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The massive lounge at the top floor of Avengers Tower is empty as Steve settles into one of the large plush armchairs one morning. He’s grateful for the quiet, not because he dislikes being around the others, but it’s nice to have peace to think once in a while.
He flips open one of the many spiral notebooks he’s purchased since waking up from the ice; journaling is something he was told might help him process the past. It has helped, in a manner of speaking, though sometimes he thinks the idle sketches he makes on the pages help him more than recording his thoughts. He’s always found more comfort in sketching out his feelings than he has in writing them, and it seems that’s still true decades later.
Around twenty minutes of silence go by before Steve becomes aware of a presence somewhere over his head, enunciated by soft shuffling movements as whoever it is crawls into the room by way of the ceiling. He can tell the person is trying to be quiet, but the scuffing sounds, combined with their rather loud breathing, is almost a dead giveaway– as is the whispered ow when they seemingly whack a limb on something.
Steve’s mouth twitches, because by now he can guess who the person is. “Morning, kid,” he says casually, shattering any final fragments of silence and glancing up from his notebook at a certain red-and-blue superhero on the ceiling.
Spider-Man freezes mid-crawl, hanging upside-down by his hands and feet with his mask lenses widening uncertainly. He’s silent for a minute, studying Steve with unnerving intensity until finally Steve asks curiously, “Planning to be up there all day? You can come down; you won’t bother me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Spider-Man relaxes almost immediately. “Oh, gee, sure, Mr. Rogers sir! Sorry to creep up on you like that, I didn’t wanna scare you but I was just— well, I guess curious would be the right word— I mean not in a weird way, just that— I mean—”
Steve controls his slight surprise at how young Spider-Man’s voice is. With his face hidden by a mask and his superhero alias something that denotes someone, well, much older, it’s easy to forget he’s actually just a teenager. “No worries, kid,” Steve says lightly, watching as Spider-Man drops nimbly to the floor. “So what’s up?”
“Oh! Well—” Spider-Man pauses, then seemingly as an afterthought tugs off his mask, leaving him with an extremely rumpled head of hair and a flustered expression. “Um, I just— well, you’re like, old, y’know? So I thought– Oh, gosh, that’s not what I meant. You’re—”
Steve can’t resist the slight snort of laughter that escapes him, and Peter— Peter Parker, now that’s a more fitting name for a kid— goes a little red, seeming embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Captain sir,” he apologizes frantically, waving his hands around. “I just meant cause you’re like, from the forties, and that’s actually really cool but no one ever talks about it? They just talk about you as Captain America and I just, I dunno, I was just kind of wondering about your day-to-day life, or something—”
Steve’s eyes widen in spite of himself, and he blinks, taken aback. The kid wants to know about his life before he was Cap? Back when he was just small, skinny, sickly Steve, getting beat up in trashy alleyways at least twice a day, barely surviving on the scarce food he was able to scrape together with Bucky’s help?
Nobody ever wants to hear about that.
And he can understand it. Everyone he’s come across seems to think that his past is a sore subject, and they aren’t wrong, because sometimes it can be. But at the same time it’s part of him. Without it he wouldn’t be who he is today, so it’s not like he can just forget about it. Skinny Steve is as much a part of Captain America as present Steve is– without skinny Steve he wouldn’t even be Cap. Powers hadn’t made him a hero, which was the entirety of what Dr. Erskine had believed– it’s his heart that made him one.
“Wait. You’re saying you wanna hear about my life before I got the serum?” Steve asks, thinking he must have misunderstood.
Peter nods, a shy smile crossing his face. “Uh…yeah?”
Steve blinks, taking it in for a moment. He’s silent for so long that Peter begins to get worried, shifting from foot to foot and chewing the inside of one cheek before finally he blurts, “I, um– I guess I shouldn’t have asked that, so I’ll just– I’m just gonna, uh, go– I’m really sorry if I upset you, I–”
Steve jolts out of his reverie, shaking his head a little and offering a faint smile to Peter. “No, it’s okay. You didn’t upset me; I was just surprised because…well, I’ve never been asked that before.”
Peter blinks, head tipping to one side like a puppy. “Really? That’s weird! Why wouldn’t people ask about it?” He tucks his mask into a pocket in his suit and plops cross-legged on a plush chair across from Steve, watching him with wide eyes.
Steve chuckles a little at his enthusiasm. “Probably because they don’t know how to approach the subject. Or maybe they just don’t think about that kinda thing. So I appreciate it, kid, really. What do you wanna know?”
“Um–” Peter all but wiggles in his chair, drumming his fingers idly on the armrests as he thinks. “Everything! Like, what was school like back then? Did you call girls ‘doll?’ If so, do you still? Were–”
“Wait, wait, hold up,” Steve says, raising a hand and laughing. “One question at a time, okay? I’m not that good.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” Peter fidgets. “Okay, the first one then. What was high school like?”
Steve hums, considering the question. After a moment he answers slowly, “Pretty terrible. And I mean that in the most literal sense of the word. I went to school during the Great Depression, which was an awful time already. School wasn’t much better. Most schools didn’t provide supplies, food, or certain classes due to budget cuts. A lotta kids weren’t able to even attend school because their families were out of work and they had to help support them. Plus, segregation was still going strong, so there was a lot of tension and inequality going on. And around the whole country a lot of students– and families in general– were slowly starving.”
He’s quiet for a moment, feeling the weight of his words settle over the room as he collects his thoughts. Finally he adds, “Not only that, teachers were paid hardly anything, and given too many students to possibly handle on their own. There were some places that opened– camps and such– to help teach kids who couldn’t go to school, but they could only do so much. Thousands of schools shut down around the country. Like I said, it was pretty terrible.”
“Although,” he amends after a moment, “not all of it was bad. A lot of teachers still cared about their students and did their best to help them succeed in whatever way they could. But like I said about the camps, teachers could only do so much. It was a rough time for the whole country, so the school factor wouldn’t have been much better.”
“Gosh,” Peter says, eyes wide. “That sounds…awful. What kind of subjects did you learn about? I mean, since you said some things got cut out because of the budget.”
“Oh, well–” Steve furrows his brows. “I mean, it was a long time ago. But we had classes like arithmetic, reading, writing…home economics, science– things like that. Pretty basic, but it’s what we had. Lotta kids didn’t even finish school past eighth grade.”
“That’s really sad.” Peter dangles one leg off his chair, looking lost in thought for a moment. “Like, that sucks . I know I complain about homework and stuff sometimes but at least I’m able to get a full education.”
“Yeah.” Steve clears his throat, ready to move on from the topic. His school days aren’t something he cares to relive. “So what else do you wanna know?”
“Oh, um–” Peter frowns, swinging one leg back and forth and seeming lost in thought. “Oh, right! Did you used to call girls ‘doll?’ Like in all the old movies, you know– with the– with the gangsters and stuff, did you–?”
“You think I was a gangster?” Steve can't help laughing at that image, and it doesn’t help his amusement settle any when Peter flaps his hands in the air and tries to correct himself. “I’m just giving you a hard time. But no, I don’t think I ever called anyone ‘doll.’ I know other guys did, like my best friend Buck for example, but uh, I was more partial to saying ‘dame.’”
“ Dame ?” Peter shrieks, barely stifling a snort.
Steve shrugs, cheeks heating slightly. “It wasn’t the worst of ‘em, believe me. ‘Broad,’ ‘floozie,’ ‘lynx’... most of the nicknames for women back then weren’t that respectful.”
“Not much has changed, apparently.” Peter hums, slouching further in his chair and propping his chin on one hand. “Ok, so, next question– were you nervous before getting the serum?”
Steve stiffens a little. Whatever he had expected Peter to ask next, he hadn’t been prepared for that.
Were you nervous?
His mind goes back to that day in June 1943. He hadn’t just been nervous– he had scarcely been able to breathe . The world had felt like it was slowly crumbling around him and he could do nothing but watch and go along with it as it fell apart. There had been an almost overwhelming amount of panic in his mind and heart as they shut him up in what had looked to him like a glorified casket. And then–
“Yeah, Pete,” he answers slowly, picking at a corner of a page in his notebook and cutting off his own train of thought. “I was nervous.”
“Did it hurt?” Peter continues, not noticing the odd look on Steve’s face. “When I got bit it hurt for like a week. Or was it just kinda there and you didn’t really feel it?”
Steve shivers, almost imperceptibly.
“No, I–I felt it.” His voice is slightly rough as his mind takes him back to the cold interior of his custom-made casket, the blinding white light that surrounded him as the serum took effect. But mostly he remembers the pain, the sheer and nauseating pain. The needles that injected his body with the serum had been bad enough, but the serum itself had overwhelmed every fiber of his being till it was the only thing he was aware of aside from his own ragged screams. Crushing his cells, tearing them apart and rebuilding them again– ripping through his veins like molten metal– searing his skin and shredding his muscles– blinding him as he screamed and screamed and screamed–
He swallows, mouth suddenly dry as he finishes, “And yeah, it hurt. It hurt a lot.”
Peter looks over at him then, brows furrowing as he studies Steve’s face with his head slightly tilted. Steve’s hiding his trauma from the memory well— he knows he is because he’s always been pretty good at concealing his burdens— but the kid somehow picks up on it anyway. Maybe because of those Spidey senses Steve’s heard him refer to in the past, or something. Whatever it is, Peter looks beyond horrified now, hands lifting as if in supplication as he squeaks, “Oh, oh gosh, I’m– I’m so sorry, Mr. Steve sir, I shouldn’t have–”
“Hey, hey.” Steve shakes himself out of the past and forces a smile, though it becomes more genuine as he meets Peter’s panicked gaze. “I can talk about it; it’s just not a pleasant memory, but I don’t mind telling you. I said I’d answer your questions, didn’t I?” He gives Peter a nod that he hopes is encouraging.
“Well, but I don’t wanna make you have to talk about it. Maybe some other time? I have another question anyway,” Peter says all in a rush, seeming anxious to not bring back any more bad memories for Steve. “So, how was the food? Like, was the popcorn different? Was it better or worse?”
“Well, again, it was the Great Depression,” Steve says wryly, and Peter grins. “So no, I don’t think it was better. We didn’t have much sugar, or salt, so everything was pretty bland. Lot of starches in people’s diets back then– potatoes, rice, flour. Also beans, a lot of beans. Meat and vegetables when you could get them. Not a whole lot of flavorful food. As for popcorn I never got any on my own, couldn’t afford it, but Bucky bought us some a few times. And it was good, yeah. Maybe better than today’s, though I could be saying that cause of nostalgia. Or maybe cause it was hot and buttered and butter was scarce at the time, so it felt like a real luxury.”
“I bet it tasted great,” pipes in Peter. “I bet there are like, authentic recipes or something online; basically everything’s online so I wouldn’t be surprised, y’know? Maybe Mr. Stark can build a popcorn machine–”
Steve full-on snorts at the image of Tony Stark putting in the time and effort to build a 1930’s popcorn machine. “Maybe, kid,” he agrees, idly flipping through the pages of his notebook. Peter tilts his head, attention caught by the movement, and suddenly gasps and scrambles out of his chair.
“Wait, is that yours?” he all but yelps, coming to a halt in front of Steve. “I mean, did you draw it?”
Steve glances up to discover Peter leaning forward, staring at one of the sketches in his notebook in fascination. He blinks, taken aback by the sheer interest on Peter’s face. Again, no one has ever shown an interest in his personal life like this— his interests and hobbies, what he’s good at outside of being Cap.
“Yeah, I did,” he answers, hesitating for a moment before flipping the notebook around so Peter can see better. The kid makes a woahhh sound, head tilting at different angles as if he’s trying to engrave the image into his memory. It’s just a simple sketch of Natasha, Clint, and Tony that Steve had drawn one morning as the three argued over whose turn it was to eat the last donut, but Peter seems completely awestruck by it.
“Do you do a lot of stuff like this?” he asks, looking briefly up at Steve.
Steve nods. “It may seem stupid, but I’ve always enjoyed capturing little moments in life. The things we forget about too easily, you know? I guess…” He hesitates, then continues, “It’s sort of a comfort to me. Helps me take my mind off memories that I don’t like thinking about much.”
“Ah.” Peter’s face relaxes in understanding. “I guess we all have our own things like that, right? Mr. Stark likes to invent, Ms. Romanoff likes practicing her judo, or whatever it’s called, I dunno, you like drawing—”
“What about you, kid?”
Peter freezes, looking like a deer in headlights at the question. “Me?”
“Yeah.” Steve leans back in his chair. “To get out of your head. What do you do to achieve that?”
“Oh.” Peter flushes, one hand creeping to the back of his neck. “You’ll think it’s stupid—”
“Kid, I used to fight people when I weighed like ninety pounds. That’s stupid, okay? But keeping yourself from focusing on bad memories isn’t.” Steve levels Peter with a smile that he hopes will put him at ease. “I promise I won’t judge.”
Peter laughs at the mental image of ninety-pound Steve fighting someone, stepping back and settling into his own chair again. “Okay. Well, I guess— I like to, uh, build stuff with Legos, you know? And me and my friend Ned, we really like Star Wars, so sometimes if it’s late and he’s not able to come over I’ll just call him and we’ll watch it, just not together, if that makes sense—”
Steve nods to affirm that it does. “How old are you, anyway, Pete?” he asks as an afterthought once the kid’s trailed into silence. Not as a means of interrogation or judgment, he’s simply curious, but Peter stiffens.
“Uh—” He looks briefly worried, fiddling with his web shooters and not meeting Steve’s gaze, as though he thinks he’ll be judged based on his reply. “I’m, ah, fifteen. Probably too old to be playing with Legos, right—”
“No,” Steve answers calmly, and Peter hesitates, giving him a sideways look. “If I had legos at fifteen I probably woulda been the happiest kid alive. I don’t think you’re ever too old for something like that.”
“Really?” Peter sounds doubtful. “But, like, you’re Captain America and all, you’re super…um, serious—”
“If you think I’m serious, then you haven’t seen the pranks I pull on Tony,” Steve quips in reply, and chuckles a bit when Peter’s jaw nearly falls off at the revelation. “Anyway, I don’t think you building stuff with Legos and watching your favorite movies is stupid, Pete. It sounds like a lot of fun, and also like a good way to unwind.”
Peter smiles, relaxing a little. “It is, yeah.” He glances at Steve’s sketch again. “Actually, I have another friend who likes drawing, MJ. She’s really good. She’s…kind of scary, though.” He blushes a little. “But she’s really smart. She likes history and literature and stuff; she’d probably love to hear about all this.”
“Maybe I can talk to her someday then, too,” Steve replies, and Peter’s grin widens. “And hey, I haven’t ever gotten the chance to talk much to you, either. If–”
“There you two are!” a voice interrupts from the doorway of the lounge. Both Peter and Steve turn their heads to see Natasha walking into the room, carrying a steaming mug in each hand. She raises an eyebrow at them, handing one mug to Peter and the other to Steve. “Clint made hot chocolate. I thought you guys might want some, but I wasn’t sure where you’d both disappeared to.”
“Gee, thanks, Ms. Romanoff,” Peter gushes, albeit he looks a little afraid as she glances towards him. He starts to lift his mug, then pauses and asks shyly, “You wouldn’t happen to have marshmallows, would you?”
Natasha snorts. “Clint hoards them like a rat, so yes. He’s down in the kitchen if you want some.”
“Okay, great!” Peter beams. “I’ll be right back, then.” He scampers out of the room, barely avoiding sloshing hot chocolate all over the floor.
Steve lifts his own mug and takes a minute just to appreciate the hot steam curling from its surface. Maybe that’s another thing he can tell Peter sometime— he never had hot chocolate as a kid, except for the one time someone at a soup kitchen made him a rather bitter cup of cocoa, since sugar was in such short supply at the time. It was still one of the best things he’s ever tasted. Now, he can have hot chocolate– or any food at all– practically whenever he wants, something he still hasn’t quite gotten used to.
Natasha eyes him knowingly, arms folded over her chest. “I put in extra sugar, and cream,” she says, mouth twitching. “Sweet enough for you?”
Steve takes a sip and nods; it’s almost tooth-achingly so. “Just right, Nat. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She clears her throat, turning towards one of the wall-length windows in the lounge. “So what did the kid want?”
Steve smiles a little, wrapping his hands around his mug. “To know about what life was like in the Stone Age.”
Natasha lets out a laugh. “Did he, now? Is that how he phrased it?”
Steve snorts, shaking his head. “No, he was really polite, actually. I think he was a little afraid of me at first–” He pauses, then amends with a chuckle, “Though actually he’s probably a little afraid of all of us, come to think of it.”
“Ah, well, he’s still a kid. He hasn’t been around us much, has he?”
“Not a whole lot, no. That probably explains it.” Steve grins, a mischievous look crossing his face. “We should invite him over for some of our game nights.”
“Oh, should we, now?” Natasha retorts, raising an eyebrow. “So you can play pranks on him, as well as utterly defeat him at cards like you always do to us?”
“I didn’t say that!” Steve protests, though there’s a tell-tale sparkle in his eye as he takes another sip of his drink. “I mean, he could be a real whiz at cards. But we won’t know till we play with him, right?”
“Please tell me you didn’t just say ‘whiz.’”
“I’d be lying if I did,” Steve replies cheerfully.
Natasha levels him with a mock glare. “Well, one of these nights I’m making you all play Twister,” she retorts. “There’s absolutely no way I’ll lose that.”
“This is probably true,” agrees Steve, who’s seen a few videos of the game on Youtube from his research on modern times. “I can’t see me or Tony being overly flexible.”
Peter skids back into the room just then, slamming his mug— now stuffed to the brim with around ten giant marshmallows— onto the table. “Mr. Captain, sir—” (Natasha hides a snort in her elbow)— “could you watch this for me, I just got a call from May— uh, my aunt— I gotta head home real quick and then I’ll be back, ‘kay?”
“Alright, kid.” Steve takes another sip of hot chocolate, trading an amused glance with Natasha as Peter scrambles towards a window and fumbles to open it. A thought occurs to him just then, and he leans forward in his chair.
“Hey, Pete?”
Peter pauses in unlocking the window latch and turns to smile at him, eyes bright. “Yeah?” he asks.
“I meant to say this earlier before Nat came in, but– anytime you have questions, no matter how stupid you might think they are, feel free to find me and ask. Stupid questions don’t exist, got it?”
Peter grins, tugging his mask over his head and giving him a thumbs-up. “Okay, Mr. Rogers.”
Steve bites back a smile and adds, “And you can just call me Steve. Or Cap, whichever you prefer.”
Peter nods firmly in reply, a serious look crossing his face. “Sounds good, Mr. Steve Cap sir!” He gives a sloppy imitation of a salute and launches out of the window, leaving Natasha in fits of laughter. She’s not going to let Steve live that nickname down for a while.
Meanwhile Steve just smiles, shakes his head, and picks up his pencil again, leaning over a blank page of his notebook. Peter’s excitement over his art gave him an idea, and he doesn’t want to forget it. So, at the top of a blank page, he scrawls a quick note: Make a Spider-Man sketch for Peter.
He settles back in his chair and reaches for his mug again, taking a sip and glancing out the window at the horizon. A small figure clad in red and navy can just be seen swinging out of sight beyond a skyscraper, and Steve smiles.
See you in a bit, kid.