Ghost Heart

"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."

The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald

The first time Tony asked Steve to live at the tower, they're covered in mud, dust, and alien blood as well as their own. Natasha was standing next to them, cleaning off a knife that may or may not have pierced a skull earlier that day, but she looked up to watch them.

"I'll have to think about it," Steve told Tony and ignored the way that something shutters in the billionaire's eyes. The smile was brighter than normal, but Captain America had seen far too many fake smiles on the front lines to see straight through it to the pain beyond.

"Just tell me when you're done thinking about it, then," Tony said in a way that would have been insulting if Steve was too tired. Before the soldier could tell the other man that he didn't say 'no' the faceplate was closing and Iron Man was gone.

Clint snickered behind him. "I think you hurt his feelings," the archer was counting the shafts in his hand, sliding the reusable ones back into his quiver.

At that point, Steve didn't even bother turning his head to glare down at Clint. He wanted to thank him for his truly remarkable observation before realizing that he was too tired to deal with it, picked up his shield, and walked over to the nearest group of fire fighters to see how he could help.

oOo

It takes him only an hour after returning from the battle, bone tired and desperate for a shower, a hot meal, and a good night's sleep to find the first bugs in his kitchen. He didn't bother staring at them and just dug around his house some more, finding the camera in the television stand with embarrassing little effort.

Steve sees them, of course—how could he not? He lives in an apartment that reminds him of the time where the Great Depression was just beginning to lift, where his mother's apartment was lots of white, lots of brown, and just a bit of red. The shining black objects stand out like he did when he stood on stage in tights and spoke out to a mass of soldiers.

There were two more in the bathroom, four in the bedroom, and quite a bit in the hallway. If there had been wallpaper he was sure some would have been hidden underneath that, too. Exhaustion urged him to make his meal, take a shower, and sleep. It was quickly amended to cooking his meal, clear out the bugs in the bathroom with cleaning supplies—especially bleach. Lots of bleach—take that overdue shower, and then sleep.

Morpheus evaded him for an hour, the bed sinking under him with his every move. Gritting his teeth, Steve got out of bed, dragged a blanket and pillow with him to the floor, curled up, and slept like a babe.

He woke up to Natasha in his kitchen drinking tea that she must have brought because the only thing he had was Earl Grey and it smelt more foreign than that.

"Morning, ma'am," he murmured to the assassin, passing her for the fridge and fishing out a carton of eggs, eyeing the cream that hadn't been there before. Steve balanced an onion, red pepper, and ham with the eggs and placed them on the counter. "Would you like an omelette?"

"Only if it has that goat cheese in it."

There was no point asking her how she knew about the cheese he had hidden behind the milk—no doubt she had snooped around before making herself a cuppa. He winced a bit and amended that to cup—he wasn't exactly overseas anymore and, well, Peggy had passed a few things to him during his time in England. It took him a second to turn on the stove and place a pan on it.

"Anything else?" Steve looked over his shoulder at the redhead and found her bright eyes staring back at him.

Natasha craned her neck to see everything he had out on the counter. "Everything."

Humming, he took out a knife and cutting board—someone thought they were funny as the first one looked like the American flag. Sighing, he grabbed the wooden one instead, setting it out.

"Where did you learn how to make these?" She asked about a half hour later, plate empty and leaning back in her chair.

Steve looked over his own cup of jasmine tea (Natasha had brought a box with her and left it in his cabinet. She had brought many boxes, actually) to meet her eyes. "Jaques," he answered simply. "He figured that everyone in the commandos should learn how to make as many French foods as he could teach us."

"What do you know how to make?"

He shrugged and took a long sip of his tea. "Crèpes, mostly. They were the easiest. Omlettes, andouillettes, raclette, tartiflette, ratatouille, pan-bagnat, bouillabaisse when we were closer to the Mediterranean, clafoutis, various èclairs," Steve stared absently out the window, eyes on the bricks of the building across from him, mind on France and his explosive-prone friend. "He liked teaching us more about desserts, actually—especially after we took out a HYDRA squadron north of Paris. He opened up one of the bakeries and had us all help make treats for the people in the area."

"Sounds like an interesting guy."

"They all were," Steve murmured and turned back to her, focusing on the present and giving a small smile.

oOo

Clint was very good, Steve would give him that. But there were times when a soldier's instinct came out on top and, the soldier grinned a bit to himself, it also had helped that Bucky had told him the secrets of the trade their tour through Germany. He had bought a flip phone and left the SHIELD issued touch screen at home. Now, he opened it, looked the contacts, and called the sniper.

"Hello?"

"If you're going to follow me, Barton, you might as well just come down and walk with me," Steve told him before hanging up. He waited a few minutes, leaning against the nearest wall with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets before he sees Clint approaching from his left dressed in a black and purple sweatshirt, hood pulled over his face. "Good afternoon," Steve greeted and starts walking again.

The look on the archer's face—something between apprehension and defensive—softened out as he stepped beside the Captain. "Where are you heading?"

"Just getting supplies," He stopped before a shop with a wooden sign hanging above it announcing that it was Colored Black. There were various canvases and easels displayed in the window and the door had a bell that rung when Steve pushed it open. A young woman manned the front counter, reading a magazine and chewing on bubble gum. "How's the tower?"

"Wouldn't know yet," Clint grumbled. "Fury's got me jumping through hoops trying to prove that either I'm not qualified as an agent or I'm not."

Steve gave him a grim half-smile. "You are," he found the section with sketchbooks and shoved one with a ghastly yellow cover into Clint's arms. "Hold that for me, would you?" Squatting, he looked over the leather bound books, frowning as he picked them up, flipping through the pages.

"Watercolour," Clint read off the one he was handed. "I didn't know you were an artist."

"There's a lot of things that a lot of people don't know about me," Steve grunted and picked up a sketchbook with a dark leather cover, aged just slightly with a band holding it shut and a map of the world stamped on the front. "Perfect," he tossed that to Clint, too, and ignored the archer's squawk. He grabbed one of the boxes with pencils, erasers, and charcoal in it because (as far as he was aware) all of his were buried in ice.

Clint looked over the artistic pencils with a frown. "Did you go to art school?"

"I was going to," Steve murmured, looking between the tubes of watercolour paint and the dried plates.

"Why didn't you?"

Standing up, the soldier sighed and grabbed a set of brushes off the wall. "Germany invaded Poland." There was a stuttering silence after that, but Steve grinned at Clint. "It wasn't all bad, though. I took some art classes through one of my neighbours. She'd teach me how to draw, I'd get her shopping and make dinner. It was a win-win situation, really." He grabbed a few other things; a box of pastels, a metal container of coloured pencils. There was a calligraphy pen and some ink he added to the pile absentmindedly. "I might even sign up for a drawing class."

He buys the supplies with cash and walks home with Clint as they talk about Fury, Tony, Natasha, and alien invasions. The archer crashes on his couch after a dinner made up entirely of Chinese takeaway and falls asleep around midnight in the middle of a fantasy show that distracted both of them for a couple of hours. Steve places a sketch of a red-tailed hawk on the coffee table where the agent would see it in the morning and heads off to bed knowing that Clint would be long gone in the morning.

oOo

The gym goes startling quiet during one of the evenings when Steve is feeling pretty vindictive against the punching bags. He doesn't pause as his fists pound against the leather, but there's a presence over his shoulder and he turns to look anyway.

"Ma'am," Steve nods to Natasha and turns back to the punching bag. She's wearing a black tank top and a matching pair of yoga pants, her hands wrapped up just like his were. "How can I help you?"

For a long while, he suspected she was either ignoring his question or just waiting for the right time. "I have a mission for you," Natasha said, her voice clear of emotion. "From Fury."

The bag hits the ground and sends sand across wood. Wiping down his forehead with the back of his hand, Steve turned to look at her, taking in her sharp eyes. "Why didn't he just come himself?"

She didn't smile, she didn't do anything except stand there and stare at him, blue-green eyes unblinking. "He wants us to be partners."

Steve bit the inside of his cheek and rested his hands on his hips. After a moment, he smiled. "When do we start?"

Her small was small and he would have missed it if he hadn't been paying attention to her eyes—they brightened a bit with her joy and sparkled like gems in the dim, yellow light of the gym.

Black Widow doesn't smile with her lips, after all.

oOo

A ringing of his phone startled him during breakfast and Steve reached over, fumbling with answering for a moment—it would be nice if he didn't have to press anything, sometimes he still lifted the damn thing off the holder and says hello before realizing that the person on the other end still couldn't hear him. "Rogers."

"Captain? My name is Pepper Potts, I work for Tony Stark."

"Good morning Miss Potts," he placed his plate and silverware in the sink. "How can I help you?"

If he could tell when Jim was smiling over their crappy radios during machine gun fire and German shouting, he could tell that the woman on the other end was grinning. "Just Pepper is fine, Mr. Rogers."

"Yes ma'am," he grinned as she laughed. "And you can call me Steve if you want. What can I do for you?"

"We have something for you at the tower if you want to pick it up. Or we can send Happy with it to you later." She paused as if listening to someone. "That is, if you're not busy."

Steve filled the sink with hot water, pouring in an ample amount of soap. "Not busy at all, ma'am. How about I stop by around..." He looked at the round clock on the wall that had appeared sometime the day before. The only reason he didn't take it down was the very faint, blood red spider etching on the hands. "Ten o'clock."

"Ten is fine, Steve," her voice was still bright through the speaker and he had to smile about that. "I'll see you then."

"Bye," He said and winced a bit at the weak response before placing the phone back on the charger and, wincing, quickly pressed the end button after remembering the five hours in which Agent Hill hadn't needed to listen to a bug in a kitchen.

Not like he did anything that would be incriminating but, well. Steve learned.

Pepper met him in the lobby of Stark Tower—which was still being rebuilt. She was wearing a white business suit that made her strawberry hair seem bright and the freckles stand out along her cheeks. He shook her hand and saw the iron will behind the pretty face and smiled all the brighter. "You said you had something for me?"

"I think," she said in the elevator as they rose upwards, "you are one out of two people Tony knows who actually arrive on time."

"Well, seeing that we're both soldiers," he grinned, carefully looking straight ahead rather than at her shocked face. "I say that Colonel Rhodes and I certainly have a lot in common." The doors opened and he turned to smile at her. "We were each given files on our teammates before the battle of New York," he admitted.

Pepper Potts laughed and herded him into the open area where—not to any surprise, really—Tony was lounging about on a black, leather couch pointing at something in a hologram for Natasha and Bruce.

"Morning, Star Spangle," Tony smirked that half smile at him and tension rolled out of Steve's muscles.

"Good morning, Mr. Stark," he held out his hand to Bruce, the only person he hadn't really heard from since the battle. "How are you doing, Doctor?"

The smile he got was reserved, but bright. "Playing with some interesting toys, Captain. You?"

Steve laughed. "Debugging my apartment piece by piece," sitting down beside Natasha, he turned his attention to her. "I sure hope that clock doesn't have a camera in it," he said almost mock sternly. "I don't want to break it trying to get it out."

"No camera," she promised with a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on a shark or wolf. "Just a bit of a security system made by Stark over here."

Steve shook his head slightly and looked up at Pepper who was leaning her hip against the couch, checking something over on her phone. "So," he says after a long moment of silence. "What exactly did you want to give me?"

Something large and metal landed on the table with a thunk. No one really jumped, but they all stared at the metal briefcase that sat on the coffee table. "You declined the tower offer," Tony pressed one hand to the left of his arch reactor, over his heart, and mimed being horribly wounded. "And you using a SHIELD computer—"

"—In which they can trace your every move—" Bruce said with Tony, his voice droll and tired, no doubt hearing this for the hundredth time.

"—is, quite honestly," Tony continued, glaring at the other scientist, "disgusting. So! I made you—"

"And everyone else," Natasha grumbled.

The billionaire turned his glare onto her but didn't fault his stride. "A computer that you can use!" He opened the briefcase then, to show the thin laptop nestled between dark blue velvet and black foam. "Ta-da!"

There were various pockets on the top cover of the case—ones for files, for pencils, for a phone. Most of them were filled already, but Steve focused on the computer. He stared at it for a long moment before reaching out and taking it out from the velvet and foam. It was surprisingly light compared to the standard SHIELD issued one, coloured black with his shield in the lower left hand corner. It looked like it lit up and he grinned just a bit. "Thank you," he said sincerely, smiling at Tony.

"Don't thank him yet," Natasha urged, but Steve's words had already given the billionaire the chance to continue.

"Legolas ("Legolas?" Steve mouthed and frowned.) mentioned how you had one of those old style flip phones instead of the SHIELD one but that's still not going to cut it," He pulled out the same type of phone Agent Hill had given him when he had first moved into his apartment and handed it over.

The screen lit up with a picture of the American flag and he sighed, but smiled fondly. "Any particular reason why you're giving me this type?" It had too much tricks on it, really. Too much stuff he just didn't need.

Natasha snatched it from his hand and shoved it into his palm again so he was staring at the cover on the back. He stared at it for a long time before she held up hers—matching phone and all—for comparison. "Ah," Steve grinned at the Black widow glaring menacingly from hers. "And you, Doctor?"

Bruce grimaced and showed him the glaringly green back cover of his.

Steve laughed. "Anything else?" He asked Tony, not really expecting it—this was a lot already, really.

"Actually, yes," Tony snapped his fingers and scrambled over the couch, grabbing for something behind it until Pepper got it for him. "Thanks, babe," he grinned and sat back down on the cushions with a large leather messenger bag in his hands. It looked like one of the ones that Steve had seen Jim use during the war. "When you want to carry the computer with you to the park," the billionaire said, handing it over.

The soldier's eyes moved to the wings-spread eagle. Against the faded leather, the black logo of the SSR stood out sharply and made Steve's throat closing slightly even as his smile softened. The thank you that left his mouth was even more heartfelt.

"Now, the security in that clock our spider gave you senses heat and motion. When you're not home, it will send an alert to your phone," Tony tapped the technology still in Steve's hand. "Like a text message. Easy enough. All of our numbers are already in the contact list and you can set the password—which I highly recommend—"

Steve nodded at each thing Tony said, allowing the billionaire to walk him through everything the phone and computer could do, all the other little gadgets he had added to the briefcase ("Hulk tested," Tony had said and Steve wondered, exactly, what that meant). Natasha was leaning against him through the most of it, fingers tapping out on her own screen, so fast they were a blur.

He ended up staying for lunch and the Star Wars marathon that followed (because Pepper said that he should at least read The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit before seeing the movies), and then was soon dragged out to a local Italian restaurant for dinner.

There was some sort of relaxed pleasure welling up in his heart while sitting at a table with the teammates he had fought with (and Pepper, but she was just as fierce as Natasha was).

There was an even greater amount of pleasure when he ordered his food in Italian and watched their faces go slack in surprise.

oOo

On a warm Sunday morning, Steve returned from the farmer's market with bags full of vegetables, fruits, bread, and cheese, and found Natasha sitting on his couch with his last tub of ice cream in hand, eating out of the carton with a spoon. The television (new and large and Tony Stark approved) was playing one of the documentaries about the Vietnam war SHIELD had given him.

"Can't you eat Stark's food?" He said, putting away the shopping in the fridge. "He's the billionaire."

"He's loud," Natasha answered back and placed the tub on his coffee table and spread out like she planned on being there for a long time. "It's quiet here."

There was little to no traffic outside his window, the neighbours were silent (he was pretty sure they were all agents, too), and the people outside barely made a ruckus. "True," Steve grabbed his sketchbook and a few pencils off the counter, nudged her legs aside, and sat down beside her.

The entire documentary ended before Natasha spoke again, her face beside him and on the page. "You know Italian."

"Is this an interrogation?" He asked, defining her eyelashes a bit more with the end of a charcoal stick.

"Maybe," she said and he looked up, catching the faint glimmer of a smile before it was gone. That was okay, though, because her eyes were bright. "How did you learn?"

Steve added the strands of hair that weren't perfectly contained against her head. Wild and adventurous and lit up against the light from his windows. "I grew up in Brooklyn during the major immigration movement," he lifted his hand and gently turned her face with his thumb so he could get her ear just right—only later would he stammer out an apology. "My neighbourhood was made of Irish, Italian, and Polish," He fixed the gentle curve of her jaw with swift strokes of his hand. "During the depression many Americans looked the other way when it came to us so we took the initiative and helped each other out." The eraser make her eyes just a bit brighter and he added the single freckle on her cheek.

"Which ended with you speaking Italian."

"Not just Italian," he murmured and bit his lip, looking up at her and then back down at his drawing. "Polish, Yiddish, some Czech that became a bit useful during the war."

The assassin hummed in agreement, her eyes never leaving his face. "What other languages do you know?"

"What makes you think I know other languages?" His grin was boyish as he looked up at her, suddenly looking younger than the super soldier that had fought on the ruined streets of Manhattan.

The look she levelled at him would have stopped a charging rhino in its tracks.

Steve only laughed. "I learned German during the war," He admitted. "Everyone did, really—easier to listen to radio broadcasts and steal supplies if you know the words for food, bomb, and gun. Gale also knew it, he taught us a bit on the road and, gradually, we picked up a few books here and there to practice it." He added a spider web in the corner of the page, all quick lines with flicks of his wrist. "Jaques didn't speak a word of English and only Gale knew French. We made a deal with him to learn his language if he learned ours." He added a singular line down the side, adding a spider dangling from a thread.

"Any other ones?"

"Japanese," he shrugged.

Natasha frowned just a bit. "You weren't in the east."

"We weren't," Steve nodded and finished the long, sharp legs of the spider. They looked like deadly black needles. "Jim was Nisei and taught us how to speak his language when we had mastered German and French in 1943." His lips quirked up into a half smile. "He made us speak in it for two months on the road and, when we got back to England to report in, I think we confused a hell of a lot of people."

"You know seven languages," she didn't sound impressed, or surprised. She just sounded like Natasha.

His smile was knowing and just a bit secretive as he ripped the picture of her out of his sketchbook and handed it over.

"You know more," now she sounded accusing. "What other languages do you know?"

Steve grinned and pressed play on the remote, starting up the DVD on the cold war. "Have to keep some secrets."

Natasha watched him with a frown. "I'll learn."

"Of course." He had no doubt of that.

"If you tell me I'll teach you Russian."

Steve laughed.

oOo

"Natasha said that if I get you to tell me what other languages you know I can train the new recruits for a week," Was the first thing Clint said when Steve opened his door before his eyes widened. "Am I interrupting something?"

The super soldier blinked and frowned before looking down at his bare chest and yoga pants. "No, why?"

"You lounge around half naked?"

Steve scowled and shut the door in his face.

oOo

The second time Tony Stark asked him to come live in the tower, Steve's birthday was four days away and Nick Fury looked, well, furious at the fact that Bruce had Hulk'd out inside the tower. Granted, he had been in the standard and specially made Hulk room, but that didn't stop SHIELD from having a minor panic attack.

"So," Tony said while Fury took a deep breath and prepared to continue. "Have you thought about living at the tower?"

"Yes," Steve said, because he had and remembered that shuttered look Tony had given him last time.

The other Avengers turned to look at him and Fury's eye grew a bit wider, spit flying as he continued despite no one paying attention.

"And?" Said Tony, leaning forward with a grin on his face that said he already knew what the answer was.

Diplomacy, Peggy had told him in 1943 after he had stumbled around Winston Churchill, is something you desperately need to learn. She had sat him down for a week to teach him how to deal with politicians, allied soldiers, and defeated enemies.

"I don't know," Steve said as simply as possible. "Right now I'm still getting used to living on my own and not on the run or in barracks." That shuttering look came back and Steve, because he wasn't exhausted and was also ready for it, spoke out before it could happen completely. "Not right now, but in the future? Yes." The soldier gave the billionaire a small smile. "Just give me time."

One crisis adverted. Plus, he was invited to go out to dinner with all of them.

He could take that win.

oOo

One Monday afternoon (two days before his birthday), Steve picked out ingredients to make a vanilla cake. Because it was also the Fourth of July, he grabbed some red and blue food dye to go with it. A bright red sports car was parked in front of his building when he came back. Tony's no doubt.

It wasn't a surprise when he opened the door and found two scientists lounging on his couch. "I lock the door for a reason," Steve said instead and laid out the ingredients on the counter. "Can I get you anything to drink?" He asked Bruce because Tony had brought his own bottle of vodka.

The Doctor raised up his glass of water, smiling sheepishly, and Steve shrugged. He placed a large bowl on the counter and dumped the two boxes of cake mix in, cracked a few eggs, and used the last of his milk. Bruce turned on the History channel where they were doing a series on the American Presidents. By the time he had mixed the batter and poured an equal amount into three separate bowls, Natasha and Clint arrived.

"Cake?" Natasha asked, dipping her finger in and licking off the mix. Steve nodded and wacked Clint's hand with a fork when he tried to do the same. The two assassins joined Tony and Bruce on the couch as the narrator switched to Woodrow Wilson. Blue dye changed one bowl, red dye changed another, and he was pouring batter into four circular pans before he hears the first mention of World War I and the beginning of the Great Depression.

The two blue filled pans took the top shelf of his oven while the two red ones took the bottom, and he turned on the timer and placed the white batter in the fridge to wait until the pans freed up.

"Why are you making cake?" Someone asked from the couch and Steve looked up to catch Bruce's eye.

"I just wanted to make cake," he said and it was true—he hadn't had cake for a long time.

"It has nothing to do with the Fourth of July?" Tony asked with his eyebrows raised and Steve grinned softly and shrugged. So maybe that was one of the reasons.

The History channel got mostly through Warren G. Harding before the pans were done and he placed them on heat pads to get cool. "If just one of you touches anything," he said to the group on his couch while he walked to his bedroom, "all of you will get nothing."

Steve came back out with Natasha easily pinning Clint and Tony to the couch as Bruce sipped his water. "They were not ruining this for me," was the only thing she said.

The soldier blushed—that in itself was enough of a tell about how good she thought his cooking was. "Thank you," he told her and set about removing the cake from the pans and placing them on separate plates. He washed the dishes and put two back in the cupboard and two back in the oven (this time filled with white batter).

The rounded tops of the cakes were cut off with a butter knife, but weren't stacked yet. Red, white, and blue. Not white, red, and blue. Steve snorted to himself and pulled out the frosting.

"When do we get to eat them?" Clint asked.

"Who says they're for you?" Steve countered.

No one really knew what to say to that, but Natasha gave him a look that said 'like hell they aren't'. He just smiled.

It took another twenty minutes, and a third president, for the cakes to be stacked and frosted. It wasn't perfect (okay, it was pretty damn close for his first try), but they looked good and his teammates were salivating on the couch.

"No," Steve told them, and placed both the cakes in the fridge. "Patience is a virtue."

Three of them whined and one huffed and blew red hair from her face. Steve set about placing a medium and large pot on the stove, the latter filled with water. He pulled out cans of peeled and diced tomatoes, tomato paste, a few red peppers, and garlic, among other things. Someone booed while watching the television and he turned to see Hitler's face on the screen. World War II then. He poured a bag of penne into the pot with water in it, thought over the serving size a bit, then dumped a second bag in.

"Anything I can help with?" Bruce asked softly almost making Steve jump out of his skin.

"Oh, uh..." The soldier looked over the ingredients on the counter and handed over a cutting board and knife. "Please chop up the garlic and peppers."

The red sauce, when it was finished, caused the rest of the Avengers to gather around Steve's—rather pathetically—small table. He looked at all of them and sighed before herding them back towards the couch. One time couldn't hurt, right? Until he got a bigger table at least. Tony coughed at the first bite, wheezing and getting up to fetch a glass of water while the others grinned.

"What is that?" The billionaire looked less wounded and more fascinated.

"Arrabbiata sauce," Steve grinned. "Means angry."

Tony shook his head but went for another bite. "Jesus," he murmured, but was smiling. "Can I hire you?"

"No," Steve laughed, but didn't miss how they didn't look all too pleased with that. "But, if I tell you guys what ingredients to pick up every Thursday I'll cook."

The Avengers toasted to it and Steve made plans to buy a dining table—and to possibly make use of that extra bedroom.

oOo

"Natasha thinks it's Russian," Clint said, sitting next to him as Pepper and Tony set about making bowls of popcorn. "I'm fairly sure it's Spanish."

"Neither," Steve said and grinned as both assassins swore loud enough that the two people in the kitchen look up.

oOo

On Wednesday July 4th, Steve entered Stark Tower with the two cakes he had made, one balanced on each hand. One of the people exiting and entering the building held the door open for him. Steve smiled and murmured his thanks, entering the elevator. "Jarvis?" He asked the ceiling and flushed a light pink, already feeling just a bit stupid. Tension fled his shoulders when a voice responded.

"They're on the one hundred and first floor, sir," the A.I. said and Steve braced himself as the elevator shot upwards. "Shall I alert them of your arrival?"

"If you want to," Steve smiled even though there was nothing to really smile at. "Thank you, Jarvis."

There was a brief pause. "You're welcome, sir."

Steve placed one cake where the rest of the food was when he arrived and put the other one in the fridge, setting JARVIS up as the guard dog in case anyone tried to steal it.

Pepper smiled at him from the couch, flipping through a book. "You're early," she scooted over so he could sit beside her. "Tony will be here in a bit—he went out to make sure all the fireworks were ready."

"Ah," Steve hummed and sat beside her, pulling out his sketchpad and a bag of pencils from the messenger bag Tony had given him. For a moment, the only sounds were the flap of a page turning and the scratching of a pencil.

"Can I ask you a question?" Pepper rested her cheek in her palm, elbow on the back of the couch as she turned to look at him.

Steve glanced up from the city's skyline, sketched out in grey and black, and nodded. "Of course, ma'am."

"Tony has said that you don't want to live in the tower now," Pepper watched him, eyes sharp, and he felt like he was underneath Peggy's penetrative stare again. "I was just wondering... why the hesitation?"

He tapped the back of the pencil on the paper, biting his bottom lip and stares out over the skyline and the water beyond. "People think it's the technology aspect and, in some respects, they're right." Steve frowned a bit, "but I realized that technology wasn't really the problem." The soldier sighed and doodled random little figures along the edges of his sketchbook. "I don't understand why I have to text when I can call. I don't understand why I have to email when I can walk up two flights of stairs and ask the person, face to face. I don't understand how everything I fought for disappeared in seventy years." The smile that Steve gave her was sad and soft. "I don't move in, ma'am, because I'm still trying to figure it out."

There was a long moment of silence, only broken when Clint and Natasha walked in through the double doors.

"Thank you," Pepper said at last, smiling in that gentle, bright way she had.

Steve frowned for a second. "Why?"

"For being honest."

His face must have looked scandalized and she laughed, drawing the attention of the other Avengers.

"Cap!" Clint vaulted himself over the couch and landed beside him, bouncing a few times. "Did you bring your cake?"

"Touch it before I say so and you won't be invited for the weekly meal," Steve said without batting an eye, going back to his sketch of the skyline. "I will cancel them and will only cook for myself for the next six months."

Natasha leaned over the couch, bracing her palms on Steve's shoulders, levelling a glare on Clint that she only saved for her most despised opponents. Once he had lifted his hands in surrender (and promised not to touch the dessert) she looked down at the drawing.

"You should start a website," Pepper said, and Steve looked up to see he had the attention of everyone on the couch.

The young man shrugged sheepishly and scratched at his nose. "Maybe later on," he murmurs and smiles in that small, soft way. "When I fill up this sketchbook." Seeing that he had gone back to drawing once or twice a day, the book was filling up faster than he had expected.

Tony and Bruce came in a few minutes after they settled down in silence and Steve finished the New York drawing and started on a quick cartoon sketch of Tony in his Iron Man suit dealing with a Hulk'd out Bruce that had Clint and Pepper giggling like two school girls.

"What's so funny?" The billionaire picked up a beer and walked over only to have four people look back at him over the couch and shout in various degrees of convincing ways 'nothing!' He stared at them with narrowed eyes and Steve was able to quietly switch the pages in his notebook so that it looked like he was finishing up a sketch of Clint's hands. "Fine," grumbled Tony, but he's smiling. "Don't tell me. Food will also be completely ready to consume in ten."

Clint claps his hands together and grins, staring at the cake.

They get to it, eventually, and, by that time, it's dark out and JARVIS was lowering the lights in the sitting room so they can see the fireworks. Each of them had a plate of cake in their hands, black plastic forks stabbed into red, white, and blue.

The show finished after a half hour and Tony invited them to stay for an impromptu movie night—though the way he had looked at Steve made it seem as though he was trying to get the super soldier to stay for at least one night. Evidently, the captain had no choice because Natasha dragged him over to the couch so he could sit between her and Pepper.

All of them, bundled up on the couch, watched The Pursuit of Happiness despite the grumbles from Clint and Tony ("Happy wife, happy life," Pepper had said with a grin, effectively shutting up the genius before he could protest that she wasn't his wife). Steve found himself lost in the movie, smiling at a character that reminded him of his mother, but that didn't stop him from noticing when people shifted around. First Tony, then Bruce and Clint. Natasha and Pepper were the only two that stayed where they were.

Steve focused on the movie and let them believe they were being sneaky.

When the tower lights came on again, he wasn't completely surprised as he was dragged over to a cake with sparking candles on it. Laughing, Steve blew them out—all ninety five of them—and accepted a second slice of cake with a smile.

"Presents!" Tony shouted the second the last bit of dessert was in Steve's mouth. The billionaire almost slammed his wrapped gift down on the table.

Steve went home that night, his arms full of a case filled with new art supplies from Clint (who must have snuck into his apartment or done some snooping to figure that out), a case of fighting knives from Natasha (they were shiny and deadly with red, white, and blue on the handles so he could wear them with his uniform), a case of books from Bruce (including Of Mice and Men, The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn), a watch from Pepper (the face had the logo of the Howling Commandos on it and he hugged her for quite a bit longer than was necessary for it), and, from Tony, a helmet that looked a lot like his original cowl—blue with the white A—only the inside was lined with adamantium to stop a bullet and clear lenses were over the eyes that could either keep debris out or work like the technology in the Iron Man suit.

"Happy birthday," Tony grinned and clapped him on the shoulder as Steve smiled at the people spread out around him.

oOo

"Greek?" Natasha asked him one day, sitting on his couch with a coffee table sized book in front of her. There was a map or Europe during world war II on the pages with a HYDRA logo for each of the research centres and bases. Her eyes were on the one in Greece.

Steve shook his head and handed her a bag filled with Thai take-out.

oOo

Arlington County, Virginia stretched out around them. Trees and lawns that were as green as green could get marked with headstones that were just as white as the snow he had landed on in 1945.

"You should be proud!" Shouted the ragged, chipped voice through the speaker of a black iron suit. It was bulkier than Tony's, slower, less flexible, but still packed a mighty wallop. At some point the speaker for the helmet had gotten damaged and the voice had started to come out more and more like a boy going through puberty. "I made it better, Tony!"

The blast that came out of the had hit Steve's shield and rocketed up into the sky. Whoever was in the suit wasn't paying all that much attention to anyone but Tony and that was alright with Steve.

He'd been standing still for the past twenty minutes, feet braced, shield held out before him—the sentinel at his back with the white tomb they guarded standing tall. Steve blocked every blast coming his way, prepared to let Natasha and Tony take this fight.

They won, of course, and Steve spoke to the officers about the duty and learned the history and meaning of the Tomb of the Unknowns while SHIELD cleaned up the mess of technology. He was quiet all the way back to New York, alternating between staring out the window and sketching the memorial.

"I won't be gone for long," he urged Natasha and Clint while he packed up a few duffle bags. "Just most of the year. And you can come visit me."

"Steve—" Clint started and stopped when the red-haired assassin laid her hand on his shoulder.

Natasha watched the soldier pack, his moves frantic, his smile more easy than she had ever seen it. "Food night on Thursdays, still?"

Steve grinned at her. "Of course."

Four months later, Natasha toured the Arlington National Cemetery and, if she recognized the sentinel with blond hair and clear blue eyes, well, she never said.

oOo

"If you aren't back in New York in two weeks," Tony told Steve over the phone. "I'm building a tower right next to the cemetery."

Both of them knew it was illegal, but Steve calmly boarded the earliest plane to New York in seven days.

oOo

Thor comes back after a... fairly disastrous day in England. He doesn't stay long enough to talk to his teammates, but they saw him on their television screens. Clint and Steve were playing a game of Go Fish at the new and bigger table (now equipped to deal with all of the Avengers) while waiting for Natasha and Pepper in the soldier's living room when the news cast came on.

Two days later, after SHIELD informed them that Thor went back home, Tony received a phone call from Jane Foster informing him that the Asgardian was there to stay for the time being. It only takes one mass email to inform the rest of the Avengers.

Steve often comes back home in the afternoon to find some (or most) of the Avengers sprawled out on his couch and in his living room. Thor, after coming back from the United Kingdom, decided to join Tony and Bruce on their trips over.

"Don't you have a tower that you live in?" Steve asked as they quickly made their way through his alcohol cabinet. "You could just invite me over instead of coming here."

"Sure, Tony said and shrugged, aiming his bottle cap at the jar in the corner of the room (he misses). "But you won't stay." The soldier doesn't really have anything to say to that and just puts in The Lion King with the hopes that maybe a kids movie will encourage them to leave.

He's pretty sure it did the opposite when they're all (except Thor) singing 'Hakuna Matata' at the top of their lungs.

oOo

On the battlefield, for the first time he was injected with the serum, Steve forgets where he is. There are people shouting around him, screaming, but all he can feel is the piercing heat in his chest and the agony racing through his left leg. Sprained, he thought because it wasn't the first time (and it won't be the last).

"Captain?" Hands brush over his face and lift up his head. The sky spins, clouds twisting together even as a red, black, and peach blur appears above him. "Steve?"

His chest burned, lungs aching, throat closing—asthma attack was the first thing that came to mind. All those years in Brooklyn, knocked out on the street, unable to breathe. "A-aer—" He coughed, his eyes focusing for just a second on wide hazel eyes and scarlet hair. "Aer a th-tharraingt—" Steve clawed at her, gripping her shoulder as his spine arched, eyes rolling back into his head. Something was tearing at his being, ripping through his ribs.

"I can't understand you," There was something in her voice—something close to horror and strange realization. "Steve, Steve—"

Something large and heavy (and metallic) landed close to them as his lungs tried to spread. The young woman—she was beautiful, really, and reminded him of someone he should know—held his head, pushing something hard and round over his face (a cowl? A helmet? Maybe this was the war). "Á-álainn," he managed with his last gasp of air, reaching up to brush his knuckles across her cheek.

"What's wrong with him?" A man. That was a man. Red and gold and standing over him as white and black dots danced across his eyes. "What'd he get hit with?"

"One of their blasters, it got him in the chest," the woman was running her fingers over his torso, down across his ribs. "Only bruised ribs, though. He hit his head a bit hard when he went down."

The man snorted and leaned closer. "Adamantium is useful," Fingers pressed against his cheeks and hovered over his mouth and nose. "He's not breathing."

"Der'mo," Natasha breathed, reaching for the front of his suit, ripping open the front. Steve let his head roll on the pavement—he didn't remember Stark's leather weighing like this.

The colours around him were starting to dim when a zipper is undone and he something pounds against his chest—a fist, he thinks—and then his lungs fill with oxygen that tasted like dust and blood against his tongue. "N-nimhneach," Steve managed after a few careful breaths, trying not to make his ribs strain anymore than they already were. His vision swam as four hands helped him to sit up.

"Jarvis, what's he saying?" Spoke the man to his side wearing... metal of some kind. His eyes and the slope of his nose were familiar and Steve frowned, trying to place them.

"Unknown, Sir." A well oiled British voice spoke, this time coming from inside the soldier's ear and he jumped slightly—then realized how much of a bad idea that was. "He has four bruised ribs, however, a sprained ankle, and a concussion."

Someone grunted, displeased, and Steve found himself being hauled to his feet, one arm over the woman's shoulder, the other one across the... man-machine. "You're lucky that nothing is broken, Captain," the man said, helping him along.

In the distance, something roared and lightning crackled above. "I mo thuairimse carraig rollta thar dom," Steve grumbled and hissed between his teeth as his foot went down. "An charraig bhuaigh."

"Are you sure you can't translate, JARVIS?"

"Scanning the language now and searching all known translating databases."

Steve stumbled into the woman holding up his right side. Each blink cleared his vision so he could focus on her blue eyes (or green? They looked both). "B-bealtaine liom péint tú, a bhean uasail?"

She blinked, frowned a bit, but then smiled softly. "I can't understand what you're saying, Steve." Her voice was soft and his eyes drooped slightly at the sound. "Can you speak English?"

For a long moment, he stared at her before closing his eyes in thought. His brow furrowed in concentration as he looked for the words—but they fled from him like ghosts. "Uimh," Steve murmured.

"No?"

He nodded and grunted as his head throbbed.

Gloved fingers brushed across his chin. "It's fine—"

"Sir, the language he's speaking is Irish Gaelic." Both the man and woman froze, listening to the voice speaking in their ears. "It was difficult to find as only one-point-seventy-seven million people speak it. And only seventy-seven thousand speak it daily."

Something black and purple dropped down in front of them and it took Steve a few dazed blinks to see the dirty blond hair of a man. "Thor and Hulk have the machine down," he said, sticking arrow shafts back into his quiver. "They're... well, ripping it apart is the best term, honestly."

"Watch the Cap," the machine-man said, gently easing him onto the woman before stepping back and taking off.

"What happened to him?"

There was a wince on the redhead's face. "Got hit by a blaster. Help me get him to the jet?"

"Sure," the blond ducked under him and took the other half of his weight. "What's this about Irish Gaelic?"

"That's the eighth language."

"You're shitting me."

The memories were returning now, through the fog, like someone was slowly lifting up a curtain, bit by bit. "Níos tapúla," Steve ordered softly and, even though they didn't know what he said, both assassins picked up their pace just a bit more (and talked a little less).

They laid him down across one of the medical beds when they got to the jet, strapping him down loosely so he could get out if he wanted, but there was no chance of him falling off if he rolled.

"Sleep, Steve," Natasha murmured, her name coming back now as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Sleep, sobrat."

So he did.

Steve woke up gasping, hands clawing at bed sheets before he managed to roll himself onto his side and push himself up. A cold sweat stuck his shirt to his chest, his hair damp against his neck as he stared at the faintly glowing 7:00.

They registered as the time.

The room registered as not being his.

Rubbing his arm across his eyes, Steve groaned and laid back down on the pillow, closing his eyes to get more sleep even as his body sunk even deeper into the mattress and he jerked back awake again, feeling like he was sinking.

With a soft groan, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing his aching, but mostly healed ankle.

"Good evening, sir," JARVIS spoke up around him and Steve jumped a bit, looking up at the ceiling.

"I guess that answers one question," Steve murmured, but he smiled for the A.I. "Where's everyone else?"

"In the lounging area, sir. Shall I tell them you're coming?"

Shrugging, the soldier headed towards the elevator doors. "If you want to." He leaned against a wall even as he shot up a few floors before he was looking out into the lounge area where the smell of pizza filled the air. A few boxes were spread out, Thor and Bruce commandeering about six to themselves with everyone else holding plates. Conversation died and Steve fought the urge to turn around and head back downstairs.

"Good afternoon—" He started and was suddenly surrounded with Natasha against his front, Clint and Tony to his sides, Bruce and Thor at his back. Hands patted his shoulder, supped his face, slapped his back.

Tony threw an arm across his shoulders and leaned in close, laughing in both joy and relief. "Good to have you back, Cap."

Bunkered down on the sofa, plate filled with pizza in his hand, surrounded by the rest of the team, Steve found himself drifting off again.

For the first time since he woke up from the ice, Steve was warm.

oOo

The third time Tony asked him to come live in Stark Tower, they're all around the billionaire's hospital bed in Hong Kong. There's a jar of shrapnel sitting next to a vase filled with violets and lilies.

Steve still said no as the others laugh, but he's smiling.

oOo

One chilly, February night, Steve doesn't dream of the ice. He doesn't dream of the cold, of Bucky, or of Peggy, instead he watches drawn in faces, skeletal bodies, gaping mouths, and spidery fingers reach out for him. Barbed wire cuts through his wrists and neck, strangling him as the smell of burnt meat floods his nostrils and the air tastes dry and mixes with ash and blood in the back of his throat.

Dirt crumbled under each of his steps and he fell into the dark, crashing down onto skulls with a thin layer of skin covering bone, wide, blank eyes staring at him—

Steve woke up with vomit in his throat and shuddering, sheets torn under his clenched fists.

No one says anything when they find him that morning, sitting in his kitchen and nursing his third bottle of whiskey and he doesn't ask how they found out.

oOo

Natasha and Clint corner him out on the street one day and tell him that he needs a car.

"I have a motorcycle," Steve responds as they drag him by his arms towards the limousine. Tony was waiting for them, Pepper next to him. They both greet the soldier with grins, though Pepper looks far more apologetic. "I really don't need a car," he tells them, but no one listens to him.

Except JARVIS.

JARVIS actually apologizes.

They go to the various car dealerships in New York, looking at models that were too expensive and too sporty (which Steve didn't really mind as this adventure seemed to be for everyone's benefit, anyway) before they head off to more down to earth styles.

Steve finds himself looking at an SUV and thinking about how it could fit all of the team comfortably when he catches himself and looks around. Natasha grins, seeming to know his thoughts (as always) and continues speaking with Clint about the Porsche Spyder.

Tony and Pepper get distracted when they're recognized and Steve uses that to sneak away, murmuring to an employee about a blue SUV sitting beside a bright red truck. The inside is black and made of leather, heated seats, enough room to fit all of them, and a moon roof (was it bad that the first thing he thought of was Clint or Natasha shooting at people while standing on the seats?). He sits down behind the wheel and smoothes his hands over the wheel.

"What do you think, sir?"

It wasn't flashy, it wasn't sporty, and it had features they could use (when had he become they, anyway?). "I like it," Steve grins softly and grins at the employee. "How can I buy it?"

The young man's face brightened with a wide smile. "Just follow me!"

The other Avengers spot him at one of the desks, signing papers, when the fans finally left.

"What are you getting?" Tony leaned over his shoulders to see and groaned in disappointment when the title of the car wasn't on the forms.

"You can send Happy home," Steve says instead with a small grin. "I can drive us back." He accepted the keys held out to him and shook the employee's hand. "It'll be out front?"

Nodding, the young man grinned. "Yes, sir!"

Tony nodded appreciatively when he saw the car, though, and Clint immediately climbed into the back, looking up through the moon roof with Natasha beside him. "A Nissan Rogue," the billionaire grinned as Pepper took the passenger seat without too much fuss. "Nice."

oOo

Car plus Avengers somehow equalled a road trip across the United States. It wasn't as if Steve was complaining, really, but fitting six people into his (pretty much) five person car was stretching it a bit. Natasha and Clint, however, lounged about where ever they wanted—and how ever they wanted—so the car was able to fit all of them comfortably.

"So, Tony," Bruce turned around in the passenger seat (his turn would be over within two hours and then the others would fight for the right to sit up front). "How does it feel to not have a gaping hole in your chest?"

"If it wasn't for the fact that I know you're actually a really insulting person, Doc, I would take that as offensive." The billionaire sniffed, his shoulder against Thor's while Natasha lounged about at their feet and Clint still found a way to perch beside the window.

They make it all the way to Colorado before SHIELD tracks them down and tells them to turn around (they get to Malibu anyway).

oOo

SHIELD falls in the middle of spring, HYDRA at its core.

Natasha comes to Stark Tower, her eyes blood shot, limping just slightly, her boots and pants soaked through. She holds the Captain's shield in her hands as if it was a porcelain doll; breakable and fragile. There's blood across the surface, mud and dirt on the metal, the paint completely scratched away except for a few ragged edges.

"Jesus," Bruce says and leads her to a couch.

Tony turns to look at the elevator doors—but they don't open again. "Where's Cap?" He asks and Natasha closes her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Where's Cap?!"

"Hospital," the redhead manages. "Washington," She rubs her hands over her eyes. "He was shot."

"Shot?" Tony mutters and sat down heavily on the couch. "Damn it—"

Natasha shakes her head, though. "He'll be fine," she murmured. "Healing factor and the serum are making sure of that."

"I don't care," Tony snaps, "JARVIS, prepare a flight to D.C."

oOo

The fourth time Tony asks Steve to move into the tower the soldier is looking up with half lidded eyes, breathing shallowly from pain on a hospital bed, and says "okay."

None of them feel like celebrating.

I take all responsibility for the spelling and kept everything that needed to be spelled in American English in American English.

Irish Gaelic:
Aer a tharraingt: Draw air/Breathe/Breath (He's basically saying he needs to breathe)
Álainn: Beautiful
Nimhneach: It pains/hurts
I mo thuairimse carraig rollta thar dom: I feel like I've been ran/rolled over by a rock/boulder
An charraig bhuaigh: And the rock/boulder won
Bealtaine liom péint tú, a bhean uasail: May I paint you, Madam?
Uimh: No
Níos tapúla: Faster/Move
My Irish is a bit rusty, please excuse me if it's not correct (I will very much appreciate actual criticism seeing that I haven't spoken the language in ten years).

Russian:
Sobrat: It means brother/comrade. I thought it would be fitting.
Der'mo: Shit

Thinking about a sequel, or a sequence of one-shots to go with this, I don't know yet.

Please review if it fancies you. Writers live off feedback.

Gospel