Chapter Text
“Steve!” Tony bellows as he kicks his wheeled stool away from his lab table, spinning to watch the man in question exit the elevator to the R&D Lab.
“Tony,” Steve says around the hangnail he’s chewing. “Have you seen Maria?” he asks, wincing at the now slightly bloodied area where he successfully ripped away the stubby skin.
“Have you checked her office?” Tony asks. Steve isn’t given an opportunity to answer before Tony continues, “Forget her, I want to show you something.”
Tony sit-walks his chair back to his research table. Steve joins him. The table is bare of any tools, though a few hologram screens hover over the table displaying various things Steve doesn’t get the chance to identify before Tony shouts, “Nanobots!” louder than necessary given his audience, vibrating with excitement.
“Nanobots?” Steve asks, investigating one of the larger hologram screens that depicts the nanobot blueprint.
“Self replicating nanobots,” Tony says, enunciating with his finger for clarification. “These babies will be the next generation in health care. They will literally replace doctors.”
Tony continues to give an overview of the included features - invasive cell detection and protocol, Bluetooth capabilities, communication via text message, cell replication and integration - as Steve watches another screen displaying the nanobots swimming in some sort of fluid.
Steve disengages from Tony’s description of the ‘bots as he investigates the other holograph screens, though none of them are nearly as interesting as the tank that catches his eye. A quick consultation with one of the screens confirms that this must be the nanobot holding tank. He walks over to inspect. Tony follows, still talking and undeterred by Steve’s lack of direct acknowledgement. “-not ready for prime time just yet. There’s still a bunch of bugs to work out, but they’re close! So close!”
Steve comes to a stop in front of the tank. The tank is small, maybe a drinking glass in size. The nanobots live up to their name, so small that even though several screens depict the ‘bots swimming at various enlargements, there is no visible current in the tank. “That’s neat,” Steve says, turning back to look at Tony’s face.
“Well, we can’t all be super soldiers,” Tony snarks, sneering with mild irritation, “so this will at least put us lesser beings on the same playing field. This will cure cancer! I have created the cure for cancer! I better start on my Nobel Prize speech now.” By the end of the self indulgent monologue, Tony is grinning wildly and talking with his hands again.
“That sounds like an excellent use of your time,” Steve replies, turning back to the tank so Tony doesn’t see the smirk plastered across his face.
“Well, what have you done in the way of world saving today, Capsicle?” Tony fires back.
“Nothing yet, but it’s still early,” Steve shrugs. “So has Bruce seen these?” His face is under control enough to glance at Stark to gauge his response. His hangnail from earlier twinges, irritated from being pulled out. Steve sticks it in his mouth again to tongue at the area.
“Yeah, he’s looked over the schematics and given his suggestions.”
Steve slides his eyes back to the tank, screwing up his face in confusion. “Is it supposed to be doing that?” he asks, taking his finger out of his mouth.
“Hmm?”
“The tank is overflowing,” Steve says, pointing at the tank.
“Well, officially? No," Tony frowns.
A few things happen in quick succession: the small drips of liquid abruptly turn into trickles, pooling on the metal table; Tony retrieves a thick stick; and Dum-E comes rushing over almost knocking Steve ass over tea kettles. Steve narrowly avoids the fate by planting his palm on the table and maneuvering slightly to the left. Dum-E waves his mechanical arm at Steve in a gesture Steve has to guess the meaning of. Given that all of Tony’s various mechanical creations are generally benevolent, if sarcastic, he assumes the robot is doing his best to apologize.
“Watch it," Tony squawks, though Steve can't tell if the order is directed at him or at the robot. Nevertheless, Steve removes himself from the immediate area, as does Dum-E who beeps dejected warbles as he rolls back to his corner of the lab. Steve watches, absently wiping his hand on his pants leg, as Tony extends the stick and hovers it over the liquid. "Jarvis, discontinue nanobot nutrition fluid."
"Of course, Sir," the AI says in his usual musical monotonous tone.
Tony continues to wave his big stick over the liquid, not completely dissimilar to how one would wield a magic wand, especially for how the thing seems to operate. The liquid looks like it’s defying gravity, floating upwards in little blobs mid-air where Tony waves his stick. “How are you doing that?” Steve asks, transfixed, several scenes from that kid wizard movie pop to the forefront of his mind.
“Magic,” Tony smiles. “Well, sort of. I mean, not literally, though that is the acronym. Stands for Magnetic Area Geothermal Isolating Center, or the containment protocol for the ‘bots.”
“You literally have a magic wand?” Steve snorts.
“I said, ‘not literally’. Do you not listen?” Tony asks, distracted from the blobs of liquid to glare at Steve.
“Okay,” Steve concedes, shrugging his shoulders in surrender. Appeased, Tony goes back to swinging the wand about and making the little blobs into larger blobs. “Though this does explain all the owls I’ve been spotting,” Steve says after a moment of silence, sparking Tony to use his free hand to give a rude gesture. “Oh, hey, this even gives me an idea for a nickname for you. I mean, Sam has Falcon, Nat has Black Widow. You’ll now be known as the Wizard of Avengers Tower,” Steve presses his luck.
“That will never catch on,” Tony replies. “I am Iron Man.”
“Whatever you say, Whiz Kid.”
“Whatever you say, old man,” Tony mocks high pitched, nasally, and rude.
The elevator dings, distracting Steve from a verbal retort.
Bruce Banner exits the elevator with an enormous BOSS sandwich on a dinner plate that should probably be described as a serving platter. “That sandwich is… excessive,” Steve observes as Bruce walks to the lab table with the hovering hologram screens. He delivers the sandwich and flicks the screens to float higher off the surface.
“I’ve learned it’s best to bring enough for two so that he,” Bruce says, pointedly nodding at Tony, quietly enough so the man in question doesn’t acknowledge, “might actually eat real food instead of protein bars. What’s going on?”
“Bruce! Get over here and let me show you how the MAGIC happens,” Tony says, using his free hand to usher Bruce closer. Bruce cautiously walks over to Tony, watching the blobs of nanobots. “Here, take my MAGIC stick,” he winks, taking Bruce’s hand and dropping the wand in it. He directs Bruce’s wand hand a bit while Bruce gets the hang of the movements.
“It’s a little phallic, isn’t it?” he asks, inspecting the wand in his hand. Tony slows the directional pull on Bruce, his frown more resembling a pout. “No, I mean, I don’t mean anything by that, I love your MAGIC stick -”
And with that, Steve takes his leave. Fuck this century and everyone in it.
The elevator is still sitting at the R&D floor so Steve can escape while Tony and Bruce continue to make various innuendo. “Jarvis, my floor, please?” Steve asks to the general direction of the ceiling as the doors slide shut behind him.
“Yes, Captain.”
Steve rests his butt against the hand railing, head and shoulders bent slightly down, and hands clasped loosely in front of him as the elevator descends. It doesn’t surprise him when the elevator makes a stop prior to his floor, but the new occupant makes his eyebrow raise.
“Captain Rogers,” Maria Hill greets with a nod. She steps on the elevator, dragging her rolling briefcase behind her. “My office, Jarvis,” she requests of the AI.
“Yes, Commander.”
“I was looking for you,” Steve says without preamble once the doors have slid closed.
“Yes, I know,” Maria smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She kneels down to her briefcase and unclips the buckle, then shuffles through various dossiers before pulling the one she is after. “Here,” she shoves the folder at Steve before buckling her briefcase again.
Steve takes the thick portfolio and examines the cover. “Thank you,” he nods.
“Don’t mention it,” she says over her shoulder. The elevator stops at the Commander’s floor and she exits, pulling her rolling briefcase behind her. The doors close again and Steve has to fight the urge to begin ripping through the contents.
The original Winter Soldier dossier, which Natasha had given him months ago, was helpful - if also enraging and depressing - at first. Or perhaps he was too hopeful to realize all the blank spaces and dead ends it would lead to. Sam and Steve spent weeks working through all the leads it contained. In the end, every single one turned out the be useless - either killed, destroyed, or dismantled - before the two could properly investigate. Eventually, Sam was able to convince Steve they needed more than a rapidly aging dossier full of old leads that were no longer viable with no new leads gained.
Their return to DC was equally unfruitful. They quickly discovered DC also lacked any resources as the aftermath of Natasha’s exposure left them all unattainable - MIA, in prison, or dead. Then Tony Stark called two days after their return with a clichéd offer Steve could not refuse: a job, a place to live, access to gyms that could keep up with his strength and ability, and Maria Hill.
After the fall of the Triskelion, Maria took a position at Stark Industries to continue to maintain global security under the Avengers Initiative, primarily taken over by Stark himself. Officially, the project isn’t supposed to exist. But that had always been the official story, even when the project was run under SHIELD.
With Nick Fury gone and SHIELD invariably destroyed and decommissioned, Maria Hill is about the only trustworthy resource with any information on the Winter Soldier.
Tony’s offer also extended to Sam. His efforts to take down HYDRA did not go unnoticed by the genius. Or, really, had not gone unnoticed by Maria, who had been kind enough to pass the reference along.
Sam, of course, rolled his eyes at Stark’s money. But he did agree to consider the offer.
And so, the next morning, nine highly skilled and efficient movers arrived at Steve’s apartment to move what probably only required four moderately experienced and partially organized friends with promises of pizza.
Less than a week after that, Steve caught up with a familiar face on his favorite running route through Central Park. “On your left,” he huffed.
“Do not start that again,” Sam called after Steve.
Steve smiles at the memory, jolted back to the present as the elevator dings and the doors slide open nearly silent to his floor.
“His Floor” is definitely an overstatement. While it is true that there are no other tenants, residential or business, occupying his floor and that Tony intended the floor to be all his, most of the floor is just empty rooms, shut off and gathering dust. Tony offered to help fill the space with an en suite gym or art studio or anything else of Steve’s choosing, but Steve declined, though he does feel regretful about the empty, unused rooms.
Tony likes to pretend the apartment was made with Steve in mind. Tony’s big name designer, whoever they were, was probably designing for Captain America instead of Steve Rogers. It’s a very nice layout, but if it was intended to make Steve feel at home, it missed the mark by a long shot.
Steve has only lived alone once, for a very, very brief period between when his ‘ma passed away and when Bucky and he moved into their tiny tenement. The tenement building was owned by Bucky’s uncle so they got a small discount on the already reasonable price. Living with someone else made it easier to do the small upkeeps, like the dishes and the dusting. It was easier to maintain cleanliness when someone else was judgmentally pelting his socks at the back of his head if he left them on the floor instead of in the hamper.
He grabs a jacket from the pile of clean clothes he has yet to put away, his cellphone from his bedside table (almost knocking over at least three precariously placed water cups in the process), and his wallet from the counter between a bowl of soggy cereal and a mug of fuzzy coffee, before taking the elevator back to street level. Sam’s shift at the hospital will be over by the time Steve walks the few blocks, and maybe stops to get Starbucks.
When Sam moved from DC, there were no paid transfer positions to the local VA. He still volunteers when he has time, but he needed paid work. As a certified member of the National Registry of Emergency Medical Technicians at the Paramedic level, thanks to his pararescue days with the Air Force, Sam was qualified for the emergency medical services team at Sacred Heart.
The most direct route to the hospital from Avengers Tower passes two Starbucks locations, not including the Starbucks that houses itself within the hospital walls. Steve prefers the second Starbucks along his route because they have a chalk drawn Try Me sign. He usually orders the suggestion since the choices of coffee drinks on the full menu are overwhelming at best, not to mention the time Clint tried to introduce him to the Secret Menu.
He orders two of the same drink off the Try Me sign and sips his during the rest of his walk to the ambulance bay to wait for Sam.
“Only Captain America would show up 15 minutes early with Starbucks,” Sam says as he walks up to Steve half an hour later.
“I’m not 15 minutes early, you’re 15 minutes late,” Steve teases, handing over the Venti something-or-other chilled coffee-flavored sugar frappe drink to Sam.
“Yeah, sorry, got called out for a diabetic collapse,” Sam says, but Steve is already waving his excuse off as unnecessary.
The two exit the ambulance bay and begin the walk to Sam’s apartment as Sam briefly recounts his day, beginning with the poor old man who fell on his way to the toilet and ending with the middle aged lady unresponsive from low sugars, just in time to sip the last of the liquid obnoxiously up through his straw.
“What even is this?” Sam asks, shaking the plastic cup to settle the remaining melted ice before making a final attempt to suck up more flavor before they pass the next trash can.
“Caramel ribbon Macchiato cream extra whip soy frappe espresso - “
“You have absolutely no idea, do you?” Sam interrupts the stream of unrelated Starbucks drink definitions.
“Not a clue,” Steve admits with a wry smile and a shrug.
Sam rolls his eyes as he maneuvers through the comparably mild foot traffic to reach the trash bin before joining back up with Steve, complaining, “Man, now I’ll never be able to try that magic elixir again because your ass gets flustered by baristas.”
“I am not flustered by baristas,” Steve defends himself with an eye roll of his own. “Just that back in my day, coffee only came in black, black, or, if you’re feeling extra adventurous, black.” He pauses long enough to cringe, “And don’t say ‘magic elixir’ anymore.”
“Only if you promise not to say ‘back in my day’, old man,” Sam says while bumping Steve’s shoulder pointedly.
Steve sniffs out a pity laugh before nodding in mutual agreement.
Sam’s apartment is only a few blocks away from the hospital and Avengers Tower. Sam found it by recommendation from Pepper Potts. Rent isn’t astronomical, though that may have more to do with the size than the location. His one bedroom might literally be the size of a postage stamp, but no one has gotten out the measuring tape to confirm. But the balcony-cum-fire escape has enough room for his plants and the natural light makes the place look more homey, as do his framed music posters on the wall, his overstuffed couch in front of his moderate sized television, large area rugs, and socially acceptable amount of dirty dishes on available surfaces. Steve is mildly jealous of that last one.
He has made friends with the neighbors, too. He carried Mrs. Rosenberg's groceries up the stairs when the elevator broke. She now bakes him a pan of her award winning brownies every Sunday. Sam’s taken to letting Steve finish the pan when he noticed that he had to let his belt out a few notches. As he was taking the stairs with Mrs. Rosenberg’s groceries he met Elizabeth “Lizzi” Arnoni, who was trying to get a hold of the building’s emergency plumber. Lizzi tried to thank him with cash, but he refused. A few days later, he found a hand knit scarf tied to his door with a note of thanks.
Mr. Zwicky from across the hall often leaves to visit his children in Maine and asks Sam to cat sit for Critter, who he has to catch before she runs out the door upon his arrival with Steve.
“Can I offer you anything?” Sam asks, taking on the role of host even though it’s been a long time since Steve was considered a guest. He shoves Critter into Steve’s hands and walks to the kitchen to dish up one of Mrs. Rosenberg’s brownies for Steve.
Steve grunts as Critter squirms and wiggles in his arms, ultimately letting her flail to the ground with little grace to speak of. Steve grumbles after the ball of fur as she scrambles under Sam’s bed.
The two reconvene in the living room where Steve finally opens the dossier and spreads out the contents: grainy surveillance camera photographs, photocopied notebook pages in varied handwriting, printed emails, newspaper clippings, and a large, folded map.
Sam retrieves his laptop from the bedroom and opens an internet browser to Google some of the details and translate the languages that are not English.
Sam and Steve have received enough packets from Maria to have a system. They will both read through all the materials and take notes separately before coming back together to compare their findings. Not everything in the packet is something the Winter Soldier has done. Separating out the patterns has become critical to tracking his movements. But it seems that’s what they’ve been reduced to. Maria is privileged to a lot of information, but often missions conducted by the Winter Soldier go unnoticed for weeks, if not months. He’s stealthy and it’s not like HYDRA wants to advertise that their greatest weapon has turned against them. So gaps in the timeline of events don’t necessarily mean he’s not mobile.
But that in itself makes it damn hard to know where he was and impossible to know where he's heading. Often the most recent intel Maria can provide is already at least a week old with all personnel involved dead, unfindable, or otherwise unable to be interrogated.
The names and locations might be new, but all the information seems to point to the same dead ends that they always do. It’s disheartening and demoralizing.
Critter returns by the time Steve is on his second brownie to curl up on top of the now unfolded map. “Shithead,” Steve declares as he picks her up to deposit her on his lap, petting her to calm her into remaining there while he reads through the newspaper clippings. They order Chinese takeout for dinner and Steve sneaks a third brownie while Sam hits the head. Soon, Sam is yawning. Steve takes the hint that it’s time to leave.
Sam smiles, standing to collect the dishes and bring them to the sink. Steve stands and stretches before collecting the stray plate and cup left behind and setting them on the counter for Sam.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, stifling a yawn of his own as he collects his shoes and jacket from the entryway.
“Yeah,” Sam promises, voice rough and low with exhaustion.
Sam sees him out and Steve walks back to Avengers Tower, an overwhelming sense of incompletion weighing over his head. Things just haven’t gone according to plan and coming to terms with the lack of results is a daily, repetitive, grating task. Keeping occupied with something other than finding Bucky has become inconceivable.
It’s gotten to the point that Steve almost wishes for a world emergency just for a distraction.
Steve falls into bed and stares at the ceiling for a while. He’s tried falling asleep to white noise, water and nature sounds, talk radio, and Netflix. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. He is lucky that being a super soldier makes it easier to function on less than the recommended amount of sleep. Eventually he is able to ignore the absolute silence of the Tower and falls into a less than restful sleep.