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It took a good twenty-four hours, but Tony’s ranting about Loki having conjured up “the bubonic plague” finally died down to the occasional muttered expletive, punctuated by Loki’s name and a lot of talk of “rats,” which were obviously “getting bigger by the day, but, clearly, just as prone as ever to carry diseases.”
Before those twenty-four hours were up, it had been determined by Bruce and Tony that they had not, in fact, contracted any form of Y. pestis. The “they” in question was all of the Avengers but Steve—and the actual sickness that they had contracted being, to quote Tony’s scientific term, “magic Asgardian death-flu.”
Thor had called the “pestilence” something long and unpronounceable, which Steve had no more been able to decipher than Natasha’s Russian tirade.
Clint glared a lot, and sniffed, and shunned Kleenex altogether, as if he was in denial about being sick.
Bruce merely endured, and always sneezed into a Kleenex, and coughed into his elbow, and generally overcompensated for Clint’s lack of manners. But every once in a while his misery took on an edge of repressed anger. Then again, it was entirely possible he was actually feeling green. After all, the first stage of magic Asgardian death-flu involved about five hours of non-stop nausea.
One thing was certain: Loki might’ve gotten away this time, but the next they met him in battle he was going to regret his diversionary tactics.
Steve was beginning to wish he’d gotten sick, too, if only to keep Tony from perpetually griping about him “flaunting his wellness” at them. Steve would’ve been all too happy to remove his wellness from his teammates’ immediate vicinity, but the very fact that he’d proven immune while they’d all succumbed made him the obvious choice to look after them.
Not that Steve would use those words, precisely. Certainly not aloud. Besides, he wasn’t so much “looking after” them as “wrangling” them. That had become his occupation for the last three days: Teammate Wrangling. Because while the upper levels of Stark Tower had been evacuated in order to serve as quarantine, the upper levels of Stark Tower still left plenty of room to hide in. And his teammates were nothing if not good at hiding.
Well, Clint hid—in the air ducts, in the dark corner of rooms, and in the obvious places that you never thought to look. The rest of them just obstinately skulked off the moment Steve wasn’t looking.
Them skulking off wouldn’t have been such a big deal if Steve could trust them to actually take care of themselves. Natasha was only the most blatantly in denial of being sick. On the other end of the spectrum was Tony, whining from dawn till dusk. But what they all had in common was a complete disdain for things like proper rest and food. If they didn’t feel like eating, then they didn’t, never mind if they’d skipped breakfast and lunch.
Getting the five of them to sleep for a few consecutive hours, or even just convincing them to relax, was worse than herding overtired toddlers who were never sleepy at all, no really, Mom.
Steve was beginning to feel like one of those sheepdogs. A border collie, maybe.
He probably didn’t need to worry so much. After all, they were all adults. If they refused to look after themselves, then who was he to make them?
Their Captain, the answer came back to him, loud and clear. Sometimes he really wished his conscience and sense of duty had had off switches.
But the argument for his continued oversight was clear cut. He was currently the only one not wired, or grouchy, or sullen, or too tired to think straight. Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not he’d deteriorate to the same level as them, given enough time. The super soldier serum had kept him from getting sick, and it was keeping him operational despite a lack of rest. But one thing the serum didn’t give him was superhuman patience.
It was mid-afternoon, finally drawing toward the end of Day Three of Teammate Wrangling, and Steve slumped onto the couch in one of Tony’s (relatively) down-to-earth living rooms. They were sleeping now, each and every last one of them. Or at least he’d gotten them all to say they’d go to sleep—and they’d each gone off to their rooms.
He’d stay optimistic that they’d actually follow through. He’d get some sleep, himself—the craving for rest more emotional then physical, because he was trying to remain nice in the face of their puerile behavior. Even so, surely if he was feeling like he’d been put through the wringer, then his teammates had to be too exhausted to be running off to try anything too crazy.
He was just dozing off when JARVIS’s voice roused him.
“Captain…”
“They’re up again, aren’t they?” Steve said, not opening his eyes yet. He tamped down the urge to groan.
“Agent Romanov and Lord Thor appear to be headed for the gym with the intent to spar. Agent Barton has left his room in a state of disarray, and appears to be ransacking the kitchen on level twenty-one, in search of something suitable to eat.” AI or no, there was a distinct note of disapproval in JARVIS’s tone as he added, “It would appear his criteria for ‘suitable’ mainly involve rather large amounts of refined sugar.”
Steve ran a hand through his hair, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “I think I can guess where Bruce and Tony are off to.”
“Indeed, Sir.” At least JARVIS didn’t sound tired. Steve liked to pretend he’d begun to sound increasingly sympathetic, actually. Certainly the AI had been incredibly helpful, volunteering to help Steve keep tabs on the team when Steve hadn’t even known enough to ask JARVIS to do so.
Steve pushed himself to his feet. “And let me guess again. They’re in some state of disarray, as well.”
“Quite right again, Sir. You should also be aware they are operating under the influence of an alarming amount of caffeine.”
“That Swiss coffee maker, huh? Did they haul it down to the lab again?” After tasting a cup of the stuff, Steve almost understood the (to him) ridiculous amount of money Tony had spent on it.
“Actually, Captain, they are conducting experiments regarding the precise potency of a broad spectrum of beverages including energy drinks, Folgers instant coffee, and—”
“—Thanks…thanks. I get the picture.” He inhaled deeply. “This could get ugly, JARVIS.”
“Yes, Captain. I’m afraid so. There is still one more thing you should know…”
“Yes?”
“Lord Thor is making a detour on his way to the gym, and I believe he intends to visit the lab. Given his highly obliging tendencies regarding requests for live test subjects, I would urge you to intercept him.”
Steve was already out the door and headed for the elevator.
***
“Captain Stick-in-the-Mud,” Tony sulked, sitting down at the kitchen table and actually huffing at Steve.
“More like Captain Stick-up-his—”
“—Oh, shut up, Clint,” Natasha snapped. She’d been rubbing absently at her temples for the last ten minutes.
“Yeah, just shut up, Barton,” Tony parroted.
“You shut up, Stark.”
“I second both motions,” Bruce murmured, eyes trained on the countertop. He, at least, didn’t appear overly caffeinated. Of course, it was hard to appear overly anything next to a slightly wild-eyed, and definitely wild-haired, Tony Stark.
Steve ignored it all, happy just to have successfully herded them all into one room. Their bickering had become the soundtrack of his life.
Clint glowered, and sniffed. Natasha plucked a handful of tissues out of the nearby box and pointedly held them out in front of him, an inch from his face. Clint grabbed them, because he was just being willfully petulant, not suicidal. He promptly blew his nose into the entire wad and made a, “Happy now?” face.
Steve opened the door of the fridge, and saw out of the corner of his eye that Thor was rummaging through the cupboards. He, at least, seemed to have retained a sort of automatic instinct to continue eating. “Thor, I’ve got some soup here. Just…sit down, huh? I’ll warm it up.” Mostly, he didn’t need Thor getting started in on any of the junk food Clint kept the kitchen stocked with. When it came to food, Clint chose with all the care of a spoiled toddler. He was a bad influence on Thor. While their choice of food might be entirely their own business on a normal basis… it certainly wasn’t going to do them any favors when it came to getting back to full health. And he, more than any of them, wanted them to get well as fast as possible.
Thor turned, nose red, eyes bright. If Clint and Tony had become the nightmare children, then Thor had become the sleepy, sweet-tempered one. It didn’t help that cough syrup seemed to have an odd, rather analgesic effect on him, making him particularly dopey even taken in small amounts.
As Steve pulled the large kettle of soup out of the fridge and put it on the stovetop, Thor complied readily, sitting down on the barstool next to Bruce’s.
Tony coughed pointedly. Only Tony could make a genuine cough sound faked. “Soup?” His derision was latent in the single word.
“Soup?” Clint echoed with disbelief. “What are you, our grandma?”
Steve removed the lid from the pot with one hand, and with the other fished around in the drawer for a spoon. “You guys can thank me later.”
“I appreciate it, I really do, Steve,” Bruce, the Responsible One, interjected. “I’m just not hungry.”
Steve turned on the burner and began to stir. “I know a thing or two about being sick, believe me. And if there’s one thing my mom taught me it was that you eat when you’re sick, whether you feel like it or not. Next to resting, it’s the most simple thing you can do to get better quickly.”
“So, what, this is the family cure-all recipe? Is there pixie-dust in there? Ground unicorn horn?”
Steve spared Clint a hard look over his shoulder. “Something like that, yeah,” he replied evenly. Clint wasn’t being maliciously irreverent—just generally irreverent, to anything that breathed, and to a few innocent pieces of furniture that had gotten in his way, besides. He couldn’t know how bittersweet Steve’s memories of being sick were. Sure, there’d been the almost rheumatic aches and pains, and the cold sweats, and the general bleakness that came from being chronically ill. But there’d been good memories, too—and somehow the good memories always seemed mingled with the sound of his mother’s humming, and the salty, damp smell of bone-broth cooking on the stove.
He smiled a little at the sound of a Clint’s soft “oof” as someone (undoubtedly Natasha) elbowed him in the ribs. Half-dead with exhaustion or not, she always had a way of reading a situation—reading people—accurately. Or else she was actively looking for an excuse to elbow Clint, and Clint opening his mouth currently qualified. Given Clint’s sour mood, Steve couldn’t argue with that.
Steve put some water on to boil, and spent the next fifteen minutes alternately stirring the soup, seasoning it with some extra thyme (a.k.a. “only the highest quality unicorn horn,” as he’d elucidated for Clint’s benefit) , and hunting for a box of noodles to cook.
By the time he was finished, Thor and Natasha were nearly asleep, heads drooping, hair brushing the countertop. Clint was leaning on both elbows and rolling his eyes at Tony’s in-depth energy drink analysis. Bruce was zoned out, rubbing distractedly at red-rimmed eyes, and only the fact that he wasn’t doing so two-fisted with his knuckles saved him from looking exactly like a kid ready for nap time.
One by one, Steve deposited bowls of soup in front of them, and one by one they sat up to stare at it like they’d forgotten what food looked like.
Predictably, Thor was the first to figure out the mystery. They all finally began to dig in, at first on autopilot, then, after the first taste, they managed some actual zeal. The sudden cessation of bickering was only interrupted by the clink of spoons on bowls. Watching their bent heads as they devoured the soup, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a litter of puppies gulping down their food.
Steve leaned his hip against the edge of the counter, crossed his arms, and considered his next strategy.
***
“This is stupid,” Clint grumbled. He’d scooted as far to his end of the couch as possible without actually perching on its arm. Between the baggy t-shirt and sweatpants he was wearing, and the massive case of bedhead he had going on, he looked as unintimidating as Steve had ever seen him look, intense stare notwithstanding.
In fact, noneof his sullen teammates presented expressions with any power to threaten. The bedhead look was universal, and the pajamas had been mandatory.
“What is this?” Tony appeared in the doorway to the living room. “‘Avengers assemble for a slumber party?’”
Steve ignored Tony and Clint. It was something he was getting plenty of practice at. And, really, he was just impressed that they’d all obeyed him and “assembled.”
Natasha was settled between Thor and Bruce, hugging a pillow. While she didn’t get surly like Clint, or sarcastic like Tony, she had her own brand of sullen resistance fully developed, and was currently taking moping to maximum. She all but had a literal storm cloud gathered overhead.
“I am not sick,” she stated precisely.
Steve raised an eyebrow.
“I was,” she amended. “But I’m better now. I don’t need…this.”
“Coddling,” Tony suggested. “He’s coddling us.”
“To death,” Clint added.
“I have not been treated like this since I was a child,” Thor chimed in, not angrily so much as with some disgruntled bemusement. It was perhaps strangest of all to see him with mussed hair, dressed in the loose sweatpants and shirt (red, and NYC-emblazoned) that served as his sleeping clothes. He gave a yawn worthy of a great cat and drew one foot up onto the couch, arms encircling his leg. “It is really…not necessary…all of this…cosseting….” he added with the mulishness that only the profoundly exhausted to can raise.
“’Cosseting.’ That’s another good word,” Tony mused. “That means, like, mother-henning, right? Totally mother-henning, Cap. Like some overprotective, clucking hen.”
“’Smothering’ is a good word, too,’” Bruce added under his breath—then instantly looked apologetically at Steve, like he hadn’t intended to say it out loud.
Considering Steve had seen him apologize to the wall he’d walked into earlier in the day, he was pretty sure Bruce was on cruise control, with his brain set to auto-apologize. He supposed that was one way to avoid getting sucked into the squabbling.
Clint was getting that shifty-eyed look again, and Natasha was trying to suppress a cough. Thor looked simultaneously fidgety and sleepy. Tony was indignant and haggard, with a slight tremor in his hand that didn’t escape Steve’s notice despite the distracting way he was bouncing his left knee up and down like the caffeine was taking him over limb by limb.
It was time to get to the point before they scattered to the four corners of the earth. Or spontaneously combusted. Or just ganged up and murdered him.
“Listen up, all of you,” he said, a few decibels too loudly and too sternly for congenial conversation.
Thor’s drooping eyes opened a fraction wider.
Steve set down the box of Kleenex he’d brought, depositing it on the coffee table with a thump. So he was a “clucking” hen, was he? Time to cluck with some authority.
“None of you are leaving this room without my permission. None of you,” his eyes settled a moment on each of them, “get to argue without my permission.” His gaze lingered on Tony. “None of you are drinking caffeinated or alcoholic beverages without my permission. You’re going to pick a spot, and you’re going to stay there and rest until I say otherwise.”
He expected a chorus of complaints and excuses. What he got was glazed eyes, vacant expressions, and dead silence.
Then Clint gave an exaggerated sniff and raised his hand.
Steve sighed. “Yes, Clint.”
“What if I need to take a leak?”
Tony sniggered. “Yeah, Cap. What then?”
Steve reached for his ever-dwindling supply of patience. “Then you have permission to go to the head.”
“Awesome.” Clint grinned. “Thanks, Steve.”
“Best nanny ever,” Tony concurred.
Natasha said something in Russian, and finished petulantly with, “M’not sick…” before settling on staring malevolently at the far wall.
Thor lunged for a Kleenex and sneezed loudly into it, three times in a row. Bruce offered him the wastebasket.
“I need cough drops if I’m going to be held prisoner,” Tony complained, rubbing at this throat with a theatrical grimace.
Steve could do concessions. “Cherry or lemon?”
“The honey-filled kind,” Clint piped up.
Tony looked as pleased as Clint at the idea. “I love those. Used to eat them like candy when I was a kid.”
“JARVIS…” Steve began.
“Yes, Captain: honey-filled cough drops, the medicine cabinet of the bathroom in suite three, level twenty-four.”
“Thanks, JARVIS. Tell me if anyone tries to leave.”
“Immediately, Captain.”
Steve left the room to the sound of Tony complaining loudly at JARVIS about desertion and high treason against his own creator.
While he rode the elevator Steve took the opportunity to pull out his phone and check for messages from Miss Potts. She’d been sending him concerned emails and texts ever since she’d heard about what had happened with Loki, and Steve had already calmly assured her at least three times that it wasn’t necessary for her to interrupt her business trip to Europe. Even if had been advisable to her come anywhere near the team while they were contagious (and, according to Thor, the sickness had nearly a week-long period where it was likely to spread to others), there was still no need for her to drop everything and come running. He had everything under control. Really.
She’d started to sound reassured right around the time Steve had begun to wonder if he really did have everything under control.
Her latest text merely read: Kids alright?
Steve was still slow at typing on the phone’s small keypad, but he was finally beginning to get the hang of using his thumbs. More difficult to handle was the auto-correct feature. No casualties yet, he answered. And, on second thought added, They’re demanding honey-filled cough drops.
Her reply was almost instantaneous, For God’s sake don’t let Tony get his hands on the whole bag.
The elevator door dinged open, and Steve stepped out into the hall. Have some faith.
Again, her response was rapid-fire: Sorry. Salaried control freak.
I’ve got this. He smiled and supplied: Kids fed and in PJs.
All of them? He could almost see her expression.
I’ll send pictures.
DO.
***
Not only had his teammates stayed put while he was gone, they’d obeyed him and settled in.
Natasha, Bruce, and Thor were on the largest couch. Natasha sat sideways in the middle using Thor’s shoulder as a backrest, knees nearly drawn up to her chin. Bruce’s head was tipped back and he was snoring, mouth open. Thor was sitting exactly as Steve had left him, one leg on the couch, arms encircling it, looking altogether disconcertingly young.
Clint and Tony had taken possession of their own individual leather recliners: Clint sitting haphazardly, with his legs draped over one arm; Tony, legs crossed, slumped forward, chin resting in the palm of his hand.
“Well if it isn’t the Star Spangl’d Man With the Plan,” Tony offered the congested salutation. “The Bossy Plan.”
Steve offered Clint the open bag of cough drops, snatching it out of reach when Clint tried to take the whole thing.
“You’re enjoying this,” Clint griped, caching away his successfully captured handful of cough drops in the pocket of his sweatpants.
“It’s been the best three days of my life, Barton,” Steve agreed with deadpan serenity. He pulled the bag of cough drops even more quickly away from Tony.
“Hey, Clint got four,” Tony complained, examining the three he’d managed to snatch, and then glaring at Clint. “This is my house, and those are my cough drops.”
“Share. It’s never too late to learn.” Steve finished his distribution and set the bag of cough drops down on the coffee table next to the Kleenex. “And buck up.”
“You buck up,” Tony spoke around a cough drop, settling back deeper into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s never too late to learn…” he mumbled sarcastically, with the kind of petulant waggle of his head that should’ve been reserved for children not yet out of puberty.
Steve eyed his teammates strewn across all available furniture, each gradually entering various stages of sleep. There was some sniffling, some rattling of cough drops.
“Don’t anyone choke on those,” Steve cautioned wearily, realizing his oversight. With his luck, he’d be woken up in an hour to do the Heimlich maneuver when one of them fell asleep and inhaled an unfinished lozenge.
“Yeah, yeah, Gramps,” Clint snorted.
“Cluck, cluck,” Tony clucked.
Bruce grunted possible assent.
Thor smiled softly, ignoring Steve’s warning altogether. “I like this flavor.”
Natasha grumbled, “Zhatknis,” which Clint had explained was simply “shut up,” Natasha’s phrase of choice lately.
Steve sighed heavily. If he slept at all, he’d be sleeping like he was used to doing during the war: lightly, and on high alert.
The floor was really his only option, considering the five of them were in a competition to see who could take up the most space. The only question was where to place himself with a mind to avoid being stepped on should anyone get up.
Just when he’d decided on sitting down against the coffee table, he noticed Natasha watching him, eyes narrowed like a drowsy cat. She pointedly pulled her knees closer to her chest, creating more space between herself and Bruce.
Steve settled down. The cushions were soft and plush enough to swallow you alive.
“JARVIS, would you turn on the television please?” he asked quietly. With any luck he could at least get a few hours’ rest without anyone taking off to try… something stupid.
Obligingly, JARVIS turned on the huge flatscreen TV, the volume at just the right level to make out what was being said without rousing anyone from their half-awake states. Apparently the last channel turned on had been Animal Planet. Steve wasn’t sure who’d been watching it, and hadn’t figured it for something any of them would be particularly into, but the current program seemed to be some feel-good piece on dog rescues. Seeing as no one raised any objections—and a quick look around informed him that all of them were staring at the screen, looking almost hypnotized by it—he left it at that.
It was only a few minutes before Bruce was listing against his shoulder, and Natasha’s legs wound up stretched out across his thighs as she wriggled into a more comfortable position. It was rather was like being buried by drifting snow—and he would know. But this was warm. And kind of nice. Especially after two nights of running around herding willful teammates who were “totally not sleepy or sick at all,” yet somehow managed to make remarkably life-and-limb-threatening choices, for being in such perfect mental and physical condition.
It wasn’t long before a chorus of congested snores assured him they were all asleep. Every. Last. One. He took a moment to pause and scrutinize each one until he was satisfied there were no fakers. It wasn’t easy, since he’d learned nothing so well as that his teammates’ most guileless expressions could bode the worst kind of mischief. But he was fairly certain that this time sheer fatigue had won out.
A parent with colicky quintuplets couldn’t feel much more relief after the crying had finally stopped, and the house was silent.
If anything could have cured him of sentimental fondness for his teammates, the last days should’ve done it. But he felt a surge of undeniable warmth towards them: red-nosed, sawing away, rumpled, and bone-deep tired as the were. In sleep they almost—almost—looked innocent.
“We did it, JARVIS,” he whispered, and—careful not to jostle Bruce or Natasha—reached into his pocket for his phone.
“Admirably done, Sir. Most admirably done.”
A slow, self-satisfied smile spread across Steve’s face as he found the camera on his phone, and set about keeping his promise to Miss Potts.