Chapter Text
When Steve wakes up from what is essentially a seventy-year nap, he punches a fake wall and ends up fidgeting in the office of a very unimpressed man with an eyepatch that gives off the air of someone who knows too much and hates it.
“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Captain.” Eyepatch Man announces. Steve glances around the office warily. It’s very transparent and very high above ground. There’s a clock that emits a soft green light and blinks on his desk. “I’m Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.” He says it in such a way that Steve can hear the acronym. It’s not a big comfort.
“What am I doing here?” he asks, attempting a commanding tone. Years of taking a detour into the Arctic, however, had not been kind on his vocal chords and it comes out more like a boy going through puberty. Fury respectfully does not crack a smile.
“We’re going to rehabilitate you for this new world, Cap. Run some tests, see what that golden juice in you is really capable of,” He pauses to take a sip of water from a glass on the table. Steve has a staring contest with his kneecaps.
“America’s first superhero, back from the dead! The press’ll have a field day, which means we have to get you ready for it. Agent Hill is already organizing your press team for when we leak the news–”
Steve jerks up and his knees hit the table.
“No,” he says.
“No?” parrots Fury.
Steve looks up slowly, aiming his best Captain gaze at Fury’s eyes. Er, eye.
“No press,” he repeats carefully, making sure his throat won’t betray him this time, “In fact, no anything .”
Fury puts down the glass of water. The motion reminds Steve of a jaguar; calculating, yet coiled and ready to attack.
“And why is that?” He asks Steve in the same, slow tone, as if daring him. Steve thinks of the plane. Of Peggy. Of Howard and Dr. Erskine. Of the Howling Commandos. Of Bucky, falling.
“Captain America died seventy years ago,” he replies, “Only thing he left was me.”
Evidently, that wasn’t enough to make Fury relent and leave him to prance out the door as you fancy. It still took long, torturous debating that slowly dissolved into thinly-veiled threats (Fury letting slip that S.H.I.E.L.D. has the country’s best holding cells, Steve accidentally mentioning his innate ability to punch his way out of any situation, eyepatches included) until they finally came to an agreement; S.H.I.E.L.D would keep all knowledge of Captain America’s survival from the general public and allow Steve to assume a new identity in return for being able to have him under constant public surveillance and the right to call him in for tests regarding the serum. From there, it takes approximately forty minutes for a sharply dressed woman to stalk into the room with what looked like a metric ton of forms. She sets them down at the meeting table and places a pen neatly in front of Steve, before stalking off again, shoes clicking against the floor. He stares at them hopelessly. Fury bares his teeth in what looks like an approximation of a smile.
“We figured you wouldn’t want to bother with trying to use a computer just yet,” he says, before leaving Steve to sit and stare with the beginnings of regret at the mountain of papers.
Steve had done many things; took down HYDRA bases, went on an unauthorized solo rescue mission, crashed a plane and himself, punched Hitler 200 times, etc. Now he thinks, blinking awake blearily, writing himself to sleep can go on that list. The hand cramp he got at around eight last night had persisted for another two hours until he tried to force the pen out of his grip and gave it hairline fractures. Halfway between Stack Five, Pages Eighty-three to One-hundred and nine, Steve must’ve either been knocked unconscious by the S.H.I.E.L.D agents who were definitely watching him and probably felt sorry, or even his super-soldier brain hadn’t been able to keep up with filing for taxes in 2011. He doesn’t want to think about which one it is.
Closer inspection of the page he had stopped writing on shows barely legible chicken scrawling. It takes him several minutes to decipher it as the information details of his mother (fake), who died when he was three due to tuberculosis. His father (also fake) ran away when he was eight and dumped him into some orphanage in Brooklyn, where he lived until he was legal (some semblance of truth). For fun, under his fictional father’s distinguishing features section, he gives the vaguest description of Nick Fury possible. He also toys with the idea of having seventeen other siblings. Having to make up an entire life in a new century based on four hours of conversations was going to mean that S.H.I.E.L.D. would have to fix some pretty big plot-holes. Steve, feeling victoriously petty at this thought, adds his multitude of siblings with a flourish.
Stack Fourteen turns out to be the last of the damned forms. Steve would have wept for joy if it wasn’t for the same, sharply dressed woman clicking back into the room the moment he finished the last stroke on Page Fifty-two. Of course they were monitoring him. He forces the pen gently out of his hand and curses the serum silently for not removing muscle cramps.
She gathers up all the papers with scary efficiency and pauses long enough to give him a curt smile and say “Director Fury will be with you in a moment” before elegantly walking away despite the alarming amounts of loose paper balanced in her arms. Steve fears her.
Director Fury does come back eventually, a man holding a tray of food following him. The man is wearing a crisp black suit. He squeaks when he sees Steve.
“Captain, this is Phil Coulson. I trust him with most things,” Fury says in lieu of an introduction. Steve stands up and smiles. He must have done something wrong, because Phil Coulson gapes like a goldfish before turning bright red, like Steve used to do when he had an asthma attack. He really hopes he didn’t just scare him into having one. Fury sniggers.
“He’s a fan,” he says and Coulson puts the tray down as hastily as possible and runs to shake Steve’s hand. He is very enthusiastic.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Coulson babbles, “I have so many pictures of you in my room.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. Fury snorts.
Coulson, apart from being about as eager as some of the showgirls Steve went on tour with, is incredibly competent when needed. After Fury feeds Steve (who would have eaten the tray too if he hadn’t remembered that he was a functioning member of society), debriefs, and dismisses them, they’re both led into a comfortable room where Coulson proceeds to give Steve the most rigorous crash course in the twenty-first century, which mostly boiled down to Technology for Dummies.
“These are called tablets. They’re like squashed computers.”
“Screens are very commonplace nowadays. Your phone now fits in your pocket. Yes, the entire thing.”
“This is the internet; specifically, Google. You can ask it anything. No, don’t – don’t talk to it, it’s not that smart yet, you have to type it into this bar.”
“This is Beyoncé. She has nothing to do with what I’m supposed to teach you but if you go out into the world without knowing who our queen is you won’t survive more than a day.”
Steve decides that the future is terrifying .
A week and twelve uncomfortable needles later, Steve is given a manila folder.
“That’s you,” Fury says, nodding to the innocent file, “All the important parts of your new, definitely real identity. Human Resources has a field day going through your imagination. Seventeen siblings? Really?”
Steve tries and fails to hide a smile. He opens the folder, which is surprisingly innocuous. A birth certificate, I.D., bank details, a black plastic card, some military documents (fake-Steve was honorably discharged, something real-Steve never got to experience because he fancied a nose-dive into the Pacific instead), and one of those smartphones Coulson had painstakingly explained to him for hours about. No passport, so he can’t leave the country. That was weirdly smart of S.H.I.E.L.D to keep him confined within their reach.
Fourteen minutes later, he has the keys to a S.H.I.E.L.D owned Brooklyn safehouse apartment, a duffel bag of weird discount clothing, a new wallet (American flag pattern included, thank you Coulson), and a new life to live.
Halfway out the door, Fury calls after him.
“Captain.”
Steve pauses, one foot already over the threshold.
“Yes, Director?”
“Your last name,” Fury begins, looking intently at his own screen thing, evidently reading Steve’s new files, “You sure you want to use that?”
Steve shrugs. ‘Steve’ was a common enough first name, so he kept it. It hadn’t taken him long to choose a last name either, because the natural choice was so obvious.
“I don’t have a problem with it. Do you?”
Fury does a complicated facial expression like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or tell Steve he’s an idiot.
“None at all. Carry on, soldier.”
By the first month, Steve knows where the nearest supermarket is (two blocks away) and nothing else. He uses up the cash S.H.I.E.L.D gives him really quickly, because it’s in no way his fault that his metabolism made him eat his weight in Spam. Coulson ambushes him in the sauce aisle one day, sticks some black thing ( a communication device, his brain helpfully supplies from the Tech for Dummies lecture) into his ear and walks him through using the black plastic card. Turns out Steve has a lot more money than he originally was aware of.
He stops buying baked beans and starts buying Lunchables.
Civilian life, Steve quickly finds out, is every bit as complicated as the war was.
For one, he’s tragically bad at doing anything that involves electronics, which basically rules out ninety percent of the basic human routine that people in 2011 follow. Coulson starts mysteriously appearing to help him out whenever he’s pathetically trying to coax a kitchen appliance to work. Steve never finds out if it’s S.H.I.E.L.D sending him or if it’s just Coulson being Coulson.
By the second month, Steve has learnt how to use:
- The toaster
- The microwave
- The dishwasher (to an extent)
- The washing machine (although Steve has many pink socks now)
He even makes his first call on his new phone to Coulson, all by himself. Coulson reacts appropriately – which is to say, he reacts like a teenage girl getting a love letter from her beloved, shrieking included.
After the third month, Steve learns to use the stove and oven. Fury sends him a text that reads Thank god you’ve stopped buying fucking canned food and Lunchables.
Steve buys an entire shelf of Spam the next time he goes to the supermarket. Fury sends him another text that reads For fucks sake.
After the fourth month, Steve is, well, comfortable. He can turn on the TV now and flip channels with ease. He rode the train for the first time and decided that walking was much nicer. He can use the internet (YouTube provides countless hours of entertainment) and can call people (the only numbers he has are Coulson’s and Fury’s, though) using his phone. He buys a motorbike, mostly by himself. The sharply dressed woman (Steve later learns that her name is Maria Hill) appears at his side at the showroom suddenly to hand him a driver’s license, before mouthing sorry we forgot before dissolving away. Evidently all S.H.I.E.L.D agents are trained in the secret art of teleportation.
After getting comfortable, Steve realizes that he’s bored . S.H.I.E.L.D calls him in once every fortnight for tests and after that money mysteriously appears in his bank account. Steve sometimes, mid-coffee drinking and cat video watching, remembers the scope of control S.H.I.E.L.D actually has on his life. It’s not an incredibly reassuring thought.
He sets out to get a job.
“So,” Tony Stark, head of R&D and successor of Stark Industries says, “S.H.I.E.L.D sent you.”
He clasps his hands and leans forward over the desk, scrutinizing Steve. Steve feels a bead of sweat roll down his back, which is dumb because Stark has the air conditioner on at what seems to be negative seven degrees.
“No,” he says. He’s been saying a lot of that recently. Stark’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.
“Are you lying? Is Captain America allowed to lie?” He stands up abruptly and starts to walk around the desk. “Because last I checked, you’re under S.H.I.E.L.D’s care, and they’d never just let a national icon walk out on them like that. Jarvis, gimme a hand here – is Frosty the Snow Captain here lying?”
“Captain America is not lying, sir,” the ceiling says, giving Steve at least three heart attacks, “He and S.H.I.E.L.D have an agreement, the contents of which I am unable to access.”
“Yet,” Stark mutters. He sits on the table in front of Steve and squints into his face. “So why the hell are you here?”
“Uh,” Steve says eloquently, “I’m applying for a job?”
“Bullshit.” Stark says, hopping off the desk to pace the room.
Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. All he did was answer one or two newspaper job listings, one of which happened to be a position at the Stark Industries amusement park. Next thing he knew, his presence was immediately requested at Stark Tower, where he came face to face with Howard’s son. It was all very alarming. Tony Stark keeps pacing. He seemed to be muttering under his breath.
“–why would he – damn shield always fucking meddling – does he even need to work? – gotta tell Pepper to pull the newspaper ads, next thing you know we’ll be getting supervillains asking to man the ticket counter–”
Steve waits. Finally, Stark stops and resumes his place sitting across the table from Steve.
“Okay. Job interview. Right,” he says, “Jarvis darling, bring up Uncle Sam’s resume please.”
A screen on the desk that definitely wasn't there before flashes up his ID photo and his new, twenty-first century data starts scrolling by. Stark raises an eyebrow.
“I might be wrong here, Cap, but last I heard you were born ninety years ago, not in 1985,” he says. Steve shrugs. He’s getting very good at shrugging.
“Part of my agreement with S.H.I.E.L.D. They gave me a new identity.”
Stark gives him a noncommittal hum, eyes flicking up and down Steve’s new and impressive resume.
“Well, I supposed you didn’t have much of one before taking an icy bath,” he replies, “It’s not like many people would hire someone who’s only jobs were killing Nazis and show-dancing.”
“Hey,” Steve begins hotly, but Stark latches on to another part of his data in exclamation.
“Capsicle, what’s the meaning of this?” He all but shouts, swiveling around the screen to show Steve his – name.
“What’s wrong with it?” Steve says angrily. First Fury, now Stark.
Stark’s eyes were comically wide. He laughs a bit, leaning back into the chair and shaking his head at the screen.
“Did someone give you this or did you really make it up yourself? Actually, don’t tell me. I want to live with the idea that you could have chosen any last name and you chose that .”
Steve bristles a bit. Stark pauses to take a breath, eyes meeting Steve’s, and calms down a little.
“Sorry, sorry. Just getting used to you A) being alive, and B) asking for a job at the amusement park .” He glances through the rest of the resume quickly before waving it away.
“Jarvis, start running a check on S.H.I.E.L.D’s surveillance of this man. They’re not getting their grubby government hands ten feet near my water park. Unless it’s Coulson. He’s the only worker ant of theirs I’ll allow on the slides.”
Steve blinks. “I know Coulson,” He says. Stark laughs.
“I know, he’s only told me about eighty times,” he says, standing up. Steve stands up as well out of habit.
“Congrats, Cap. You’re hired,” Stark announces, holding out his hand. Steve grasps it disbelievingly.
“Just like that?” He asks. The other man shrugs.
“All your data is fake anyway, no point in me hiring you based on that. And if there’s any man I’d trust to make sure little gremlins don’t fall off the water slide towers, it’ll be Captain America."
Steve feels his face warm slightly.
“Thank you, Stark,” He says, voice slightly gravelly. Stark nods and sits back down.
“Please. Call me Tony. The guys are waiting for you at the lobby, they’ll bring you back home. Pepper’ll be by your apartment in a few days with all the information you’re gonna need. I have a feeling you’re going to fit right in. We might also have to check for S.H.I.E.L.D bugs on your person, since I don’t trust those rats,” He rattles off, mind already somewhere else. Steve nods and starts to leave. He pauses in the doorway.
“Tony?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not Captain America.” Not anymore. “I’m St–”
“Yeah, yeah, got it. As your employer, however, I retain the right to call you ‘Capsicle’.”
“Shut up,” Steve says, smile tugging on his lips, and he leaves the freezing office.
Less than a month later, Steve is ordering three little kids and their harried mother to the side to wait their turn for the Funnel Twist. The sleek mechanical ramp brings up the float, and he efficiently sweeps it into the start of the ride before instructing them to sit on it.
“Do not get out of the float, guys. It’s just as fun to stay safe, okay?” He says to the three kids, who are all vibrating with excitement. They nod eagerly. The mother shoots him a grateful smile, and then looks him up and down.
“You look familiar,” she begins, but the light dictating when Steve lets them go goes green and he pushes them down the slide quickly.
“Have a fun ride!” He yells after their echoing screams.
Stark Park (terrible name, Tony chose it) is one of America’s biggest water and amusement parks, combining the two in a mini-city of rollercoasters and waterslides. Steve rotates through manning the four biggest slides; either up top splitting the queues up into groups for the ride or down below pressing the GO button when the previous drenched, adrenaline-filled group of friends have cleared out of the pool. It’s not a terribly interesting job, but he gets a decent pay and employee meals are free, which means he can eat as much as he likes in the canteen without thinking about Fury sending him passive aggressive texts about his diet.
“I noticed your mascot is Iron Man,” Steve says in between mouthfuls of some fried rice. They’re eating take-out in the empty boardroom because Tony couldn’t stand watching Steve demolish his hotdog stand anymore. Tony nods, feet up on the table and ankles crossed, mouth full of chow mein.
“Congratulations Cap, you have eyes,” he says, his mouth full. Pepper, who is next to him, frowns at his rudeness. Steve doesn’t really mind it. He knew Howard.
“Tony, don’t talk with your mouth full,” She scolds, before taking a bite of her own fried rice. Tony rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told.
Steve takes another mouthful of his rice.
“Isn’t iron ferrous?” He asks, swallowing.
“Your point?” Tony replies.
“You run a water park whose mascot is a man made out of a metal that rusts.” Tony groans and Pepper stifles her laugh by shoving rice into her mouth.
“Okay, I get that you’re several decades behind the times, grandpa, but really? It’s marketing, Cap. Kids absolutely love m– Iron Man, so it makes total sense. Plus, who’s at the forefront of Stark Industries once you leave the land of make-believe?”
“Me,” Pepper says briskly. Tony nods sagely.
“Yes, her. But also: Iron Man. Everyone knows the suit! It’s iconic design, like a Ford or a Stark Phone. Kids and weird government agencies want to get their grubby paws on it,” Tony rattles on, hands waving dramatically, “And also, the suit’s actually made out of nitinol, but the general public is incompetent most of the time, and I seriously cannot be bothered arguing with the press over the mascot of my water park–”
Steve tunes out Tony’s ramblings and eats more rice. It’s really good. Pepper leans over the table with a twinkle in her eye and whispers, “It’s okay, I think it’s a stupid idea for a mascot too.”
They both snigger into their rice as Tony snaps out of it and demands petulantly to know what they’re both laughing at.
The first thing that makes him realize that Stark Park may not be all that it seems is the lifeguards at the wave pool.
Steve meets both of them properly a month into his job when the one who consists of nothing but muscles and dopamine sits down in the seat across from him and the whole bench audibly groans. He’s wearing a red cap and red swim trunks and a bright yellow construction worker vest, and if Steve looks like he’s been pumping iron then this guy must be on some hard steroids. He places a bucket of fried chicken in front of him.
“Greetings,” Muscley Blonde says jovially, “I am Thor.”
Steve nods, mouth full of hotdog. He holds his hand out for Thor to shake. Thor clasps and shakes it so enthusiastically Steve can feel the bones disintegrate.
“Steve,” he chokes out. Thor finally lets go, wide sunny grin still on his face. He reminds Steve of an overexcited golden retriever.
“I have heard a great deal of your deeds, Steven,” he says, and Steve feels his stomach drop. Was it so obvious that he was Captain America?
“– Such as the time you rescued the stuck children on the Waterfall Drop. Most admirable.” Thor continues, and a weight is suddenly lifted off Steve’s shoulders. “I had yet to meet a man here who could lift an entire raft of people with such ease.”
Steve turns red briefly.
“I didn’t actually lift them,” he says hurriedly, “I… pushed them. Vertically.”
Thor chuckles and swallows an entire chicken drumstick, bones and all. What the hell.
“Do not worry, Steven,” he says in a low tone that suggested he was trying to whisper, but completely missed the concept behind being able to whisper. “Your secret strength is safe with me.”
Steve is saved from having to answer by another man sliding into the seat next to Thor. If Thor was a golden retriever, this man was a whippet. His hair was long like Thor’s, but jet black and weirdly greasy. He wore the same red trunks with a yellow polo and a yellow tinted visor and was that a fanny pack .
“Norns, Thor, you couldn’t have waited ten seconds,” Fanny Pack Man gripes. He’s holding a bucket of chicken that is the same size as Thor’s, if not bigger. Steve cannot even begin to comprehend.
Fanny Pack Man fixes Steve with a piercing glare. He cocks his head slowly.
“Hi,” Steve says. “I’m Steve.”
“Loki,” Fanny Pack Man says curtly. He takes out a drumstick and (thankfully) starts to eat it like a normal person. Thor beams even wider.
“My brother!” He exclaims, thumping Loki on the back and causing him to choke on a piece of chicken.
“Adopted,” Loki says to Steve, eyes doing the faintest hint of a roll. Steve is vaguely impressed by his ability to convey the most complex emotions merely by a twitch of his face.
“Loki, I was just telling Steven here how great it would be for a mor– for a man as strong as him to spar against us sometime!”
“Really?” Loki says incredulously at the same time Steve says, “No, wait, you weren’t telling me that.”
Thor’s face at this point is ninety percent smile.
“Steven, one of these days we shall go to the company gym for some bonding time!” He says merrily. Steve sweats. Loki eats another piece of chicken.
“Sounds like a plan,” He says faintly. Loki snorts and Thor lights up even more.
“I hope you don’t regret that decision, Steven,” Loki says silkily. He puts down another clean chicken bone. When Steve looks over to him, more than half the bucket was gone, the only evidence of any food being the mountain of bones next to him. Seriously, what the hell.
“I think I’ll be fine,” Steve says, pulling together some resolve. At this point, he was pretty sure that Thor was actually that guy in New Mexico which ran into some trouble with a hammer (Thank you Coulson), who was definitely not from Earth. However, Steve knew a thing or two about fake identities, so he decides to just let them be. They didn’t seem to wish harm onto anything, as far as he knew. Except for Loki. Never trust anyone who wears a fanny pack.
Thor and Loki exchange glances. Steve fidgets slightly.
“Nice talking to you both,” he says, finishing up his rice and getting up. Thor nods at him and Steve feels as if an ancient power had granted him leave from the banquet table. Loki tears the meat off another chicken bone without breaking eye contact. Creepy.
“We’ll see you around, Steven!” Thor calls after him. Loki nods his assent. “Come by the wave pool sometime.”
“I will,” Steve lies back to them over his shoulder.
While the removal of S.H.I.E.L.D surveillance as far as Steve knew was welcome, it soon became painfully obvious that Tony was doing some monitoring of his own. Namely, he would sometimes speak into Steve’s earpiece (which was supposed to be for work use only, but Tony built the damn things) conversationally, often causing him to drop the float and glare at the security camera. Despite that, life was pretty good, if he did say so himself.
"Your lifeguards," Steve begins as they sit and eat takeout (Mexican this time) in the boardroom. Tony nods through his taco.
"What about them?" He asks. Steve stares at his tortilla wrap.
"They're really interesting."
"I wonder what ever could have happened to give you that idea."
"I ended up eating lunch with them a few weeks b- wait, were you spying on us?"
"I would never," Tony gasps, taco-less hand on his arc reactor like the drama queen he is, "Jarvis, on the other hand..."
Steve gives the ceiling a glare as it says "apologies, Captain."
"Anyway," he continues, definitely not feeling betrayed, "did you know he was Thor? As in, crazy New Mexico hammer guy?"
Tony fixes him with a level stare. "Look me in the eye and ask that again."
"Right. I don't know why I thought you didn’t," Steve says, and takes a bite of his wrap. It's full of beans. Tony takes it upon himself to now divulge Thor's entire story.
"Yeah, big guy came to the park like. Two months after he fucked off back to Ass Goth or wherever with his snake of a brother in tow. They took a nasty fall off a rainbow bridge or something - not gonna lie, they were injured in ways that would have killed a normal person - but under some good ol' Stark Care(TM) we made them alright. Had some feelings talk and shit too apparently, so now they're good as they could've been," He says in half the amount of time it would have taken a normal person. Steve nods. "His brother Loki has some - maybe all screws loose though, I swear he fucks with me on purpose sometimes."
"Oh yeah," Steve remembers, "he was wearing a fanny pack."
Tony shudders.
"I’ve never trusted that dude."
Steve politely doesn't mention to everyone he knows that Thor and Loki are from Asgard. They respectfully do not announce that Steve is Captain America. Well, Loki doesn't announce it. Thor doesn't even seem to know.
"I hear that you're a national hero," Loki says, suddenly sitting on the barrier next to Steve. Steve jerks and nearly falls down into the knee-high water pool at the top of the slide, having just pushed down a family of five.
"Jesus Christ," He swears, righting himself. There's a sudden lack of anyone wanting to ride the Vuvuzela. Loki looks very smug, crossed legged and perched on the handrail.
"What do you want?" Steve asks him, disgruntled. Loki shrugs.
"Just wanted to let you know I knew," he says, examining his fingernails, "But don't worry - your secret is safe with me, Steven of Midgard."
Steve has no idea how to respond. "Thanks?"
"In return, you do not mention Asgard to my brother," Loki says sharply. Steve blinks. Loki hops off the handrail and starts prowling around the tower.
"Some - things have happened that ripped his life apart," he grins slightly at the last word, "But there have also been consequences, ones I did not plan for. After falling off the Bifrost together, we had months, years to talk it out. Of course, time doesn't work where we were, which meant that almost none had passed back here. At this point in time, my brother does not wish to remember our former home, and anyone who happens to remind him of it can expect a lovely present from me," he bares his teeth in what seems to be a smile. Steve feels his blood run cold.
"Got it, no Asgard, no God things. You have my word," he half-says, half-babbles. Loki manages to make middle-aged beach parent chic look terrifying.
Loki nods, evidently satisfied.
"Thank you, Steven. We will see you around," he says, and walks straight into the slide.
"What the fuck," Steve says, rushing to the edge to look at the end of the ride. Loki is standing on the edge of the pool, completely dry. He looks up and waggles his fingers before lazily heading in the direction of the wave pool.
These damn gods with their freakish teleportation and fanny packs.
The ramp carrying the floats lets out an awful lurching sound, shrill and piercing, and then grinds to a halt with a shudder.
Steve pauses midway through helping a little girl into a float. She looks at him quizzically. He glances the conveyor belt and sighs.
"Damn it," he hisses and presses the emergency button.
Twenty minutes and countless apologies later, Steve stands impatiently at the bottom of the water slide. Thor and Loki are sitting on the pile of floats and eating sandwiches. Not one each, but an honest to god pile of Subway that is disappearing at an alarming rate. Evidently neither of them cared about potential drownings in the wave pool.
"Stark isn't coming down," Loki says suddenly, and Steve looks up at him. There's nothing in his hands but a footlong. "He's sending a repairman instead."
"When did he tell you that?"
"Just now. I've been talking to him for the last half hour to use his credit card to get these sandwiches," he says, waving his half-eaten footlong at Steve.
"How?" Steve asks, "With ear communication devices?"
Loki rolls his eyes and picks up another sandwich.
"Clones," He says primly, taking a minuscule bite of a BLT. Thor laughs heartily and shoves bread into his mouth.
Now that he mentions it, Steve has a sudden suspicion about how they're both just chilling out next to him when they're obviously still on the clock.
If he cranes his neck and looks as far to the left as possible, he can see the lifeguard chair and deck of the wave pool. Sure enough, carbon copies of Thor and Loki are sitting there, watching aptly at the happy swimmers. He turns back to the two brothers.
"Unbelievable," he says with a little jealousy, and receives two innocent looking who, me? faces in return.
"If it makes you feel better, I can only do it for short amounts of time," Loki says, laughter underlying his tone.
"Make one for me the next time something like this happens at the wave pool and I won't tell Tony you used his credit card to order those sandwiches," he says commandingly, and Loki does do a surprised chuckle at that.
"It would be my pleasure," he says. At that moment, a harried looking man in a lab coat rushes up holding a massive toolbox.
"Hey, sorry I'm late," he says. Steve shakes his head quickly.
"No, not a problem. I'm Steve, the operator of this slide for today. The ramp has given up on us," he says, and holds out his hand. The other man shakes it heartily.
"Steve, yeah, I've heard about you from Tony. Did you like the Mexican place?" He asks conversationally, putting down the toolbox and opening up the control panel.
"Oh, that was your recommendation?" Steve says in surprise, "It was really good!"
Thor and Loki sit up next to their pile of waxed sandwich wrappers in interest.
"Oh, I'm glad you liked it. I'm Bruce, by the way. I'm like Stark's overqualified plumber."
"Nice to meet you, Bruce," Steve replies, crossing his arms and stepping to the side to let the man work in peace.
They keep up the idle chatter for a while as Bruce fiddles with the controls, with the two Norse gods interjecting every so often. Somewhere along the way, it turns into a discussion about their eccentric boss and the spirit in his ceiling.
"One time during lunch he forgot I was there and had a ten-minute long conversation with his ceiling," Steve says, drumming his fingers along his arm absently.
"Oh, Jarvis? Tony told me once that he would have accidentally drank formaldehyde if he hadn't stopped him," Bruce replies, elbow-deep into the gears of the belt.
"Jarvis is a marvel of technology on Earth," Loki contributes, eating tacos from a container that seemingly appeared from nowhere.
"This cuisine is really excellent," Thor booms, completely uninterested in roof-inhabiting artificial intelligence.
A short half hour after he arrives, Bruce removes his arms from inside the machine and starts screwing everything back.
"Seems to just have been a gear knocked loose," he explains, tightening the panels back up, "Try it out now."
Steve puts in his employee key into the panel and turns. The ramp sputters to life and groans slightly before starting to move.
"It works," he says with relief. Thor lets out a cheer and shoves Loki off the raft pile. He starts throwing them onto the ramp with evident glee as his brother protests loudly. Steve turns to Bruce, who has finished packing up his toolbox and is about to leave.
"Hey, thank you so much. You're really good at fixing things!" He says gratefully. Bruce smiles tiredly at him.
"Thanks. I have seven PhDs," he says, and pads off into the distance as Thor finishes throwing rafts and throws a shrieking Loki into the water instead.
Pepper finally drags Tony out of the office and into the actual park to do his whole routine manager checkup thing. They both end up in the cafeteria where Steve is on lunch break, and Tony makes a beeline for his table, sliding into the seat before Pepper's quick hands can grab him.
"Save me, Captain," he whines, shaking Steve by the shoulders. "The mean ginger lady is making me talk to people. Little children. Gremlins ." He shudders.
"How terrible your life is," Steve tells him. Tony mock sobs as Pepper walks up to him, thoroughly unimpressed. "Oh, by the way, I met Bruce."
"Bruce? My science boyfriend?" Tony perks up from where he is, slumped onto the table. Steve nods.
"He fixed the ramp on the Drop," he says, and Tony nods in understanding. Pepper pointedly clears her throat behind him and Tony pointedly does not react.
"Yeah, he's like the second, angrier version of me. What a guy," Tony says reverently. Steve supposes their massive intellectual capabilities help put aside many flaws they could have in their friendship.
"He doesn't seem like the kind to get angry easily," he replies, taking a bite of a slightly soggy grilled cheese. Tony laughs.
"Oh, you'd hope so," Tony's 'so' is cut off with a strangled squeak as Pepper, tired of waiting, grabs and lifts him by the collar. "But take me seriously when I say you do not want to make him mad. That's why I have him doing low stress jobs when his genius brain isn't working with me in the labs. He used to run the cafe."
"We don't have a cafe?" Steve calls after him as Pepper drags him away.
"That's because he got angry at it." Tony yells back.
“Captain,” Coulson says, standing next to the lifeguard chair in a three-piece and watching with well concealed annoyance as little kids splashed water on his shoes, “Fury has been trying to contact you for three weeks.”
“No running at the wave pool,” Steve yells at a group of preteen boys as they crash past, and then to Coulson, “I have a phone, you know. That he gave me.”
“Yes, but Stark’s done something to it. He can’t text or call it at all.” That explains the sudden lack of complaints about his food choices.
“Remind me to thank Tony. And anyway, can’t he just, I don’t know, come visit me if he wants to have a chat so badly? It’s not like my house has moved off the map,” he tells Coulson, who shifts to look up at him with an expression torn between exasperation and ingrained admiration.
“Your electronic lock has been overridden. No codes or fingerprints S.H.I.E.L.D has tried can unlock it, and every time we hack it they just change again,” Coulson says tiredly, and this time Steve tears his eyes away from the daredevil children to frown at him.
“What d’you mean? I’ve been able to open it just fine with my fingerprint or my access code,” he says bemusedly, “Also, haven’t you guys heard of waiting on the doorstep? Or knocking? Jesus, you don’t have to ambush me in my own home.”
Coulson looks uncomfortable. “Fury likes the air of mystery.”
“So he refuses to meet me like a normal person when Tony screws with his ability to be a cryptid.”
“Er, yes. That’s about it,” Coulson says, then “Anyway, you’re due in to S.H.I.E.L.D for testing soon. Will Wednesday at 0800 work?”
Steve waves to the returning Thor and Loki, their arms laden with cafeteria chicken, and nods to Coulson.
“Sounds good. Would you like some chicken? We’re having a picnic with Tony in about fifteen minutes.”
Coulson looks down at his slightly damp ankles.
“Yeah, why not.”
“I’m just saying,” Tony says to Coulson as they all sit in a neat circle sharing an obscene amount of chicken, “Fury shouldn’t have put electronic locks on Steve’s door if he knew that I was his employer.”
Coulson glances warily at Thor inhaling a bucket of drumsticks and says, “I think he’s angrier at what you did to Cap’s phone.”
“Thank you,” Steve whispers to Tony, who waves it off good-naturedly. Coulson looks as if he’s going to make a scathing remark, but he glances at Steve and decides to eat his food instead.
“I didn’t do anything to his phone,” Tony lies smoothly. He’s really good at denying things at face value. Coulson fixes him with a very unimpressed stare.
“Just let him contact Cap somehow, will you? I’ve got enough to deal with that doesn’t have to do with the director of S.H.I.E.L.D throwing tantrums when his phone won’t send texts,” Coulson pleads. To any passerby, he would have just sounded thoroughly bored. There’s a pause in conversation as Tony pretends to mull over his response, although anyone with half a brain cell would know that inconveniencing Fury would triumph over potential legal action threatened any day when it came to Tony Stark.
“Maybe he should try a carrier pigeon,” Thor offers helpfully in the following silence.
Steve gets home, unlocks his door with ease, and puts away his bag. He turns on his laptop and scrolls idly on Pinterest for a while, and then hesitates. Tony had said something about electronic locks. Electronics. Robots. Artificial Intelligence.
Ceiling AIs.
“Jarvis?” He calls out into his apartment. A ringing silence greets him and Steve furrows his brows, feeling stupid. He goes back to scrolling.
A few minutes later, his phone rings. It’s Tony.
“Jarvis told me we’ve been found out. Congratulations, you’re smart. Use him as you wish,” he says, about to hang up when Steve stops him.
“Wait, that’s all you have to say? You’re going to install your robot into my ceiling where he can effectively spy on me and when I catch you out you’re just going to act as if it’s doing me a favour?” Steve says in disbelief. Tony sighs audibly.
“He’s just there to keep S.H.I.E.L.D out and maybe dim your lights when you fall asleep with the TV on, jeez. I’m not interested in keeping tabs on you 24/7, – which by the way, is definitely verging on stalking regardless of what the little rats at S.H.I.E.L.D say – I’m just watching out for my employees. And fucking with Fury. Mostly fucking with Fury. He’s already deactivated four audio bugs anyway, since you don’t have cameras installed. But if you want him out, I can remotely deactivate him – it’s your loss,” Tony says, and Steve can hear his shrug. He deflates a bit.
“Fine,” he says, “Sorry, Tony. I got a bit defensive.”
“Understandable,” Tony replies, “I gotta go. Enjoy your new butler, Capsicle.”
Steve listens to the dial tone for a moment, and then tentatively says “Jarvis?” again.
“Yes, Captain?” a disembodied voice says smoothly, and Steve jumps slightly.
“Uh, hello. You can call me Steve.”
“Of course.”
“Do. Do I just talk to you? Like this?” Steve conveys awkwardly between him and the empty space in front of him despite Jarvis not being able to see it.
“Yes. You can ask me anything and I will attempt to assist you within my capabilities. I can help you search of information, order items or food online, etcetera.” A pause. “Or I could dim your lights.”
Who knew A.I.s were capable of sarcasm.
“Huh,” Steve mumbles, looking at his phone, “Coulson said they weren’t that smart yet.”
“That’s because they weren’t developed by Mr. Stark, Steve.” Jarvis says patiently. This was going to take a while to get used to.
“Tony want to know if Director Fury has figured a way around his – quote, ‘Electronic Great Wall of China’, unquote,” Steve tells Coulson conversationally as the other man hovers over his hospital bed like a worried mother hen, watching nurses drain what seems like pints of blood out of him. “Can you stop hovering please?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Coulson says stepping a fraction of a step back, staring as the nurses unhook the bags of blood for testing and replace them with something that goes into Steve, which is not incredibly pleasant and ends up sending him into a thrashing fever fit after eight minutes of letting the medication pump into his system.
“Fuck,” Coulson hisses, pressing a button that emits a high-pitched beep, and Steve groans and grabs at his head deliriously. There’s a dull prick of pain on his right arm, and either Coulson has mastered the art of creating clones, or Steve is going mad.
He blacks out a minute later.
“-ey. Hey.” A voice calls faintly from somewhere to his right, and Steve forces his eyelids open. They feel like lead. An unfamiliar man is standing over him, head cocked. His hair is cropped short and he’s in standard S.H.I.E.L.D gear.
“Oh, great,” the S.H.I.E.L.D agent says with relief, “You’re awake. Coulson was ready to murder someone,” he adds, straightening up and dropping into a chair. He fiddles with his left ear a bit. Steve, through his haze, can make out a communication device. Steve glances down at himself. There’s a gash in his right arm where he must have torn out the needle which is already closing up.
“He’s awake and alive,” the agent says to no one in particular.
Barely forty seconds later, Coulson bursts in with two nurses. He strides over to Steve’s side and picks up his hand, almost cradling it as the nurses flutter around and check his vitals.
“How are you feeling?” He asks curtly, but there’s a slight twitch of worry in his left eye. Steve can’t help but smile a little bit at how motherly Coulson was.
“A bit dizzy,” he replies, “What was that stuff?”
“Horse tranquilizer.”
“Horse – what?”
The agent gets up and walks over to stand next to Coulson, looking at Steve curiously.
“A horse tranquilizer mixed with a bunch of toxins,” he clarifies, looking impressed. Steve stares at them both.
“Sorry, are you trying to murder me, or run scientific experiments?” He says with disbelief. Coulson opens his mouth, and then shuts it again. The agent shrugs and fiddles with his ear.
“They’re just testing the extent to which the serum protects you. Anyone else would have died within the first eighty seconds, give or take. It took you eight minutes to even feel the effects. I’d say you’re gonna be fine,” he says flippantly, as if they hadn’t just tried to poison Steve in the name of science and the greater good.
“Right,” he says, because S.H.I.E.L.D is a nightmare, “Can I leave now?”
A reusable shopping bag full of sushi rolls in hand, Steve opens the boardroom door and gets a front row seat to a heated argument between Tony and Pepper about birds.
“Jesus, you guys,” he groans and sets the bag down onto the table. They both shut up and sit down, but instead of sitting next to Tony and facing Steve like she normally does, Pepper stalks around and sits next to Steve. Tony gapes at her for a split second, before suddenly getting up and striding around the table to sit on the other side of Steve.
“Tony, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t all sit on the same side,” Pepper all but growls at him, leaning forward on the table to see him across Steve. Tony sneers back.
“Move then. Maybe I just wanted to sit next to Steve today.”
“You got up from your seat when you saw me sit down.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Did not.”
“You did.”
“Did n–”
“Can someone explain to me what is going on between you two?” Steve interrupts. This leads to the petty argument stopping, but has the unexpected side effect of having the full, piercing attention of both Tony Stark and Pepper Potts trained on him. He shifts awkwardly and takes a container of sushi from the bag.
“Can we just talk this out over lunch?”
They were arguing about the new bird and dolphin show.
“No, I’m not complaining about the show itself,” Tony explains angrily, “I’m complaining about who Pepper hired to run them!”
Pepper sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “They were the most qualified, Tony. There is nothing wrong with the staffing decisions made! Both of them passed every single required check and did the interviews with great expertise.”
“Because they’re spies , Pepper,” Tony whines through a chunk of tuna roll in his mouth, “This park is supposed to be a no S.H.I.E.L.D zone for good fucking reason, and you let the Murder Twins just stroll in here and get paid to do so!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. How did they pass the checks then if they’re called the Murder Twins?” Steve asks. Pepper sighs.
“Classified files,” She explains, “As a standard employing market, we aren’t allowed to use Jarvis to run any background checks. We have to use normal systems.”
“Which is bullshit,” Tony begins, and Pepper glares at him, “because now there are two S.H.I.E.L.D agents in my fucking water park that I have to keep for at least six months!”
“They aren’t so bad, Tony,” Pepper yells, voice raising exponentially, “Maybe if you stopped being so angry at Director Fury all the time, you wouldn’t be so fucking childish!”
Steve flinches a bit. Pepper never swore. Even Tony stops and calms down a little, fixing her with a concerned look. She looks at them both, heaving slightly, before sighing.
“Just give them a chance, Tony. This park isn’t just a place for you to be petty at S.H.I.E.L.D, it’s an entertainment zone that needs good employees to run smoothly. It’s six months. You can deal with it,” She says, closing her half-eaten sushi container and picking up her handbag. Tony stands up too, and starts to open his mouth but Pepper raises her finger and his mouth snaps shut.
“Not now, Tony. I’ve got your company to run,” She says stoically, and leaves the board room.
Tony slumps back into the seat next to Steve and stares at his sushi morosely.
“I fucked up,” he says to it, and Steve gives him a sympathetic pat. “I don’t want those fuckers in my park, but Pepper’s done all this for it.” Steve nods. Current events have made his slight disdain for S.H.I.E.L.D slightly stronger. But Tony’s running a business here, and Steve sometimes has a mind outside of punching his problems.
“Just try it out,” He says cautiously. Tony doesn’t reply verbally, just does a slow nod and keeps staring at the table. A short, awkward silence stretches out.
“Do – Do you want to go and sit back on the other s–?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry.”
The Murder Twins turn out to be A) not twins, and B) not that murderous.
“Hey, big guy,” a small redhead says cheekily as she leans on the counter where Steve is ordering a second order of fried rice. Her hair is short-ish and bouncy, clipped up into a neat twist on the top of her head. She’s wearing a simple white one-piece with the Stark Park logo on them and red swim shorts – both of which seem to fit her incredibly well – as well as a black belt pouch of some sort that sits on her right hip.
“Hello yourself,” Steve replies, turning to look at her. She doesn’t reply, too busy scanning the menu board.
“The rice is good,” Steve finds himself saying involuntarily, and she looks at him in surprise.
“Oh,” she says, smile curling on her lips, “Well, I trust your judgement.” She orders the same when the man running the canteen comes back with Steve’s plate. Steve nods, says “I’ll be sitting over there if you want to join,” and walks to his usual corner table.
Small Redhead sits across from him two minutes later with a decent amount of rice on her plate. She snaps apart a pair of wooden chopsticks, and starts to efficiently pick up and eat her meal as if she was using a spoon. Steve is torn between being terrified and in awe.
“This is really good,” she says appreciatively, and Steve nods eagerly. He really likes the rice here. Redhead smiles at him.
“Natasha.” She says, extending her hand. Steve shakes it. “And you are?”
“Steve,” he tells her, and something fleeting flashes in her eyes, almost too fast for Steve to notice, but when he focuses there’s nothing there but the same introductory happiness.
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” she smiles, and it’s only mildly unsettling.
“Likewise,” he replies.
They spend lunch talking about idle things. Natasha’s new – only been working a week – and she takes care of the aquarium and outdoor show arena. Turns out she trains dolphins for the new Stark Park attraction, and is going to do her first show two weeks from today.
“Whoa, that’s so cool,” Steve exclaims, “I’ll try see if I can get another guy to cover my shift to come see it.” Natasha laughs bashfully.
“Yeah, I’m excited too. The guy training the birds for the show as well is one of my best friends; we were so lucky that Mrs. Potts hired both of us together!” She laughs infectiously. Steve blinks, putting two and two together suddenly.
“Oh,” he says.
If Natasha notices anything off after he makes that realization, she doesn’t tell him. They finish lunch and head off in their separate directions with promises to come and visit each other sometime. Natasha tells him she’ll introduce him to her best friend, some guy called Clint. Steve offers to bring her to the wave pool sometime. It’s all very polite.
As she’s walking away, Steve notices a glint in her hair. His eyesight had improved exponentially because – well, 1940s steroids – so he squints a little and unfortunately catches sight of a thin dagger buried in the red, bouncy curls.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers to himself. Natasha turns around suddenly enough to make him jump, catches his eye knowingly, and winks before continuing on her way.
Okay. So maybe a little bit murderous.
Steve meets the second half of the Murder Twins at Natasha’s show. Tony had been waiting for him impatiently at the clock-in station, barely letting Steve scan his employee I.D before dragging him to a corner.
“You’re coming with me to the opening of the show arena,” he says, and Steve frowns at him.
“What about Pepper?”
“She’s coming too, obviously. I just need to hide behind all your tall blondeness when she tries to get me to meet Bonnie and Clyde,” Tony mutters, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, “Show’s in one hour. I already got Thor to cover you.”
“Fine,” Steve replies, “Let me get changed.”
The show is nothing short of spectacular.
Natasha coordinates the four dolphins with scary efficiency and precision, often intertwining herself into the tricks as well. Even Tony, who starts out scowling with his arms crossed, lets out a surprised whoop of support when she does a particularly impressive double back flip into the pool in sync with two other dolphins. Steve, Pepper, and the rest of the packed audience stands cheer. Natasha stands up on the back of the other two dolphins with a bright smile on her pretty face, waving and bowing to the audience as they bring her around the pool. They bring her to the shore, and she picks up a slim microphone.
“Thank you all!” She says, giggling into the mic and waving still. The cheers and applause grows.
“And now,” Natasha says with just the right amount of dramatic flair, “I would like to welcome our resident self-proclaimed bird whisperer, Hawkeye!”
Cheers erupt around the arena. Tony claps as well.
“That was great, even for products of S.H.I.E.L.D,” he yells to Steve over the applause, and Pepper shouts “I told you so!” into his ear.
Slowly, the applause dies down as nothing happens. Natasha’s still on stage, but she doesn’t look worried. Soon, murmuring starts amongst the audience. Pepper’s face crumples with worry.
“Oh no,” she mumbles, “Is there something wrong?”
Steve is halfway to standing up when Natasha puts down the mic and does a weird symbol with both her hands at a spot at the back of the audience. A hushed silence follows.
Then, a row of birds swoop low over the audience in a perfect line, causing shrieks of surprise and the applause to start up again. They land in a heart around Natasha, who laughs. Some people go ‘awww’ at the gesture. Pepper looks relieved.
“Aw, ‘Tasha, thanks for the introduction!” A drawling voice announces from the speakers. It’s oddly familiar to Steve, but he can’t quite place it. A man dressed in a black combat vest over a white polo walks leisurely down the left aisle of the arena, a Harris Hawk perched alertly on his shoulder. A bow and quiver of sleek, red arrows are attached to his vest, slung across his back, and his arm guards are distinctly Iron Man themed. The audience cheers as he saunters down to the front, and when he reaches the middle he gestures casually in the air and the bird break formation from around Natasha to sit in a neat row on the pool barrier. He has close cropped hair. Steve frowns.
“He looks really familiar,” he tells Tony.
“Shut up, Grandpa Frisbee. I wanna see what the bird man is going to do,” Tony hisses, elbowing him in the side.
After the show, Tony pretends to be grudgingly impressed and flippant at both Natasha and Clint.
“It was adequate,” he grumbles, and they both nod solemnly despite everyone present knowing that they had put on one of the most jaw-dropping performances in water park attraction history.
“We’ll improve it next time,” Natasha says with utmost seriousness. Tony nods, grunts a bit, and then stalks off. Pepper smiles at them and thanks them for the incredible show for the fifth time before rushing off to reprimand Tony. Which leaves Steve standing awkwardly with the two.
“Don’t listen to Tony. He’s just being petty. You guys are amazing,” he tells them, and they smile at him. It’s a lot more unsettling than he would have liked.
“Thanks for the encouragement, Steve,” Clint says, absently stroking the hawk preening on his shoulder. Natasha nods. Steve frowns at him. He doesn’t remember introducing himself.
“Have we met before?” he says, and Clint pauses in his affectionate petting.
“Nope. Never seen you in my life,” he replies after a beat. Steve narrows his eyes at him.
“I think we have. You were at S.H.I.E.L.D last week. When they tried to kill me with sedatives meant for horses.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clint shrugs, obviously lying.
“What’s a shield?” Natasha says innocently.
“Never mind,” Steve sighs, “Nice to see you again, Natasha. Nice to meet you for the very first time, Clint.”