Words from the night before had long been silenced; however their weight and severity clung to the walls bestowing upon the house and its residents a discomfort that refused to move. Making his way along the hall Steve felt as though he was caught within another vision, his presence and those of his fellow teammates was foreign and wrong. The world's constant and timeless spin had been disrupted, corrupted by a poor man's attempt at its protection, yet here the people responsible occupied a rare piece of peaceful domesticity. It wasn't right. Despite the oncoming challenge that the present was sure to gift, the opportunity to fix an escalating error, he could not shake the distinct feeling that they were hiding. All of them for individual reasons, many of the selfish kind and the majority an antagonising extension of the self loathing they all harboured. The faces of his team bore the brunt of this, desperation, fatigue and guilt all clawing at their once sharp determined features. To fight and win this time was not enough... not for him anyway.

Entering the kitchen his eyes befell upon the one Mrs Barton, her back to him as she shuffled along the perimeters of the counter tops, her hands busied in well versed motions as she prepared breakfast. The manner in which she had opened up her home to them portrayed a trusting and welcoming nature, whilst the maternal care and affection she bestowed upon her children reminded him heavily of a woman who had been so important to him. Sarah Rogers. Always willing to do what she could for those in need, no matter how or big or small her compassion held no boundaries or restraints. Their needs currently far outweighed anything anyone could offer and yes a breakfast was in no way a solution to what was required, but it was something. Something was better than nothing.

"Good Morning ma'm, would you like some help?" A tremor quivered along the expanse of her back, proving that his presence had been a surprise although a second later her composure returned. Turning toward him, a welcoming smile graced her lips as she greeted him graciously,

"Morning Steve, I think I'm good thanks. Plus this kitchen is organised chaos, which only I can really make any sense of." His mind instantly conjured the memory of his mother, surrounded by pots and pans, laundry and who knows what else as she too laboured within organised chaos. In all honesty her chaos had not only consisted of domestic mess and chores, no his poor sick being and his father's... behaviour had incurred upon her more stress than she deserved. As soon as one job was completed another four fell upon her, work was never done, her chaos never ceased and that had been much of her life. She had done so much for him, the burden he had been on her scathed him so with an agonising guilt that failed to leave. He owed her so much, yet time had robbed him of a chance to pay his debt. His debts were suspended and unfinished made so by the oh so frequent presence of death, a reality which seemed to not be done yet.

His wandering thoughts fled into the silent shadows that letched upon the corners of the room, the empty space where they once were allowing his gaze to wander too. In doing so he saw upon the table a discarded newspaper, his need for occupation and activity bringing him to be seated, the paper in hand. He liked that despite all technological advancements somehow the simple newspaper had managed to survive, how much longer was unknown, but it brought some comfort that man still prized the printed word. In shifting it from its previous place of rest, his eye was caught by an image of what looked to be his shield. The vibrant red and blue had become somewhat of an emblem that represented all he was supposed to be, in doing so he found that rather egotistically he immediately identified those colours to him, this case proved him right. His fingertips pressed upon the edges of the piece, the smooth table surface allowing it to glide toward him, before his thumb and index finger spun it to its correct position. A child's drawing; a depiction of something a young Barton envisioned a picture of him and the one Natasha Romanoff.

As the typical chaos this modern age indulged in ran rampant and riot, Natasha had been the one constant and supportive presence for him during a somewhat shaky adjustment period. In doing so she had unknowingly secured a significant role within his life: a confidant, a tutor, a teammate and more importantly a friend. The whimsical expression however that had embellished his strong features suggested that perhaps he too had fallen victim to not knowing, or perhaps it was merely denial. The slight curve at the edge of lips procured two meagre dimples, his eyes glazed in consideration of all he could see, of all he could feel... of all that could be?

Red. A colour that had come to signify many moments in his life, blood, flag, Captain, lips, blush, Skull, curls, fire. Love? His gaze poured over the crimson heart, illustrated so carefully, that hung suggestively in the air between the two figures. His fingertips traced the outline, as his gaze fell to where the characters hands met, touched and held. The time to wonder and dream however was not his, a reminder made by the rhythmic thunder of rapid little feet that interjected his line of thought. Lila Barton had become rather attached to one Steve Rogers, her attentions were fixed and devoted to him in the manner that all children did when a new friend was made. The energy she possessed astounded Steve, she seemed to constantly pulsate and tremor with it, an excitement and life that just had to be expended but never ceased. The innocence of intrigue blossomed in her and he found he wished that he too possessed the time, energy and disposition to join her. Clambering upon his knee she settled willingly upon his lap, her desire to do so had meant he had limited choice in the matter, not that he could or would have refused,

"Morning ma'm." The expression of pure delight and admiration that graced her petite features was one that startled and gleamed, so much so that Steve almost wished that today had never come. That today he was not leaving and heading towards a possible situation in which a return was not promised, a situation where the father of two... no three, beautiful children may cease to be. Clint had to survive; there was no question about it.

"Good morning Uncle Steve." On being bestowed such a title his body thrummed with a warmth he had not felt in a long time, his heart swelled as the heat of affection and surge of pride flooded his veins. To be put upon a podium was something Steve had become accustomed to, but on those occasions it was mainly due to the title that the serum had gifted him, to be held in such esteem as just Steve... well that was something he prized above all. His arms closed around the precious being sat before him, her weight resting pleasantly in the crook of his arm as she laid her head upon his chest, as he exclaimed,

"I'm 'Uncle Steve' now am I?" Looking up from under her long dark lashes she nodded vigorously in confirmation of what he'd asked of her. Her mussed and tangled brunette locks pressed against him, their tendrils attaching to the stark white of his t-shirt and further bristled by the motion of her enthusiastic nods. There was a menagerie of reasons his team, the Avengers, did what they did many of those became from a heavy guilt of their past transgressions, the mistakes that simply wouldn't leave, that clung and consumed. But here, right now, was what should be the only reason, the only reason that mattered more than any other. Family: family made on love. To keep together people who cherished and cared for each other unconditionally, to protect those that prized and nurtured that precious bond, that should be the reason. His eyes glanced toward the picture that remained where he had placed it, and it drew with it a thought that perhaps that reason was closer to him that he thought. She could be his reason.