in black combat gear tense up ever so slightly and reach for their weapons. Two are armed with tranquilizers, and one with what appeared to be a taser gun. It can’t exactly tell what the fourth was, but the shield wouldn't be surprised if it is a bow and arrows, wielded by Clint Barton.
Everything that comes out of this man’s mouth was perfectly coordinated, the shield realizes. This is a stage full of actors who know the script, with only him coming in blind.
He looks at them again for a moment with wariness, but also a faint trace of annoyance. He glances back at the shield before returning to meet their gaze, but he doesn’t give them an answer. He doesn’t do much else.
“The last time an unknown person appeared in New York, a portal opened up in the sky and the city was invaded by aliens. Surely you understand the need for security.” Fury says.
And the thing was, he definitely does, judging by his slight flinch and purse of his lips. The shield frowns. Fury wouldn’t say anything that wouldn’t land with him , not when everything about him is so calculated. But if this is the first time they had met, then how did…
The shield stares. Fury wasn’t just clever, Fury was watching. This isn’t just an encirclement, the shield thinks, this is a trap. He is surrounded, and he is exhausted. If there was any opportunity to break him down, this is the optimal time. Don’t break, the shield all but begs. Don’t give in, not yet.
And by some miracle, he hears it. “Maybe that was because you had almost no one to deal with them,” he says. “When you had at least sixteen people on me.”
Wait, sixteen people? All those people and a “little show” and they still couldn’t catch him? That didn’t sound right. So, good reconnaissance, less than ideal execution? It looks around at the four agents, all perfectly posed to strike as soon as something went wrong. Barton was still out of sight. So maybe that only applied to large-scale operations. Still, an exploit nonetheless.
“SHIELD was preoccupied,” Fury says brusquely. “There was a lot going on that you didn’t see. We sent our best agents as soon as we were able to spare them.” He nodded his head towards Romanov, conspicuously leaving out Barton, who probably still had an arrow aimed at him .
“You were held up for almost an hour,” he replies. “That was an hour the city didn’t have. A lot of people could have died during that time. A lot of people did.”
“Not as many as they could have,” Romanov says. “You saw to that.” Was that an attempt at flattery? Or some kind of reassurance? Either way, it didn’t work.
“Didn’t do enough.” it was a common sentence from him , all the way from the war, and according to Barnes, even before that. It’s okay, the shield thought. You’ve done everything you could. You’ve done enough.
“It doesn’t matter what could have happened,” Fury says. “What matters is what happens next. And if you are unwilling to verify your identity, I'm afraid—.”
“I don’t want to.” He interrupts, curt and dismissive and tired in a way he had never been before, when he was so careful and considerate. It was such a strange tone for him that even the shield was taken aback. “Do I have a choice?”
Fury opens his mouth to continue, but— “Hey, hey, leave the senior citizen alone.” Stark interjects, half-teasing and half-serious and wholly like his father. It was strange for Stark to suddenly bump in, who seemed content to ignore Fury so far, but the shield is not going to complain.
Romanov sighs loudly. “We’re not going to get anywhere with you, are we?” she asks, bypassing Stark entirely to speak directly to him . “At least, not right now.”
He doesn’t respond, and the shield supposes that is answer enough.
It seems only to be a few minutes later when someone says, “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt you. But we need that shield back now,”
The shield looks up from where it is on the floor, its wishes to stay there forever thoroughly interrupted. The visitor, as proclaimed on his name badge in big, red letters, seemed like he was in his twenties, and he was staring in that way people did when they are trying not to.
“What,” he replies at the same time the shield thinks what .
Distantly, it hears Stark mutter, “Oh, this should be good,” and suddenly it realizes there is one more battle ahead.
“We need that shield back now,” the visitor repeats. “It’s the property of the Smithsoni—”
“It’s mine.” he cuts him off, as he should.
Been his longer than you’ve been alive, the shield adds.
“We really need it back, sir,” the agent says, twisting his hands a little. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but when I got it from the museum, I had clear instructions that I had to bring it back again right after.”
The museum? Is that meant to be convincing? Because the shield will never go back to the Smithsonian. Not when it just got a taste of freedom, when it finally saw him again.
He looks at him, half daring, half exasperated. “Son, I’m not giving you this shield. I’m keeping it.”
“No, you really can’t,” the visitor protests. A high pitch enters his voice, and a small part of the shield that isn’t seething in hatred had to admire his bravery in denying someone who had been tearing aliens to sheds mere hours ago.
Because how dare they, h ow dare they , who did not have the faintest idea how to use the shield, lay claim to it? How dare they try to rend it away from him , who had guided it, taught it, and who it had protected and served in turn? And for what? History?
History is an old thing, a weary thing, a dead thing. The shield is far too immortal for history.
“Shall we arm wrestle for it?” he suggests, almost jokingly. “I’m not flipping a coin, I might lose. But I’ll fight you for it, if you really want.”
An arm-wrestling match? What he is referring to was a split-second handholding session where he spent more energy trying not to break his oponents’ arm than trying to win.
Stark makes a strange noise, as though he is choking.
“Sir, that shield belongs to Captain America,” the kid says, apparently regretting his decision to approach him more by the minute. “And because— if it's not— so it belongs to the museum.”
Oh really? And who exactly did this visitor think he was talking to? The tooth fairy?
“The museum can come talk to me about it,” he says with finality. He leans back against the wall again, perhaps gearing up to fight. The shield thinks for a moment about how many people work at museums. Maybe they think that if everyone from the Smithsonian attacked at once, they will have a chance against him and it.
Of course, they are wrong.
“I really don’t think they’re going to accept that. Agent Coulson had a big argument with the curator just to get it released in the first place. I really, really need to take it back.”
You need a lot of things, the shield snaps, at the end of its admittedly limited patience. You need me and you also need undamaged organs. Choose one.
He just blinks up at him, tiredly. It occurs to the shield that the crux of his arguments was just saying no over and over, hardly an eloquent and convincing explanation, but it supposes that if the visitor needed convincing, it would be open to other, more physical means.
“Ok, I’m gonna stop you there, short-stack, and remind you that, actually, the shield doesn’t belong to the Smithsonian. It belongs to Stark Industries, and we just very generously loaned it out to them. So if we’re talking like a finders keepers sort of rule of possession, it’s mine, because my company found it.” Stark says.
What? No, it was not. As much as it liked Stark, if anyone tried to take it away from him again—
“But realistically, I think we can agree it actually belongs to Captain America here anyway. So you can just leave it here with him.”
Ah, finally, someone that had common sense. Recovery of personal property must only be understood by few these days. Stark was very closely battling Coulson for second-favorite person.
“But he’s not Captain America.” the visitor replies. And little wonder he is so confused, he was clearly so blind he couldn’t see the face in front of his own. Yes, that was clearly what was going on, and not that the visitor had a death wish.
“Of course he is,” Stark said. He turned to him . “Cap? I mean, Steve? Are you, or are you not, Captain America?” he prompted.
He looks at the shield, and it looks back. He has all but collapsed on the floor after the battle and stayed there, all the energy and vigor he showed in the fight against the aliens was nowhere to be seen. It is a stark contrast to him and the Commandos, where he insisted on checking up on all of them after each major fight, citing that he was their captain.
He has suffered, the shield realizes, has suffered a lot, all the while it wasn’t watching. It is an odd realization. It had been with him ever since it was made, had been with him for seventy long years, longer than even Barnes or Carter or even his own parents. It doesn’t know that part of his history that had changed him , perhaps would never know.
But it doesn’t matter, not really. People will change, and the shield will stay the same. The shield has existed long before most of the people in this room, and would exist long after. It can’t fault anyone for that.
And while it would have preferred to be with him , to comfort him , even if it could do nothing but stand by and be helpless as he was tormented by his own demons, the most it can do is start now, until the end.
The shield looks at him again. There is a far away look in his eyes that would once prompt Barnes to knock on his head and ask if anyone was home. Barnes… Barnes is gone now, as likely was everyone else in the war.
But not the shield, and it will never leave him alone again.
“Are you?” the visitor asks. The wariness is gone from the visitor’s face, now more fascinated, almost daring.
“Say it again,” he asks Stark, sounding a little more confident now, a little more sure.
Stark says, “You’re Captain America. Aren’t you?”
He breathes, slow and even. He looks steadily at Stark.
“I am,” he says.
And the shield knows, as sure as it can be, that he and it can be okay.