Chapter Text
The service is beautiful.
Red, white, and blue flowers decorate the banquet hall, a snowy carpet rolled out between rows upon rows of wooden chairs. A dark oak casket, closed, rests upon a lifted dais at the head of the room and the calm, smiling visage of Captain America looks out upon the crowd from the printed headshot propped upon a black easel.
The shield gleams from where it’s leaning against the casket, polished to a mirror shine and probably cleaner than it’s been in decades.
Sam takes a deep breath at the podium, his black suit pressed and white shirt crisp. The chain around his neck, tucked beneath his collar, is heavy with the ring that weighs it down. He’s not sure what he says, when asked later, but he’s told it was just as moving as the service itself. His dark eyes never move from the pale face that holds his gaze, even as silver fingers glint under fluorescent lights upon a black clad thigh.
When Sam finishes the eulogy he returns to his seat beside Bucky, gripping his hand for the media as the buzzing of camera shutters fills the room. Press move forward past the mourners to get shots of the shield, of Bucky and Sam sitting in stoic silence, of their hands linked in solidarity. It’s as necessary as it is annoying, but the world needs to know that Captain America is gone.
That Steve Rogers is dead.
The rest of the service passes in a haze. Sam, later, vaguely recalls thanking people for coming and shaking more hands than belong to the people he actually knows. He has foggy memories of comforting touches and condolences offered to him. It really isn’t until he and Buck are outside that his attention sharpens, the sun snapping him from the gloom of the funeral. His shoulders sag as he releases a tension he didn’t know he was carrying, leaning into Bucky’s side.
“You good?” Bucky murmurs. Sam nods, linking their arms as they descend the steps of the Air and Space Museum. There’s thousands of people clustered around the Smithsonian, cameras flashing and voices chattering. Reporters attempt to bombard them, fans try to touch them, everywhere people are crying.
Sam feels an irrational stab of anger burst hot in his stomach. These people didn’t know Steve, they’re not mourning the man behind the shield. He takes a steadying breath, ignoring the way Bucky glances at him sideways. The onlookers’ feelings of grief are just as validated as his own. With no Captain America to guide them, they’re feeling listless.
One person in the crowd catches his eye as he and Bucky shoulder through: a young man with a red hood pulled high, hiding his face. His hair is lank and dirty around his face, and his clothes look like they’ve seen better days. Sam’s not sure what it is about the kid that draws his attention, but when he blinks the kid is gone, blended back into the crowd.
It takes them the better part of an hour to escape the mob, opting to walk to the National Cemetery instead of driving. Yes, it’s more visible, but the fresh air will do them both good. They walk in silence, linked arms having relaxed to laced fingers that gently swing between them with each solid step.
“What do we do now?” Bucky is the one to break their contemplative silence, his blue eyes trained firmly on the ground as though he can stare a hole through the earth.
Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, letting it whistle through his teeth as his head falls back, lifting his face towards the sky. “Move on with our lives, keep doing what we were doing. I know during the Blip you weren’t… well, doing much at all, but you’re working with your therapist now, right?”
“Yeah. Making amends and all that shit.”
Sam nods, “It’s good shit to be doing, man.”
“Maybe,” Bucky tilts his head towards Sam, “but it’s not exactly leading the new Avengers, huh?”
Sam chokes on his next breath, coughing in surprise as his dark cheeks turn red, “How’d you know about that?”
“Natasha told me about it. She and Stark have been inseparable since they both, you know, died.”
“Hm, didn’t stick though,” Sam chuckles and Bucky smiles wryly.
“I’m sensing a pattern.”
“What, you’re saying it’s not normal to know a surprising number of people who don’t stay dead?” Sam teases.
“As normal as my dick is flat.” Bucky deadpans and Sam bursts out laughing.
He pulls his hand from Bucky’s to wipe the tears of mirth that gather at the corners of his eyes, “Oh, man, Buck, you kill me sometimes. Where do you come up with these things?”
Bucky doesn’t reply.
Sam pauses, looking around. Bucky is several steps behind him, staring hard at the trees that line the opposite side of the road. “Bucky?” His partner turns his head just slightly to indicate he’s listening but doesn’t remove his narrowed gaze from the trees. Sam walks to his side.
“What is it?” He asks quietly. He doesn’t see anything remarkable in the trees himself, but he also has regular old 20/20 vision.
Bucky blinks and shakes his head, “Thought I saw someone watching us.”
“There’s probably a lot of people watching us right now, Buck,” Sam lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder but it gets shrugged off as Bucky shakes his head.
“Not like that, Sam. I’m not being paranoid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were being condescending.”
Sam raises his hands placatingly. “That wasn’t my intention, I’m sorry I came across that way. Listen, we’ll keep an eye out, alright? Have one peeled for any nefarious peepers faced our way.”
Bucky grinds his teeth for a few moments before his shoulders relax incrementally, “Why do you have to be so hard to stay mad at?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you could mean,” Sam grins.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Bucky rolls his eyes. He stuffs one hand deep into his pocket, aggressively grabbing Sam’s hand with the other. “Why can’t you be more like Steve, huh? He’s easy to be pissed at, he’s a stubborn asshole.”
“And what am I?”
“A guy fishing for compliments.”
Sam laughs and they continue to bicker the rest of the way to the cemetery, their good-natured ribbing dying away for pensive silence as they step onto the grass and weave their way towards the gaudy floral arrangements surrounding Captain America’s burial plot. They both manage to keep their heads bowed and eyes appropriately damp for the duration of the proceedings, carrying the casket to the burial plot and laying flowers upon it before watching it be lowered into the ground.
Once they’ve dropped handfuls of soil into the hole and paid their respects, they depart. Neither of them have the energy to continue the facade for much longer and so decide to head home.
The townhouse in Brooklyn that they call home is quiet when they step out of the taxi, the upper story windows dark and the curtains drawn on the ground floor. Sam tips the driver and waves him off, undoing the button of his suit as they walk up the pristine path past immaculate flower beds to the front door. Bucky slips his keys into the various locks before shouldering the door open and stepping into the front room.
“...at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum today. Thousands gathered to mourn the passing of America’s beloved hero…”
“I still dunno why the wake was held there,” Bucky grumbles, “The guy only ever piloted one plane and he crashed the damn thing into the Arctic.”
“...Attendees of interest were, of course, Captain Rogers’ partners: James Barnes and Sam Wilson, as well as Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow; Captain Carol Danvers, Captain Marvel; and Scott Lang, Ant Man. There were some notable absences as well: Tony Stark, for one, along with Wanda Maximoff. It’s uncertain as to why such high profile friends of Captain Rogers decided against appearing at his funeral…”
Sam tunes out the news as it turns into a fluff piece, rubbing his eyes and draping his jacket over the back of the couch while Bucky heads for the bathroom. He groans and drops into his armchair, looking around for the remote to change the channel away from the news and listening to the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen.
He sits up suddenly. Voices?
Sam jumps to his feet just as Bucky bursts out of the bathroom, seeming to have come to the same conclusion at the same time. Together they race to the lit kitchen. They freeze in the doorway.
Sitting at their kitchen table and nursing a mug of hot chocolate is a teenage boy with greasy brown hair and dark eyes that are far too large for his pale face. Sam recognizes him as the kid from the funeral.
“Bucky, Sam,” Steve says, calmly sitting across from the kid, “This is Peter. Peter Parker.”
When Steve used the time machine to return all of the infinity stones, he can’t lie and say he wasn’t tempted to stay in the past.
Things were simpler then, more black and white. Good was good and bad was bad and the gray area was much smaller and easier to navigate. But then he spent maybe thirty seconds thinking about the why of that small gray area and decided he’d prefer to be in the future where women have rights and racism is severely reduced (even though it’s not eradicated and doesn’t that just piss him right off) and there aren’t children dropping dead left and right from easily preventable diseases.
The future has its own fair share of problems, and new ones to boot– the war on privacy with the invasion of smart devices into pockets and homes comes to mind– but ultimately Steve highly prefers it. Also it’s where Sam and Bucky are, and that’s just the icing on the cake.
While many people like to think of Steve as a bit of an airhead, he spends a lot of his time thinking. He doesn’t have a staring problem like Bucky (thank God) since he’s always been able to multitask efficiently, so much of the day is spent deep in his own mind. And in all of that time he’s come to one major conclusion.
He wants to retire.
Steve’s tired. He’s been Captain America for longer than anyone should ever be a symbol, his pedestal elevated to the point that he’s practically become a false god. Steve’s never wanted that, he’s never wanted Captain America to be more him than he is Steve– unlike Tony, Captain America has always been a separate entity for Steve. Every aspect of his life compartmentalized for maximum efficiency and ease of mind.
It doesn’t always work, as the horrors he’s seen as the Captain bleed into his dreams and leave him waking screaming more often than not, but it’s better than building his entire identity upon an idea.
So, when Steve returned to the present, he sought out Sam and Bucky in secret and told them his plan. He wants to turn over the mantle of Captain America to someone else. It’s something he struggled with, and still struggles with as guilt weighs him down, but his lovers had reassured him that it was okay to be selfish from time to time.
And Captain America died.
Steve’s honestly not sure what story was spun to fake his death. He thinks it may be something involving an old man who looked vaguely like him handing the shield to Sam in a public place before passing away several weeks later. All he knows for sure is that Sam and Bucky are at his funeral today and he has the house to himself.
It didn’t take long for the silence to become deafening.
Television on and tuned in to the news, Steve spent the morning preparing meals for the week– things easy to grab for his busy guys. The radio was playing something jazzy, the smells of sizzling meats and vegetables had filled the kitchen, and Steve was in his element. He’s not sure if he’ll ever enter the public eye again, but for now retirement has been great.
Steve is halfway through preparing a hearty lasagna when he thinks he hears a timid knock at the front door. Lifting his head and turning the radio down he listens for a follow up, there shouldn’t be anyone there, though, no one knows someone is home.
Knock, knock, knock.
There it is again, just barely loud enough to be classified as knocking. Steve turns the stove off and wipes his hands on a towel, tossing it over his shoulder and making his way to the front of the house. He peers out of the peephole and sees the top of a red hood drawn up over a pale face on a skinny young man. Steve frowns, he’s not sure he recognizes…
The kid lifts his head and Steve inhales sharply. The Parker kid from the news is staring back at him as though he knows Steve is watching. And why wouldn’t he know? Spider-Man has elevated senses just like Steve.
“Mister Captain Rogers, sir?” Peter whispers, barely louder than a huffed breath. His sunken eyes dart around nervously and he looks very out of place amongst Steve’s pristine flowerbeds in his threadbare jeans and stained jacket.
Steve immediately opens the door, stepping aside so he’s not so easily seen from outside but still baring his face to the kid. “Peter, right?”
Peter’s eyes snap to Steve’s and he nods vigorously, his head bobbing like one of those car ornaments Sam likes to bop when they pass them in a store. “Please don’t be mad, sir. But I… well,” Peter takes a deep breath before words just start tumbling from his lips.
“I need help and the story of your death goes that you stayed in the past to grow old but the super soldier serum significantly reduces aging if not stalling it entirely so it wouldn’t make sense that you’d die of old age and also I thought it strange that you’d stay in the past at all considering how much you’ve praised the future in comparison to the past so I attended your funeral and overhead Mister Winter Soldier and Mister The Falcon talking about you in the present tense and not past so I figured you were still alive and probably in hiding wherever Mister Winter Soldier and Mister The Falcon lived.”
Peter takes an enormous breath, having sped through his entire spiel in a single exhale, and Steve can almost hear the way his heart is pounding from lack of oxygen. He doesn’t get a chance to answer before Peter is speaking again:
“And so anyway I hope you’re not mad at me and also I need help. I mean if you’re following the news I’m sure you saw…” Peter trails off, looking painfully young and vulnerable and every instinct in Steve’s body screams to protect. “That. But, you have to believe me! I was set up! I would never kill anybody, Mister Captain Rogers, sir! And I figured if there was anybody who could help me it would be you because of the Sokovia Accords thing– and sorry about Germany, by the way, I really hope there’s no hard feelings. Like I’d assume there isn’t since we fought together on Titan but I’m not really sure my social standing amongst heroes so–”
“Peter,” Steve interrupts him and steps back, opening the door wider, “Come in. I’ll see what I can do to help, okay? Just take a deep breath.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Peter apologizes as he enters the house, easily squeezing through the small opening Steve allowed the door to make, “I’m just pretty sure I’m in the middle of a panic attack right now? So my rambling is, like, a million times worse than it normally is because I can’t think enough to filter.”
“Hey, come on, let’s take a deep breath together then,” Steve instructs, closing and locking the door behind Peter. “Follow my lead. In, hold, and slowly out. In, hold, slowly out.” Steve demonstrates the breathing technique while watching Peter closely to make sure the kid is following, the kid’s own breaths slowly evening out and becoming more normal.
Peter blows a heavy sigh and leans against the wall, wrapping his arms around himself, “I’m really sorry, Captain Rogers, sir. For bothering you, I mean. Thank you for your help in calming down.”
“Anytime, kid,” Steve squeezes Peter’s shoulder and then guides the teenager to the kitchen, “Now, what do you say to a mug of hot chocolate?”
“I…” Peter takes one last deep breath, sitting down at the table gingerly– his arms and legs covered in muscle tape, “Yeah, yes, please. That would be awesome, thank you.”
Steve nods and putters around the kitchen, warming the milk and emptying the powder into the mug (another brilliant invention, courtesy the 1960s). Once he’s mixed the milk and powder Steve sets the mug down in front of Peter and sits across from the kid, lacing his fingers together patiently.
“Why don’t you tell me everything, okay, Peter?”
Peter looks up at Steve, wrapping his thin fingers around the warm mug, and nods. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”