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The first time Steve spends the night in survival mode, he is blown up by a creeper.
In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have spent most of the day running around the savannah biome and punching pigs — and oh, there’s a village, and all of these NPC characters make funny noises and wear colorful outfits, and how adorable is that Iron Golem — but who doesn’t get a little giddy their first time playing Minecraft.
The second time Steve spends the night in survival mode, he is prepared for this shit. He starts by punching a few trees, creates a handy-dandy crafting table, and builds an axe so he can punch a few more trees (and grab a few flowers, just because).
By nightfall, he digs a hole straight in the ground, three blocks wide, covers the space above him with a dirt block, and tries to breathe in the dark.
Sam has a nephew. An eight-year-old boy, Jody.
When they were on the run, Steve and Natasha would cover for Sam occasionally so that he could find a payphone and call his family. Technically, it was a Very Bad Idea, and Sam would mostly content himself with writing letters to his sister.
Once, when they were in Madrid, Sam managed to find a response from a local post office. It was a pretty long letter, stuffed in a very wide envelope, but it didn’t hold a candle to the broad grin on his face. Steve stared at him with an almost perverse curiosity as he read the letter, feeling ashamed of his own jealousy. For Steve, being on the run wasn’t much different than his life before. He was still alone. At least this time he had his friends with him, at least this time he knew where Bucky was, safe and sound and healing, but he couldn’t get over the fact that he lost his home again. And this time, it was all his fault.
(Finally, something both he and Tony could agree on.)
That time in Madrid, Sam read parts of his letter out loud, mostly the bits about his nephew. They were pretty close, and Steve knew that Sam missed him.
“Look,” Sam exclaimed. “He beat the Ender Dragon! Aw, man, he must’ve made Sarah throw a party.” At Steve’s blank look, Sam balked.
“Dude, I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Minecraft. Well, I mean, I can, but,” Sam shook his head. “Sometimes I still can’t get over how weird it must be, waking up seventy years in the future.”
Steve laughed.
“Yeah, I’ve pretty much given up on catching up. I’m guessing it’s some sort of video game - “
“Oh, it’s not just any old video game! It’s one of the coolest interactive sandbox games of all time.” Sam sighed, his bright expression dimming. “We used to play it together. I bought him the Java version for his laptop, and, well, he was afraid of the monsters, so I’d play it with him to help him out a bit.” Sam looked back at Steve, whose expression immediately darkened, and added, “Oh, no. This is not your fault, Steve. You have to know that. You stuck to your principles, and then shit went sideways. Shit always goes sideways with us.”
Steve wrung his hands, twisting them in the bedspread of his cot. It creaked.
“I feel like I’ve ruined your life, Sam. I shouldn’t have let you come with me. I’m glad you’re here, you and Nat, but. I know you miss your family. You probably miss playing this Mind craft - “
“Minecraft.”
Steve shifted his weight and stuck his hand in his pocket, clasping his flip phone. It never vibrated, but it was comforting to put his hand on it. Just in case.
“I’ve uprooted your world, Sam.”
Sam laughed and shook his head, “That’s the beauty of this game, Steve. Worlds can be rebuilt. Someday when we get back, I’ll show you. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Worlds can be rebuilt.
Those words were on Steve’s mind when he lost Bucky. When they couldn’t find Sam. When he threw up on Natasha’s shoes on the spaceship ride home after their failed attempt to undo Thanos’ deed. When Tony, still ill and full of spite, packed his things and moved out of the compound.
And when Sam’s family finally decided to hold a funeral for him, two years after the Snap — which all of the remaining Avengers, along with Sam’s veteran support group (or what was left of it) attended, and where Steve broke down in the middle of his eulogy, which Natasha had to complete (which Sam would’ve really wanted Riley to say) — Sam’s little nephew Jody approaches Steve with somber eyes and a pink post-it note.
Sam had somehow managed to contact his nephew and asked him to set up a Minecraft account for Steve.
Username: @onyourleft.
He loved Sam like a brother, and his absence stung like salt on an open wound, but Steve couldn’t believe the nerve of the guy.
...
Steve has spent months on this stupid game. He enters a new world, punches a few trees, builds an underground burrow, finds a cave, and dies in a skeleton skirmish. Or, he builds a boat and sails to the middle of the ocean and drowns at night when he’s besieged by zombies. One time while strip mining, he attempts to mine a block of redstone, and accidentally falls into a lava pit under the block.
Part of the problem is his hands. He’s too slow, and his fingers are too large. He’s not fast enough when it comes to killing monsters. All his houses look like ugly matchboxes. He especially hates the trackpad, which is too stiff and despite double-clicking numerous times, can’t even let him pick up a block.
Not everything’s an SI product.
Tony once told him that the most important parameter his company uses for their products, be it ballistic missiles or a toaster, was whether Steve could operate it without too much difficulty.
“The more I watch you, Cap,” he said with a smirk, “the more I’m reminded of how important things like accessibility are to keep in mind while designing stuff.” At the time he bristled, but when he thought back on it, Tony was right. He’s shit at this. He could strategize his way out of a real armed combat with ease, and his reflexes are mind-blowing (no point being shy where credit was due), but pressing random buttons on a computer in a repetitive, yet decisive manner was inexplicably, infuriatingly difficult.
And yet, the game does have its benefits. It’s a nice distraction from the clusterfuck that is his life. He doesn’t have to focus on his cramped, silent apartment, or the fact that people threw stones at Captain America when he was asked by the government to speak at a televised national rally. Or the dust that shrouds New York like a tight veil. There’s soot everywhere. In a city where eight million people were sandwiched together like sardines, the sudden explosion of half the population left a heavy coating of grey remnants to fall on those who were lucky enough (or unlucky, depending on your perspective) enough to survive.
(He spent hours at the spot where Bucky disintegrated, digging through his ashes until he could no longer distinguish between what used to be Bucky and what was just mud. He didn’t wash his hands for weeks.)
When the doorbell rings one day, he thinks it’s another sound in the game and whips his cursor around on his laptop to check the source. It rings twice, and once more after that, before he realizes that he has a visitor. He fumbles his way through the dark apartment and opens the door to find —
“Hi,” Tony said. He’s standing in front of Steve’s door.
The years have been kind to him. He’s stopped dying his hair, which is now a soft salt-and-pepper rather than the light chestnut color Steve saw him sport a few years ago. He’s wearing a blue button-down and jeans, paired with a nice blazer. His glasses are so dark they’re almost opaque, but Steve, even with his eyes unused to the bright light of outside, can make out the faintest shift of his dark brown eyes.
He looks incredibly good. Uncomfortable, but that’s to be expected.
Realizing that he’s been gaping like a fish, Steve shuts his mouth slowly and moves away from the door, silently gesturing for Tony to come in.
“What, you’ve taken a vow of silence, now?” Tony asked. “Jesus fuck, look at the state of this apartment.”
Steve frowns. Tony notices.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Forgot I was talking to Mr. Language! here.” Tony pulls a passable imitation of Steve’s voice and turns around, removing his glasses.
“I just meant — never mind.” His voice, hoarse from lack of use, halts, shutting down his sentence. Tony studies him, eyes lingering on his rough stubble before slowly settling on his dirty pajamas.
“Nat told me to come, just so you know.”
Steve nods. That’s what he was thinking. Natasha had been barging into his apartment a few times every month, making the trek from D.C., where she was running an orphanage for children whose parents were Snapped. She’d haul him outside, take him to a diner across the street over his mild protests, and lecture him for not taking care of himself over a heavy lunch. After that, she’d make a futile attempt at cleaning his apartment and cooking him dinner, push him into bed and spend the night in his spare room.
(One night, after their little routine was complete, Steve heard a strange, low keening from the adjoining guest room. He touched the wall that connected their bedrooms, listening to Natasha’s sobs. He then made the mistake of knocking. The sound immediately ceased, and he could hear her body shift on her bed. Steve quietly crept back into his own bed, and he lay awake for the rest of the night. Just in case she started crying again. The next time, he told himself, Steve would climb out of the abyss of his own grief and try to help her like a decent fucking human being.
She left before he woke up.)
Steve supposes Natasha got tired of dealing with his bullshit and sent for the cavalry. Which, in this case, would be the guy that hates his guts more than anyone in the world. Joke’s on her, because Steve knows that whatever momentary pity (or morbid curiosity) possessed Tony to make this visit would evaporate soon and he’d hopefully leave Steve in peace.
After a few minutes of silence, Tony begins pacing the length of Steve’s tiny living room, shooting furtive glances at the soiled blankets lying on the beige couch, to the various empty bottles and dirty bowls and Poptart wrappers strewn on the floor, to… Steve’s laptop set on his coffee table, screening the words BACK TO GAME against a backdrop of his pathetic little dirt hole.
Tony frowns.
“Are you… playing Minecraft?”
Shit.
...
“Just press ‘shift’!”
“I’ve pressed ‘shift’ ten fucking times, it doesn’t work!”
“Well, try to break your boat, then. I need cover, there’re like seven thousand zombies here, and my sword has, like, zero durability!”
“You’re the one who dragged us out from base!”
“Rogers — “ Steve knocks back an arrow, but it’s too late.
/wxrmachinesbitch died after walking into a cactus whilst trying to escape Mob.
Tony takes a huge breath in and counts to ten, while Steve bursts into peals of laughter.
“I cannot believe you’re as bad at this game as I am.” Tony scowls and shoves his laptop (a loaner Steve received from SHIELD that he never got the chance to return after its implosion) off his lap.
“Oh, shut up. I can’t believe you still don’t know how to use a boat. I showed you before we left.”
“Hey, I’m new at this! Didn’t have much time for gaming before, and then, when we were on the run…” His voice fades away as he looks at Tony, analyzing his face for any negative reaction. Tony’s face into a blank sea of neutrality. Steve hates it.
In the past, they didn’t often get along (an understatement, but he’s trying to be generous), but despite all their differences, Steve could always read Tony like a book. That’s what made some of his actions, like the Ultron debacle, so frustrating. Tony would just assume that everyone was on the same page as him and take the actions he thought were best. And Steve would know, just by looking at him, that he didn’t want any of this. Steve knew that Tony was afraid of his own worst instincts, and it was that fear that channeled Ultron’s existence. It was that fear that led to the Accords. Tony was controlled by fear. Steve understood it, but in his view, being scared had never helped anybody.
But the years he’s spent in this new world have also taught him that, in some respects, Tony was right. If Steve had been more proactive, if he had attempted to meet Tony halfway and listen to his worries, then maybe Ultron would never have been born. Maybe the team would’ve been together when Thanos arrived, and maybe Steve would still be able to read Tony’s face.
Steve imagined his reunion with Tony going many different ways. He imagined shouting, violent confrontations, Tony avoiding him like the plague… And he got all of that.
But honestly? The two of them playing a video game together in Steve’s dingy little Brooklyn apartment three years after the world ended was not a scenario he had ever even dreamed of.
It still hurts to think of Tony’s outburst. In hindsight, they probably shouldn’t have strapped him to a chair an hour after his spaceship landed and interrogated him, but none of them were really thinking clearly.
Zero, zip, nada. No trust — liar.
Tony had trusted him with his life, with his heart. He had opened up his home to the Avengers. With Tony’s help, Steve had begun to feel at home in the twenty-first century.
Steve still trusts him without reservation. But he was never there for Tony when it counted. They both know that.
“OK, I’m going to respawn at base. You should just take your boat back there and pick me up. Then we can both come back and, hopefully, retrieve my stuff.” Tony’s voice interjects between his thoughts, and he startles.
“Right. Yeah, of course.”
“And then we should get something to eat, because I am starving.” At this, Steve starts.
“You’re staying?” Tony raises an eyebrow and looks at him with an awkward expression on his face.
“You got a problem with me staying?” Oh man, he wants to take his question back. Why can’t he ever just — why can’t this just ever be easy — why can’t he ever talk to Tony without offending him or accidentally picking a fight?
“No, no, I was just—”
This is your chance. This is your one, fucking chance, before he wanders out that door - in the same casual, heartbreaking way he entered - and your life. Forever.
“Please.” Steve’s voice is low, and hopeless, and full of hope. “Please stay.”
Tony slowly pulls the laptop back onto his lap, looks at it, then sighs.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but playing Minecraft without a mouse is really fucking hard.” Tony gets out his phone and starts typing something into it. “I’m ordering two mouses — and some food, because I’m starving and you’re a terrible host.”
“Hey, I’d offer you some if I had any.” Steve’s eyes are burning, and he notices his left thigh shake with nervousness (thisisn’thappeningthisisn’thappeningthisisn’thappening—).
“Yeah, well, whatever. I’ve got it under control.” Tony leans over and pats his thigh gently, and just for a moment, warmth seeps into his bones.
Tony was going to stay.