DISCLAIMER: I own nothing; absolutely positively nothing.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Be gentle, it's my first time."
Actually, it's not. But after a ten-year hiatus due to wicked writer's block, I'm back.
Many of you don't know who I am, but I wrote under a different nom de plume back in the day and had a little success with the first chapter of a Steve/OFC fic... that I never finished. Sigh.
So now I'm back and at it again. Perhaps I'll go back to that other story at some point, but for now this is circling my brain and wouldn't shut up until I got it out—four hours later, and here it is.
As this story becomes more established, I'll be interested in hearing what you, dear readers, would like to happen. A writer is not a writer without his or her readers, and if I can incorporate any of your ideas into the story, I will be happy to do so.
With that being said, I hope you enjoy my little story. And remember, reviews are oxygen to fan fiction authors!!! Thank you, everyone!
Without the mask
Where will you hide?
Can't find yourself, lost in your lie
— Evanescence, "Everybody's Fool"
It was spring... not that that really meant anything to him. After all, spring gave way to summer and the heat. Fall followed shortly after, bringing a chill to the air that made way for winter and the snow that was inevitable in upstate New York. The snow would slowly disappear, and spring would come around again. It was an endless cycle as old as time, one that reminded him daily that the world had yet to stop turning.
Sure, there had been hiccups along the way: seventy years in the ice, alien invasions, the "death" of SHIELD, and murderous sentient robots hellbent on destroying humanity. But he had made some new friends along the way, found an old one, and created a team that was willing to tackle whatever might come at them next.
No, the world had not given up on its endless cycle. However, some days, like today, he felt like it had.
Standing in his quarters, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, he watched as pale pink petals from the crape myrtles swirled in the light breeze. The trees didn't exactly match the stark glass and steel of the Avengers compound, but they had been a concession to Pepper Potts, who had deemed the structure too utilitarian. His back straight, shoulders back, and lips planted in a firm line, he couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at the thought of Tony Stark being forced to plant pink trees in front of what he called, "my greatest invention yet. A place where all you losers can gather together and annoy one another while I'm hours away sipping cocktails."
The crape myrtles were where Stark's concessions ended. Originally a Stark Industries warehouse, the original facility had been added to... and added to... and added to. There was now a hangar, medical facility, robotics laboratory, weapons manufacturing, training grounds, living quarters, an arsenal... the team had literally needed a map to find their way around the first week. But it had quickly become their home. A place where the remnants of SHIELD could gather and work alongside the team, the "New Avengers," as the press had taken to calling them.
The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, a.k.a. Natalie Rushman, was his second-in-command. Her history with SHIELD was rocky, but then so was his. What mattered most was she was there when he didn't even know he needed her, and that was saying something. As a trained assassin, Natasha was infamous for keeping everyone at arm's length while allowing them to think she was their best friend. To think that she had let him in, even just a little, was more than he had ever hoped for.
The Falcon was another story entirely. Sam Wilson was the friend he never knew he needed. Sam kept him in line, forcing him to face his demons head-on and learn how to live with them. A soldier himself, he understood what it meant to sacrifice for the greater good but had the wherewithal to know where to set boundaries.
The War Machine was a surprise addition to the team. Colonel James "Rhodey" Rhodes had a shining military career in the Air Force. As the liaison between Stark Industries and the Department of Acquisitions, he had become close friends with Tony Stark and, in the end, almost like brothers. While not a full-time member of the Avengers, he came out to the compound as often as he could, training with his teammates in the event that another disaster would call for him to don the suit.
The Scarlet Witch was seen by the others as "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." If he understood any one member of his team better than the others, it was Wanda. Other than the fact that they both volunteered to let German scientists experiment on them so they could serve their country, Wanda had an inherent need to right injustices, including the ones she had caused. Despite taking out Ultron, the others were still leery of her at times, not understanding the chaos magic she wielded. But as long as she wielded it for the greater good, that was all that mattered to him.
Vision was, well... Vision. It was still difficult most days to wrap his head around the fact that Ultron created a synthezoid powered by the Mind Stone, and brought to life by Tony, Bruce, Dr. Cho, and, of all people, Thor. Then Vision had wielded Mjolnir, burned Ultron out of the internet, and fought alongside the team with little compunction over what could happen to him. "I'm not what you are, and not what you intended," Vision had told them. Be that as it may, he had turned out to be exactly what they needed.
The Winter Soldier was the latest addition to the "ragtag band of misfits," as Natasha so lovingly called the team. James "Bucky" Barnes was back from the brink, the land between life and death and everything in between. Finding him had been a living nightmare, getting him back almost worse. "My mission," Bucky kept calling him the first few days he had been back, locked in a cell, rocking back and forth as his programming slowly began to fade. It had been painful, like a junkie detoxing from heroin, but slowly his mind began to return in snippets. Finding his best friend getting beat up in an alley, receiving his draft papers, his entire regiment being captured, the train, the torture, ten little innocuous words that had turned him into an emotionless, obedient killer. "Never again" were his first words upon exiting the cell. The sharp clarity in his eyes conveyed to everyone that, while not quite yet whole, Bucky was back.
That left only him, the man not quite so out-of-time any longer. The Avengers' charismatic leader, Captain Steve Rogers, Captain America. The man who was more comfortable at the Avengers compound than he had been in his D.C. apartment. The man who took down an entire covert government agency and its infiltrators with nothing but a shield. The man who had led a ragtag team of heroes against HYDRA and Ultron. The man who stood staring out the window, watching crape myrtle petals dance in the wind.
Steve ran a hand through his blonde hair and sighed heavily. He had no idea what had him feeling out of sorts. He had slept, as well as could be expected, the night before and got up early to train as he did every day. There had been no nightmares, no new threats to world order. But something wasn't sitting right with him.
His quarters felt like they were closing in on him, despite their massive size. They were starkly kept, just as his apartment had been, just as his quarters during the war had been. Utilitarian, Steve thought, the world Natasha had used coming to mind. Nothing out of place, nothing extravagant. It was a place to eat, sleep, and go over intel in his spare time. The only concession he had made was the tasteful solid oak bookcases that lined one wall of the living room, full of books he had picked up at a library thrift sale and had every intention of reading if he ever found the time.
The kitchen was modern, all sleek stainless steel appliances and dark marble countertops. The living area, too large to be called a room, held a large sectional and matching recliner in dark pewter surrounding a marble coffee table that matched the countertops. A set of open spiral stairs was set to the right, leading to a landing that held his office on one side and his sleeping quarters on the other.
Steve couldn't, in good faith, call it a bedroom. Yes, it was a room that contained a bed. There was also a dresser, a closet, a nightstand, and a lamp. But unlike several of his teammates, he didn't see it as a sanctuary—just a place to sleep, if he even managed to sleep at all.
The true crowning glory of his quarters was the office. Nearly three times the size of his sleeping quarters, it held an enormous holo-table at its center. A solid cherry desk sat before the large windows, offering him the sensation of the warmth of the sun on his back while he worked. Where he sat gave him a 180-degree view of the entire room. His medals and commendations graced the left wall, hanging proudly above a well-worn brown leather couch. The right wall was covered in screens of varying sizes. Here he was able to pull up reports, maps, anything pertinent to a mission with just the flick of his wrist. The tablet that controlled the screens and holo-table sat on the corner of his desk, surrounded by files and reports of missions past and present.
Steve would be lying to himself if he didn't say he felt most at home in either his office or the training facilities. But he was done training for the day, and there were no missions to review. Instead, he found himself standing in front of the living room windows, watching crape myrtle petals dance to the ground.
There was no reason to feel the way he was. His team was assembled. His leadership was above reproach. There was no imminent threat to the world. But he couldn't quite shake the sensation that something was just around the corner.
Steve glanced down at his watch. It read 4:43 PM. He had been standing before the windows for a little over an hour, lost in thought. "And where did that get me?" he thought to himself.
Fighting the urge to stay rooted where he was until he could figure out what had him in a funk, Steve reached into his back jeans pocket and retrieved his phone. He typed out a quick text before heading towards his sleeping quarters to change into a fresh set of workout clothes.
Meet me in the training center in 15. I need some sense beat into me.
A moment later, he received a reply.
Finally you admit it. See you in 15, jerk.
Steve allowed a quick smile to grace his lips. Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he began to mentally prepare himself for the ass whipping he was sure he was about to receive.