Chapter Text
Steve Rogers remembers when Congress signed the Social Security Act. He was seventeen years old and politically aware enough to understand it might be a good thing for some people. People with steady jobs and a decent income. But mostly he remembers the drawn, pinched expression on his mother’s face when the new payroll deduction kicked in, and how she fought to take an extra shift to make up the difference, because even a few pennies per paycheck mattered when you were already stretched thin by the end of the month.
He remembers thinking he hardly knew anyone who lived to see sixty-five in those days, not in his neighborhood. Given his health, he himself would be lucky to make it to thirty, never mind old enough to contemplate retirement. After the serum, he went to war, and it’s not like he was suddenly invincible. Any stray thoughts of what might happen if he actually lived to make it home again usually went no further than a dance with Peggy or catching a Dodgers game with Bucky.
Waking up in the future, Steve discovered the war was over, but peace was a long way off, and he was still a young man, whatever the calendar said. So he picked up his shield and went back to work, doing the things he’d been made to do: fighting for freedom and standing up to the world’s bullies. And if somewhere in the back of his head – where he acknowledges how alone and out of place he feels in this very shiny twenty-first century – he assumed he would eventually drop in the field, and that would be a fitting end? Well, he survived aliens and the return of Hydra. Faced the Winter Soldier and faced up to his identity. He fought a robot army created by his teammates and escaped a flying city before it fell. Something was bound to stop him eventually.
He just never expected to be taken down by bureaucracy of all things. Yet here he is, thirty-one years old or ninety-eight, depending how you count. Officially retired.
~*~
Steve stares at the three inches of water in the kitchen sink as if he can will it to drain with the power of his mind. Sadly, that’s not one of the abilities Erskine’s serum blessed him with, so instead he gives the switch for the garbage disposal another hopeful flip. He’s met with the same ominous grinding sound he heard the first time, only now there’s a small spray of water releasing into the cabinet below. Hastily shutting the disposal down, he kneels to get a better look. The spray’s stopped, but a slow drip has taken its place. Groaning, he pushes to his feet and goes to find a bucket.
To be fair, this isn’t an entirely unanticipated issue. It’s the second time the kitchen sink has gotten clogged since he moved in at the end of the summer, and he’d been warned, once it was cleared up the first time, that the disposal would likely need to be replaced. Steve, who grew up without benefit of such a contraption, hadn’t been particularly concerned. He didn’t see much point in putting food down the drain. Seemed like you were just asking for things to back up, even with a device designed to grind it all to bits. So, he wouldn’t use it. He’d just keep the sink clean and the drain clear. No problem.
So much for that theory.
Bucket in place, he heads down to the far end of the hall and knocks on the last door, right beneath the weird-but-festive wreath that has appeared at some point since the previous afternoon. It’s just a few fresh pine boughs, twisted into the traditional shape and fastened with ribbon, but instead of red or silver or one of the other colors typical of the season, there’s dark purple velvet wrapped all around and ending in a fat bow at the top with a pair of arrows crisscrossed through it. The wreath’s been hung so the peephole rests dead center.
Unfortunately, there’s not the slightest flicker of light to indicate anyone’s checking said peephole. Steve gives another half-hearted knock, but he’s not entirely surprised no one’s home. Late morning, a random Tuesday. He and old Mrs. Cassidy down on the first floor are likely the only ones home in the entire building.
Turning back toward his own apartment, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hits 4 on the speed dial.
“Barton. Make it quick,” comes the nearly instant response.
“Hey, it’s Steve. You were right about the garbage disposal.”
Clint’s tone changes between one breath and another. “Aw, crap, man. I told you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, you’re not home, obviously, so what do you want me to do?”
A pause, followed by hushed voices in the background. Steve can’t tell if they’re actually distant or if Clint’s got his hand over the speaker. “Sorry, in the middle of something. Um, call my guy. I’ll text you his info. Tell him to put the whole thing on my account.”
“Anything particular he needs to know?”
Another pause, and this time Steve can hear what he’s pretty sure is the sound of a quinjet’s landing gear.
“Look, I gotta go,” Clint comes back. “But don’t worry about it. Marty’s great, knows his stuff. He’ll take care of you. I should be back tomorrow or the day after.”
“Right. See you then. Thanks.” Steve hangs up without mentioning the questionable background noises, and swallows his instinctive, “Stay safe.” He and Clint have developed something of a silent understanding in the months since Steve moved to Bed Stuy. Steve never asks for explanations about the mysterious errands that have Clint vanishing every so often, nor voices his suppositions as to what he’s been up to, and Clint, in turn, refrains from asking Steve how he’s doing or when he’s going to get a job, or anything else that sounds vaguely like it should be broached in a therapy session.
When the dust had finally settled in Vienna after the bombing, and Zemo was safely in custody, the UN council had continued to push for the Accords, and Steve had been forced to make a choice. He could listen to Natasha, who felt the most important thing was to keep the team together; he could back Tony, who, even blinded by his own guilt still thought he was acting in their best interests; he could put his loyalty to the Avengers above every other consideration and trust that, together, they would be able to make the situation work.
Or, he could go with his gut.
His gut that told him signing the Accords would hamstring the team and, worse, put them in the precarious position of answering to a group of world leaders who, themselves, would have no system of oversight. Nothing to prevent them from pursuing their own agenda, from pointing their newly acquired team at a target like some fancy weapon and forcing them to fire or face the consequences.
Steve knew all too well what could happen when your autonomy was taken away. He had seen what Hydra had done to Bucky. Bucky, who was sent out to do their dirty work time and time again, then erased and put on ice until the next time he was required. Bucky, who was twisted and tortured and treated like a thing for seventy years. Bucky, who had pulled Steve from the river two years earlier and vanished like a ghost.
He went with his gut.
When Steve refused to sign the Accords, Sam and Clint were the only other Avengers to walk away—Sam because he’d decided to return to the VA full time, and Clint because he claimed he was ready to hang up his bow and retire. At the time, it sounded like a reasonable decision. Barton was one of the few members of the team without enhancements or special equipment to keep him safe, and he had stated more than once that his body wasn’t keeping up the way he felt it needed to for him to maintain his edge. Plus it turned out he actually owned an entire building in Bed Stuy, which swiftly put an end to the question of how Steve was going to afford a place in Brooklyn. It was all very domestic and neighborly and if Clint seemed to be more of an absentee landlord than Steve had anticipated, it was really none of his business what the guy did with his time.
Then the reformed version of SHIELD went public, and Steve started hearing rumors that Phil Coulson was no more dead than Nick Fury, and Clint’s mysterious little trips—a day here, half a week there—started to make more sense.
Steve couldn’t blame him. Barton had spent the majority of his life as an archer, and nearly all of his adult life taking down individuals considered to be threats. That was a hard habit to break, and trying to could make you restless. Steve should know.
A ping alerts him to a new text, and he quickly calls the number Clint has forwarded. Marty the plumber reports he’s knee deep in a sewer emergency but promises to come take care of Steve’s sink first thing the following morning. They set a time and Steve hangs up. He stares at the ingredients neatly lined up along his kitchen counter with a resigned sigh. Looks like he won’t be making gingerbread cookies today.
Flour, sugar, and molasses return to the pantry, butter and eggs to the fridge, and spices to their proper slots in the little rack Sam gave him as a housewarming gift. The cookies were supposed to be a practice run, to test the recipe and see how he did with rolling out the dough. He has a half-formed idea that it would be nice to give his friends homemade gifts for the holidays this year, if he can manage to produce anything worth sharing. Still, it’s only just past Thanksgiving; he has time.
Of course, this means his plans for the day are shot, and it’s not even noon. He glances around the apartment, but he vacuumed over the weekend and he doesn’t need to do laundry. Then his stomach rumbles, and he has his answer.
Grabbing his phone from where he left it in the kitchen, he shoots Sam a quick text.
Lunch?
The response comes almost instantaneously.
SW: Hell yes. You want to swing by? Or meet at the place with the good coffee?
Coffee place. 15 min?
SW: Make it 20.
He sends a smiley face in confirmation. That leaves him enough time to change into something he hasn’t been wearing while crawling under the sink, and for a slow walk in Sam’s direction. Not for the first time, he finds himself grateful his friend hadn’t decided to move back to D.C. Sam claimed he wanted to be near his mom, but Steve suspects that wasn’t the sole deciding factor, particularly since he’d landed at the VA one neighborhood over from Steve instead of the branch up in Harlem.
Even strolling at a leisurely pace, Steve gets to the coffee shop before Sam. He goes in and stakes out a table, ordering coffee and a glass of water while he waits. Sam appears not five minutes later, spotting him instantly in his favored back booth.
“Hey, man,” he says, sliding in across from Steve as he unwinds his scarf. It’s red with a white snowflake pattern, very long and clearly handmade “How’s it going?”
“Eh,” Steve says. “Kitchen sink’s stopped up. Plumber can’t come until tomorrow. Figured I’d get out and do something, so now I’m here with you. Guess the day’s not a total loss.”
“Har, har.” Sam scans the menu, though they both tend to gravitate toward the same couple of items. “You need to quit it with this retired bullshit before you lose what’s left of your mind,” he says. “Think I’m gonna have a burger.”
Steve sighs. It’s been a running argument over the past few months, since it became clear he wasn’t actively seeking a new job to fill his days. If Clint’s refrained from playing therapist, Sam has more than made up for him.
“You’re a VA counselor, not a career counselor, remember?” Steve points out, echoing Sam’s own protest when Steve asked him what the hell, exactly, he was supposed to do for gainful employment in the twenty-first century. He has a very dusty high school diploma and about a year’s worth of art school, and not much else unless he wants to go into some form of law enforcement, and… no. He’s not even sure he could, as an enhanced individual who refused to sign the Accords.
“Just because I’m not the right guy to help you figure that out, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk to someone,” Sam shoots back. Then he smiles broadly, turning as their waitress approaches.
“You ready?” she asks, pen poised over her order pad.
Steve shrugs. “Go for it.”
Sam orders a medium-rare burger with a side salad and a coffee. Steve orders a double chili burger, medium well, with a side salad, fries, and a fruit cup.
As the waitress heads off to put in their order, Sam shakes his head in mock despair. “How many years you been in this century and you’re still ordering your meat overcooked?”
Steve frowns. “What is this, pick on Steve day? What’s up with you?”
Sam arches a brow. “How is this me picking on you, Rogers? I made one tiny comment, and a valid one at that.”
“Plus the jab about how I’m spending my time.”
“That wasn’t a jab, it was honest concern. Whatever happened to that class you were taking?”
“History of Twentieth Century Art,” Steve supplies. “It was only four weekends. I took it, it’s over. That’s how classes work.”
“Right, but how did it go?” He looks up and thanks the waitress as she slides his coffee onto the table.
“It was interesting enough,” Steve says, holding back a sigh. “I probably should have taken a practical course, though. We spent a lot of time with the lights out and the slide projector going. I could have just read the text book and gone to a couple of museums.”
“Now you know. Any other plans on the horizon?”
“Sam.”
He pauses to take a sip of coffee, then sets the cup back carefully in the saucer. “Look, Steve, I wasn’t kidding. It’s not good, the way you’re isolating yourself. You hang out with Barton when he’s around, meet me for lunch or a run, and that’s it. You still going to the gym in the middle of the night?”
Steve tips his head to one side in silent acknowledgement.
“You don’t want a job yet, fine, but you can’t just sit home and stare at the walls. Aren’t you bored? I mean, I know what happens when you’re bored, man. There are laws against it now,” he says, voice lowering.
“I’m aware.” He drags the bowl of sugar packets in front of him and empties it onto the table, then starts sorting them by color. White ones, pink ones, yellow ones, blue ones. “I’m also aware of all the things everyone’s carefully not mentioning around me. Clint’s mystery missions. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. That guy in Queens.”
“Wait, what guy in Queens?”
“You haven’t heard about him? Someone in Queens has been running around nights in a red suit and cowl, stopping muggers and burglars and so on. Minor stuff for the most part. He has some sort of gadgets that shoot webbing he can swing from.”
“Sounds very Tarzan.”
“I think he’s supposed to be a spider… person.”
Sam grimaces. “Nat’s gonna be pissed.”
“She’ll need to get in line behind Jonah Jameson. He’s been ranting in The Bugle at least once a week. But, my point is, I know the Accords aren’t stopping everyone, but I made my decision, and I was very public about it. Captain America retired.”
“So if you happen to see a mugging in progress, you’re not going to step in?”
“Of course I will. Me, Steve Rogers. No red-white-and-blue, no shield. Just a guy punching an asshole in the jaw and giving an old lady her purse back. Not a hell of a lot of property damage involved in that.”
Sam shoots him a doubtful look and Steve groans. “You know what I mean.”
“Fine.” Sam leans back an stares at him thoughtfully for a moment.
When he doesn’t say anything more, Steve starts putting the sugar packets back into the bowl in their newly arranged order, one color at a time. “What?” he asks finally, shoving the bowl back against the wall.
“When you hung up the shield, I really thought the plan was to keep looking for your boy, that’s all. The hanging out in Brooklyn kinda took me by surprise. Didn’t think you’d go this long without getting back to the search.”
Now it’s Steve’s turn to stare. “Sam, you were the one who said I needed to stop.”
Sam snorts. “Well, yeah, but I never thought you’d actually listen to me. I said it a bunch of times, if you’ll recall, over a period of months and in a hella lot of countries.”
The waitress comes down the aisle with two platters and a couple of smaller plates balanced on her arm, stopping in front of their booth. “I got the burger medium rare with a side salad for you,” she says, setting down Sam’s lunch, “and the double chili burger with fries for you,” she continues, placing the second platter in front of Steve. “Plus a second salad and the fruit cup.” Steve’s side of the table is suddenly very full, and Sam rolls his eyes while tugging the fruit cup toward his own, less burdened half.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks.
“Side of ranch?” Steve requests.
“Sure thing, hon.”
Steve pops a naked fry into his mouth and chews while he waits for her return, only speaking once they’re alone again. Pitching his voice low, he leans forward slightly over the table. “All my leads dried up. And without the team’s resources, I can’t exactly dig up much in the way of new ones. Plus, it’s a lot harder for Steve Rogers to go zipping around the world without drawing notice these days. I can’t just go poking at abandoned Hydra bases anymore.”
Sam nods. “I know. But if something new came to light? You telling me you wouldn’t investigate?”
Steve sits back and stares at his food for a minute. “I suppose it would depend on the intel, and where I’d need to go to check it out,” he admits finally.
“Fair enough.”
Steve cuts his burger in half in hopes of eating it without wearing the bulk of the chili. He waits a little longer, but Sam doesn’t seem inclined to ask anything more. He scoops up half his burger, sighing as a large glob of chili falls out the back end onto his plate, and glances up. “So, how are things at the VA?” he asks, then takes a bite of his meal.
Sam’s been chasing a grape tomato around his plate with his fork, but he stops and shrugs. “Same old, same old. They’ve asked me to sit in on some big budget meeting next week, and I’ll tell you, that is not in my wheel house.”
Steve makes a sympathetic noise and continues to eat, and the rest of lunch passes in a haze of friendly conversation, meaning neither of them bring up the Avengers in general, Tony Stark in particular, or the recent news that the sovereign nation of Wakanda, under the newly crowned King T’Challa, has demanded a UN oversight committee be formed to look into the legitimacy of the Accords in their current format. By the time Sam needs to go back to work, they’ve shifted to the topic of Christmas.
“Man, don’t forget Mama expects you for Christmas dinner. You don’t want to disappoint her.”
Steve laughs, his breath escaping into the cold air in a frosted burst. “I promised I’d come, Sam. Thank her again for including me. You sure I can’t bring something?”
“Like I told you, any food you show up with will throw off the delicate balance of Darlene Wilson’s holiday feast. Wine’s always good, though, or flowers, if you want. But seriously, just bring yourself. I’m never going to hear the end of it, not bringing you for Thanksgiving. I can’t imagine her wrath if you don’t show up for Christmas.”
“It’s not like you didn’t invite me for Thanksgiving. I just had other plans.” Plans that mostly involved sitting home alone and feeling sorry for himself while he devoured the entire pumpkin pie Darlene had sent over with Sam a couple days ahead of the holiday when she heard he wouldn’t be joining them.
“Uh huh,” Sam says, his tone signaling just how little he believes Steve’s flimsy excuse. But he doesn’t push, and Steve appreciates it. He’d been having a bad week, and the thought of painting on a smile and meeting a whole passel of his friend’s well-meaning relatives had been more than he could handle.
“I’ll pick up some wine,” he assures Sam as they stop at the corner where they need to head in different directions. “You up for a run tomorrow morning?”
Sam gazes up at the sky, frown creasing his brow. “Assuming it doesn’t snow. Looks a little grey.”
“Text me if you wimp out.”
Sam gives an exasperated nod and heads off across the street.
There’s a definite nip in the air as Steve starts home. He shoves his hands in his pockets, not having bothered to unearth his winter gloves yet, and takes a meandering route. He’s been doing this since he moved back to Brooklyn. At first it reminded him a little of those first days after he’d been defrosted, before Loki and the Chitauri, when he had spent his time wandering the city, trying to reconcile what he saw with the New York of his childhood and mostly failing. But it’s not fair to equate his more recent experiences with those early days in the twenty-first century. His mood is more down to feeling alone after so much time spent at HQ with the Avengers than to any true disconnect from the city. There are still things about this time that strike him as wildly different—and not necessarily an improvement over the past—but he no longer considers himself a walking anachronism. He lives in this time, which makes him a man of this time by definition.
That said, much of Brooklyn has changed, and living here, he owes it to himself to become acclimated to the shifts in the neighborhoods, the businesses, and the people who live here. So, he walks and takes in the sights, weaves in and out of shops that strike his fancy or makes mental notes for future visits.
Christmas decorations have started popping up. Store-front displays include fluffy white batting to mimic snow spread beneath the items for sale, lights drape over awnings, and ribbon-bedecked wreaths hang from a few front doors. There’s a Salvation Army Santa on the corner, ringing his bell, but Steve’s heard all about the organization’s attitude toward the LGBTQIA community, so he ducks his head as he passes and doesn’t reach for his wallet. At this time of year in particular, he has no patience for anyone adding more hate to the world. So much of it exists already.
When he gets back to his building, Clint’s sorta-dog Lucky is camped out in the hall in front of Steve’s door. Steve gives him a scratch between his ears and lets him into his apartment. He seems to have become part of the rotating ownership collective that takes care of the mutt, so he’s made a point of keeping a bag of dog food on hand.
“Here you go, boy,” Steve says, filling a bowl and setting it on the floor, then adds a second one with water. Lucky goes to town on the food, despite it not resembling pizza in any way, shape, or form, further solidifying Steve’s belief that Clint is just projecting his own personal taste onto the dog when he insists on sharing a pie with him.
Steve drops onto the couch and turns on the TV, more for mindless background noise than out of a desire to watch anything in particular. He finds a rerun of Dog Cops, which Clint has succeeded in getting him hooked on, so he leaves that and reaches for his sketchbook where it’s resting on the coffee table.
In the past few months, he’s filled a couple of books with nothing more than doodles and half-finished pencil sketches in an attempt to rediscover whatever it was that used to have him so obsessed with art. Now he puts down a few lines, trying to get the slope of Lucky’s neck as he eats, the wonky flop of his ears. A couple more lines put in his haunches and his tail. It’s recognizably a dog—even recognizably Lucky—by the time the mutt finishes his dinner and lets out a woof that Steve interprets as thanks.
Lucky settles on the couch next to Steve, chin on his thigh, and spends the next half hour hanging out as Steve works on a second sketch, this one more detailed. The dog’s patience lasts until the sound of feet running on the stairs makes his ears perk up, and he jumps down and heads for the door.
“You wanna go play with Simone’s kids?” Steve asks, following him across the room. “Okay, Lucky, you go have fun. Thanks for visiting.” He opens the door and, with a nudge to Steve’s knee, the dog slips out and trots toward the stairwell.
Steve ends up back on the couch, asleep in front of the TV before the sun finishes setting.