AN: There are no spoilers for the movie Captain America: Civil War in this story. I did some research in the comic-verse and then took that information as a loose prompt/background for this story.

Through the Fire: Part 1

Before The War, Steve and Tony had been the best of friends. Brothers, really. Then the government had decided to get involved where it shouldn't have, prying into the personal lives of each superhero. The prejudice was a long time coming, something Steve and the team (Steve and Tony) had discussed at length: advantages and disadvantages, suggesting the moves they could make when the government decided on which path to take… The one thing Steve had been sure of was the support of his team. The Avengers would be on the front line as legislation came through, and it was important they be on the same side. He and Tony, as the leaders of the team, needed to be on the same page. And they were.

Or at least, Steve had thought they were. And then, Tony had disappeared for a while, not returning any phone calls or emails from the team. When he had reemerged, he had brought the SRA with him.

The War followed then, immediately chased by a stay in prison for Steve.

His assassination had come next.

Tony's betrayal had led to a pain nothing could ever be compared to. All of that time spent fighting together to protect their country and the world, all of that time spent as a team and a family, eating together, living in the same building; all of the movie nights and getting Steve caught up on the 21st century; all of that time as brothers, and it had been thrown away. Unable to reach a compromise, Tony defensive and unwilling to see another way until it was too late, Steve had been forced into taking drastic steps, which had led to the final fight.

"So will you help?"

Steve gritted his teeth, hands clenching slowly into fists. Tony wasn't looking at him, too focused on the phone in his hands, and Steve bitterly realized Tony was the big man on campus now. Even more so than he had been as a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

"Let me get this right," Steve said quietly, a layer of anger not hidden in the soft tone. "After everything you did to me, you want me to help you?"

Tony sighed and rolled his eyes, tapping furiously away at his phone. "No. I want you to help America, Captain America. Isn't that, like, in your job title?" he smirked.

Steve took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "No. I won't."

His former best friend looked up from the phone, then, his eyebrow cocked. "Wow. You just turned your back on your first love, there, Steve."

"It's Captain Rogers, Stark," Steve bit off, and Tony shot back, "Director, if you don't mind, Captain."

"Ah, yes. How could I forget? They told me you'd been promoted. The prison guards made sure to tell me in between their attempts at brainwashing me."

Tony's eyes blazed in fury, but the emotion was gone in the next instant, his face impressively blank. "Okay, friendly request over. You will help; you don't have a choice." When Steve made to argue, Tony waved his hand. "You help, or that little prison cell you got used to will be your home again."

Steve's chin shot up in surprise, his only outward reaction to the words. Inwardly, his heart was pounding in anger and the slightest twinge of fear. Tony pulled a manila folder out of the bag on his shoulder and dropped it on the floor in front of Steve.

"There will be a car waiting for you at the trailhead tomorrow at 0700. Try to run and I'll find you and throw you back in prison myself. I expect a full debriefing when you're finished, Cap."

Steve didn't move for several minutes after Tony left him alone. His little cabin in the mountains, abandoned and crumbling into ruin when he'd stumbled across it, had started to feel cozy as he slowly brought it back to life, (though not like home; the Avenger's Tower had felt like home in a way only the apartment he'd shared with his mother had). Now it felt alien and empty and claustrophobic. The safety and anonymity he'd thought he had, had been broken by Tony's unexpected visit.

He'd thought he was safe. He was wrong.

His eyes slid shut as he weighed his lack of options, and with a sigh, he bent over to grab the folder. Looked like he had a mission tomorrow.

…

Before The War, Steve had spent many of his afternoons sketching on a couch in a corner of Tony's workshop. While the technology had never failed to astound him, from the smallest robot to the holographic screens, the space had been comfortable to him. Late one night, the rest of the team asleep on the couches in the living room after their latest movie marathon, Tony had confessed he felt more comfortable in his workshop than he did in his opulent offices at S.I., something Steve had already noticed during his time in the workshop with his friend. The only time the man truly relaxed was when he was with Pepper, with his team, or dressed in the grungiest clothes he could find and working in his 'shop.

"Physical comfort is one thing," Tony said. "In that case, give me the best couch and chairs money can buy. Hell, if it's for a business meeting and I'm trying to intimidate the competition, the fancier the better, you know? But I don't care for that crap except for those instances.

"I feel better when my hands are stained with grease," he said softly, swirling a tumbler full of scotch and leaning against his workbench. He wasn't drunk, but the few drinks he'd had that night combined with the late hour to make Tony a little more honest than he would be normally.

"One of the only times I feel like I can breathe," Steve returned, "is when I have a pencil in my hand and a sketch pad in the other. I'd rather my hands be stained with charcoal than blood, but that doesn't always happen." His lips quirked up in a sad smile as Tony came over and settled on the couch beside him.

"No, it doesn't, does it?" his friend asked, leaning into Steve's shoulder as he stared down into his glass.

Steve wondered idly, as he studied Tony's fancy S.H.I.E.L.D. office, if the man's tastes had changed or if he was simply trying to be intimidating. Honestly, the soldier wasn't intimidated—uncomfortable, but nothing else. Funny what death did to a person.

"I expected you back three days ago," Tony said, reading over the file Steve had brought him and looking right at home amidst the lavish furnishings of his office. "Getting rusty there, Captain?"

"You have my file. Are we finished, Stark?"

"Director," Tony corrected, and Steve stood from the chair he'd taken a seat in without Tony's permission. He put his fists on the desk and leaned towards the other man, the desk creaking ominously as he exerted pressure on it.

"Oh, you'll only ever be Stark to me," he said lightly and gave a shrug as he turned away. He was almost to the door when Tony spoke again.

"I didn't want you to go to prison."

Steve didn't turn to face the other man, but he did turn his head until he could see Tony out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, you did. We've never lied to each other before. Why start now?"

Tony didn't stop him from leaving after that.

Three months and two states later (the cabin had been left behind in Steve's efforts to outrun—to lose—Tony), Tony caught up to him again. He tossed a file on the front step and crossed his arms.

"I'm not working for you," Steve said. He felt a phantom pain in his chest over his heart and rubbed it absently.

The other man snorted, eyes flashing down to Steve's hand and back up to his face. "Believe what you want to, old man. You want to stay free, you do what I tell you."

Steve stooped over to grab the folder when Tony turned away, and he leafed through the papers. Stark was halfway down the driveway when Steve spoke. "Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, extortionist. Such personal growth, old friend. I bet Pepper's proud."

He caught a reflection on his screen door of Tony's frozen figure when he went into the house.

He paid for his quip six days later when the mission went sideways—Steve getting the information easily, but coming out dirty—and extraction was nowhere close enough to pick him up like they should have been.

"We're three hours out," the cool voice in his ear said, and Steve laughed as he ran. Laughed because there was a bullet wound in his thigh and one in his shoulder, two inches away from where he'd been shot fatally all those months ago. "What's your condition?" The voice was detached, and Steve missed Coulson's steady tone that did nothing to hide his worry when one of his agents was wounded. He always seemed to know when one of them was hurt without them even telling him.

Steve's leg gave out, and he landed hard on the injury, crying out before his vision went dark for several precious seconds. His pursuers were much closer than he felt comfortable with when he regained awareness, and he rolled to a standing position, trying to keep his weight off the leg. There were voices yelling in his ear (one of them familiar—smug, haughty, but worried now), that were nothing more than background noise as he tried to find an escape route. He ducked into a side alley and half limped, half ran as fast as he could.

It was a haze of pain after that, Steve moving blindly through the city during the night, trying to stay ahead of the men chasing him and searching for a spot to hole up in. He lost his earpiece somewhere along the way, only noticing when the lack of buzzing voices registered as a silence that meant he was alone. He didn't know how long it took his extraction team to find him, but when they finally did, Steve had found a place to hide long enough to dig out the bullet in his leg by himself and try to stop the bleeding. He was marginally successful, but still unconscious from the pain when he was finally found.

He woke up in a hospital room on the helicarrier, alone. The wounds on his chest and leg were an angry red, and he blanched from the pain as he sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He shouldn't move yet, was nowhere near healed enough to leave, but he needed to go. Limping to the door, he reached out to open it, only to find it locked. He swung around to take in the small room and focused on the camera in the corner of the ceiling.

"You can't keep me here," he said, fighting to keep calm. The room was small and blindingly bright, bringing back memories from his time in the prison that he would rather forget. "Let me out."

Nothing happened, and he fought to keep his breathing steady, despite how it felt like the walls were closing in on him.

Pain through his whole body. Agony from a betrayal he never saw coming, pain from men who had him at their mercy. Threats of a trial that would tell whether his fate was life or death…

And all of that after he had surrendered to save a friend and the city.

"You can't keep me here," he repeated, voice snapping across the room. His face flushed with anger and fear; his body coiled like a spring at the threat. "Tony!"

The door unlocked with a click, and Steve turned and fled the room before whoever set him free could change their mind. He waited near the back hatch until they landed and opened the ramp, where he exited onto the base and escaped before he could be detained again.

…

It was strange, to think that so much had changed with his life. Born in the twenties, living through the Great Depression and World War II, he'd now fought in two wars and both had ended with him losing his life in some way. He sat on the ground in front of the headstone, tracing the words with one finger.

Peggy Carter

Fiery. Feisty. Beloved.

1919-2017.

He'd lost her when he was in the prison, one month before he'd been shot. He hadn't cared what they'd decided to do to him from that point on, drowning in sorrow and misery.

"I paid for her headstone."

Steve's smile was grim, a tense lifting of his lips. "How kind. Did you pay for her funeral, too? I wish I could have attended, but I was a little tied up at the time. Did she…did she ask for me? Did you comfort her after you told her I was in prison? Did you tell her you were the one to put me there?"

Chest heaving with his emotions, he'd pushed to his feet to loom over Tony before he'd even realized it, yelling at the other man. Agents stepped out of their hiding spots at the perceived threat to their director, guns at the ready. Tony waved them away, even as Steve noticed the way his eyes were widened in surprise.

"You knew. You knew what my greatest fear was, Tony. To lose my life again and wake up in another time. To have my life taken again. You promised me you wouldn't let that happen. We were a family, you said," Steve's hands were fisted in Tony's shirt, crinkling the material. He shook once, twice. "You would do everything you could to protect me, because that was what a family did. I thought you had my back like I had yours, but it was you! This time, it was you who took it from me!" He let go and stumbled back a step, ever mindful of Peggy's gravestone behind him.

He wouldn't desecrate her resting place for anything.

He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands tightly as he spun away from Tony. "It was you," he whispered. He stood still for a moment before he kissed his palm and rested it against Peggy's headstone, straightening after he spoke a few soft words. "You'll always be my favorite dame." Standing at attention, he snapped his hand up in a salute at Peggy's headstone and lowered it slowly.

When he walked beneath one of the weeping willows near the entrance to the cemetery, his eyes snapped up to meet Hawkeye's gaze. "It's not worth it," he mouthed to the archer, whose arrow was pointed straight at Tony's heart. "He knows you're there."

…

He could have gotten the hit in. There was no doubt. Tony—no, Iron Man—was limp beneath him, the face shield lifted so Steve could look him in the eye. The other man was done; he was finished. The battle was still going, and Steve's arm was poised for one last punch that he couldn't take.

This was Tony. The man who had helped him fit back into the world, the man who'd opened his tower for all of them to live in. Tony, with his sharp wit and hidden emotions, who cared too much and tried to push everyone away. His best friend. Tony.

He knew the other supers were sneaking up on him, and he let them. The city was being destroyed and taking Iron Man out of the battle wouldn't stop that or keep Tony safe. Steve surrendering would.

Always able to read him, Tony's mouth parted in shock. "Steve…"

He never finished whatever it was he wanted to say, if anything. The protest was a token one, Steve could tell. He let go of Tony and backed up a step, holding his hands up at the supers heading towards him. He jerked his head at his allies, his new friends, an order for them to flee.

It started as whispers and grew.

"He surrendered. Captain America surrendered. It's over. He surrendered, he surrendered, he surrendered…"

Tony—no, Iron Man—took him into custody. And Crossbones killed him on his way to his trial.

Steve woke with a gasp as he felt the bullet enter his chest.

"I tried to get you out," Clint said, and Steve flinched at the unexpected words. He found Hawkeye in a dark corner of the bedroom of his new apartment, spinning an arrow between his fingers. "I tried, but there was nothing I could do."

Steve nodded slowly, quirking his lips in a small, genuine smile. "I didn't doubt that, Hawkeye. Thank you."

The archer nodded, and Steve knew he had a question, could tell by the way the man's fingers tightened around the arrow, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched.

"What is it, Clint?"

"You've helped him. Twice now."

The why went unasked, but Steve heard it nonetheless. He lowered his head for one long moment, shoulders slumped. "He found me. It doesn't matter how off the grid I am; he's found me twice. Told me I had to help him or he would throw me back into the prison."

The arrow was moving quicker now, a tell for Clint's agitation.

"I was there for a year, Clint, and I…"

"Yeah," the agent said. There was silence for a few moments, and then Clint said carefully, "You should…have you been back to the prison? Since you woke up?"

"No," his answer whipped between the space between them. Why would he go back to the place of his nightmares?

A beat, as Clint pursed his lips, and then, "I know you don't want to go back, but there's something you should—"

"No." Final and absolute, Steve shook his head and crossed his arms.

"At least consider it, okay?" He winced when Steve's expression darkened and held up a hand. "Word on the street is Stark cleaned up the organization. Turns out S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised. Apparently, he threw one of the biggest bitch fits when he found out several of the higher-ups were double agents for the Red Skull. They doctored some of the information they gave Stark about you and your actions during The War to manipulate him. The man who killed you—Crossbones. He was working for Big Red, too."

Steve's fingers were trembling, a shake that slowly started to travel up his arms at the memory of the bullet entering his chest.

"I still can't…reconcile Stark…Tony…with the man who fought us and did that to you."

Steve huffed a sad laugh. "Neither can I."

There was more than one side in a battle, each fighting for what they believed was right. Steve would never begrudge anyone their opinion, so long as no one was being hurt. Heck, that was what was so special about this country—each citizen had the right to believe what he or she wanted. They had rights they took for granted. Too bad those rights hadn't translated to those who helped defend the country.

He'd been punished and been made an example. Captain America had been made an example of, in and by America.

"There's a group," Clint said slowly, and Steve shook his head.

"I'm tired, Clint. I'm sorry, but I am so…so tired. I'm an old man," he said with a crooked smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes. He'd heard of the group, and he was proud of the other man. Proud that Hawkeye—who had been dragged into the Avengers when Loki had twisted his mind, who had given himself wholeheartedly to the team—had taken the values of the Avengers to heart and fought with another group modeled after his first team. Steve was done, though. "I can't fight another war."

Clint nodded once and stood from his slouched position. Walking towards Steve, he held out a hand for him to shake, and Steve took it immediately. "If you ever need anything, you let me know. I'll drop by when things aren't so tense," he said, and Steve knew he was referring to the situation between Tony and S.H.I.E.L.D. and the group Clint worked with now.

"Make sure you do," Steve said, smile real for the second time that night. It had been so long since he'd smiled so much. "Stay safe, friend."

"Back at ya, Cap." He gave a two-fingered salute and melted into the shadows.

Glancing at the clock on his bedside table, Steve groaned when he saw it was only 1:30 in the morning. He pushed to his feet and grabbed his sweats, feeling the urge to go for a jog. It wasn't like he'd be able to fall back asleep after the nightmare or Clint's visit, after all.

…

Two weeks later, Steve found himself facing down five cyborg giants and rapidly tiring. Whoever the inventor was had obviously kept some of the city's defenders in mind, because the darn things were nearly indestructible.

He stumbled back a step when one landed a blow to his side, leaning over and wheezing around the broken ribs. Oh, that hurt.

The familiar whine of repulsors was unexpected and brought back a flood of memories that stole his breath as much as the hit to his ribs had.

"Duck, Cap."

Steve ducked without a thought, and Iron Man fired his lasers at the machines. They sliced in half with a heavy clang of metal and snapping circuits, and Steve sighed in relief.

"I totally saved your ass," Tony mocked, and Steve shook his head.

"Shut up, Tony," he muttered, and it was so familiar. They'd fought side by side and back to back so many times, bickering all the while. They'd read each other's actions and often didn't need to say anything before they were on the same page. Tony was his second in command. "Why are you out here, anyways? Aren't you too valuable a resource for S.H.I.E.L.D. to send on missions?"

"Aw, don't be such a Grumpy Gus, Cap! Besides, sometimes I need to stretch my legs a little. You can't keep me on the sidelines for long," he said as he leaned casually against the building behind him. "And hey, who designed your new outfit because…actually it's not bad, I like the black, but what happened to the stars and stripes? Kinda part of the whole identity, isn't it? The mask isn't really necessary anymore, either, right?"

"You made sure of that, didn't you, Tony? Made sure my identity was well-known to the public. My own desires meant nothing to you, did they? I never wanted recognition or people to know who I was. I just wanted to do my duty."

"We go round and round in circles, Steve, but that's as far as we go. Besides, the past is the past, Cap! You've got to learn to let go."

The daggers Steve had been turning over and over in his hands landed with a thud in the wall behind Tony, one close to his head, the other near his arm.

"I fell asleep under the ice. When I woke up, I didn't regret my choices even as I mourned what I lost," he said. "I died when I gave up my freedom to save you. I both mourn and regret that choice."

He left without retrieving his daggers, hunched over with his arm cradling his side and breathing slowly and carefully through the pain and the moisture that filled his eyes.

…

It had taken Tony three months to come back with another mission, which he'd all but thrown at Steve's feet.

"Be ready in two hours," he'd ordered and was gone before Steve could answer.

Breath hitching as he was chained to the wall, Steve couldn't help but curse Tony for dragging him into a lifestyle he was so tired of. Believing in a cause was one thing; being blackmailed was another, and Steve was so tired. So tired and so alone. He struggled, but the chains were the same type as the ones that had held him captive in the prison and therefore impervious to his strength.

He wasn't going to be getting out of these unless the guards let him go or Tony sent someone in after him. Either option was extremely unlikely. The guards lashed out with their knives, even though Steve wasn't fighting them anymore, and he accepted they would be taking their anger out on him. He'd done more than a little damage to their compound.

If he made it appear as though he was trying to escape, however…maybe they'd get tired of trying to contain him and whoever was in charge there would give the guards permission to finish it. Death was anything but permanent for him, but at least it was a break from reality.

Maybe once he woke from it again, enough time would have passed that no one would remember his name.

…

He hadn't been killed. When he woke up in the hospital room, Stark was sitting in a chair by his bed and working on his phone.

"That's two times, Rogers. Let's not make a habit of this, or I'll throw you back in prison just to keep you in one piece, got it?" He stood, brushed his hands down his suit to take out the wrinkles, and left.

…

Four states later and Pepper's eyes lit up when she caught sight of him. She strode across her office to enfold him in a hug, and Steve let out a long sigh of relief.

"Hey, Pepper," he said softly, and her arms tightened around him.

"Steve," she breathed, and Steve lowered his head until it rested against her shoulder. He was shaking again, his fingers trembling, his breath shuddering.

He'd been in another war, he'd been betrayed by his best friend, he'd been killed and had to dig himself out of his own grave.

"It's okay, sweetie. You're safe here," she crooned, and he burrowed his face in her neck.

She held him while he let go—the emotions he'd hidden and ignored, that had festered for all of that time he'd been held a prisoner after The War; the pain; all of it. She carded her fingers through his hair and rubbed her hand up and down his back in soothing motions.

"I was wondering when I'd see you," she said when he finally got a hold of himself. She swiped her fingers beneath her eyes to dry her tears while Steve ran a hand down his face to wipe it clean.

"You…you knew?" he asked in surprise.

Pepper nodded and leaned back against her desk. "I've seen Tony three times since we decided to go our own ways. The first time was at the courthouse for your trial, the second was at your funeral, and the third was when he had to tell me in person you were alive, and he had found you."

It hadn't been easy for her, Steve knew, not picking Tony's side. She loved the man, but didn't agree with his stance, and as such, she'd told him she couldn't stay with him.

"So you two haven't…" he trailed off, and she shook her head.

"It's too fresh," she said. "He was so stubborn, and so many people were being hurt. If you two had been able to work together, can you imagine how it would have gone?"

Steve pressed his lips together, hands on his hips. "I offered, Pepper. You know I did."

"I know. He's just…he's so stubborn—"

And then there was the time Tony had wanted to meet at his parents' old mansion and tried to tell Steve something that Steve wouldn't listen to. He couldn't listen. At that point, he'd been so angry and hurt, he'd been deaf to whatever Tony was trying to tell him. "No offense, but I…I really don't want to talk about Tony," he said, his voice tight.

"He was devastated, at your funeral," she said, and Steve spun around to pace the room. "I've never seen him like that before."

"Pepper, please," he pleaded, and she held her hands up.

"Okay. Okay," she said and cocked her head at him. "When's the last time you had a good meal?" she asked, shaking her head and reaching for her phone.

"I've eaten," he said defensively and then ducked his head when she leveled a glare at him. His lips twitched in a grin—he'd missed her. Missed her and her mothering and quick wit and love. She'd taken the Avengers under her wing, and The War had been so difficult for her. She loved each of them, and they hadn't stuck together as a team.

"I'm ordering lunch. You're eating it—all of it—and then as soon as I finish up the report I was working on, we're leaving, and you're going to spend the night in one of my guest rooms."

"Yes ma'am," he laughed, smiling fondly at her.

For the first time in a long time, he felt comfortable. Comfortable enough that that evening, leaning against the doorframe into her kitchen and watching her cook, he made a confession. "Tony asked me to work for him."

The knife she'd been using to dice the tomatoes came to a stop, and she glanced back at him, expression curious. "And what did you say?"

He crossed his arms, his fingers drumming against his bicep. "He didn't give me a choice."

She was angry now, filling in the blanks. "What did he threaten you with?" She'd resumed cutting up the tomatoes, but the knife was moving harder and sharper.

"He told me he'd throw me into prison if I didn't agree."

Pepper swore and slammed the blade down. "I'm going to kill the moron."

Licking his lips, Steve met Pepper's angry gaze with wide eyes. "There are still pockets of resistance out there that want to keep their identities a secret."

"Steve," Pepper started, but he continued.

"I don't want to fight anymore, Pepper, don't worry. But maybe…maybe this time… He's forcing me to work for him, but maybe I can try and sway him to let us have a choice. It's America, Pepper. Why can't we have a choice? I've given everything for this country. Why can't I have a choice?"

Pepper wiped her hands on a towel as she walked over to Steve, blinking against the tears in her eyes. She rested her hand against his cheek and smiled sadly, an expression that made his heart ache. "I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know."

…

Pepper was two months and seven states earlier when Tony came to him again. He held a folder in his hands and stared at Steve, a strange look in his eyes.

"Love what you've done with the place," he said, and Steve pushed the newspapers from his legs and stood, leaning against the dumpster he'd been sleeping by.

He shrugged, unconcerned. "I figured if I keep making it difficult to find me, you won't come looking anymore."

The other man bounced on his toes as he continued to study Steve. "Did you mean what you said during the fight with the robo-giants? Not that I care or anything, but it would be good to know where you stand. You make my minions very nervous when you get angry, and that's not something they've had to worry about since Brucie-boo's wild days."

"Is…how is Bruce? I haven't seen him since The War broke out."

Tony waved his hand carelessly. "Fine. He's off in Austria right now, running experiments and inventing cool things. You know him. Now answer my question."

It was odd, to have this conversation in an alleyway in Indianapolis. The sound of traffic rushing by and passersby talking was almost muted beyond this little bubble that was Steve and Tony.

"I surrendered so I wouldn't hurt you anymore. I surrendered so the city wouldn't be destroyed any more than it had already been. And when that happened, you handed me over to the authorities to be reeducated," he emphasized the word. "For a year, they tried, and then when my trial came up, I was murdered. I lost everything, just to save you."

Steve turned to pace the alleyway. "For so long, when I was…when I was in that prison, I thought, Tony. Tony will realize what's happening. He'll know this isn't right—we were friends, once. He'll get me out. Surely he wouldn't let them continue to brainwash me if he knew. And then, when they were dragging me back to my cell and I said as much, one of the guards just laughed at me. 'You don't think he knows?' the guard said. 'He knows. He ordered us to do this. Why do you think you're still here?'"

"I didn't!" Tony protested, and Steve talked over him.

"Over and over they told me it was your orders that kept me there. You had a year to try and break me, Tony. So forgive me if I regret backing away from taking you out of that last fight!"

"I didn't know!" Tony yelled, pulling at Steve's shoulder until he came to a stop.

Both men were breathing heavily and flushed with anger. Steve deliberately took a step away, the urge to punch the other man too strong to tempt fate by standing too close.

"I didn't know what they were doing, I didn't, but as soon as I found out, I arrested those guards and replaced them with new ones. With men I trusted to keep you safe. It wasn't soon enough, and I'm sorry, but as soon as I knew, I did something about it!"

A moment, as Steve remembered the new guards—the new guards who'd been there the week before the trial.

"You're telling me," Steve said, nose flaring as he fought to control his breathing, "that you only found out about that a week before my trial? You're telling me it took the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. a year to realize something was wrong?!"

He turned and let his fist fly, not even blinking when his hand went through the dumpster bin in his anger.

"The organization was compromised," Tony said after the silence had stretched between them. People were walking by the mouth of the alleyway still, laughing and joking, arguing and debating; vehicles were honking, and a motorcycle revved nearby. The backdrop of noise almost covered the words Tony was speaking, as the man's voice grew quieter with the confession. "It was compromised, and the men hurting you were double agents who answered to Schmidt. I threw them in a hole so deep they won't see the sun again." His smile was wolfish, but Steve, who had turned back to watch Tony speak, saw something like guilt in the other man's eyes.

Guilt over how he had failed Steve, maybe? Guilt over how he had been too late to save his former best friend? Guilt over fighting him in the first place?

Tony fidgeted while Steve continued to study him and finally held out the folder to Steve. Steve only hesitated a few seconds before he took it from him.

"Try not to get shot this time, will you, or break any bones, or, God forbid, get captured by the bad guys? You can't imagine the paperwork I have to fill out when that happens," was the other man's parting shot as he strode away.

…

"You should be ashamed," Steve panted, dodging a bullet as it flew towards his head.

"I'm sorry, Captain?" came the cool voice in his ear, detached as always, and Steve shook his head. Dodging behind a short wall, he paused for a moment to catch his breath.

"You…are a horrible handler," he said, putting a new clip of ammo into his pistol and wishing he could still carry his shield. Maybe if he painted it—it was simply too recognizable and he wasn't ready to resume his not-so-secret identity anymore—but then, he'd have to break it out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s compound, and Steve wasn't sure he really wanted to go to all that trouble.

When another bullet narrowly missed his head, he found himself drafting plans to get it back.

"I told you there were guards ahead of you," the voice shot back with a slight twinge of irritation.

"Guards implies lightly trained men and women with guns." Steve threw himself forward, tucking into a roll when the wall he had previously been taking shelter behind exploded when it was hit by a rocket. "These are soldiers with access to rocket launchers and tanks!"

"Captain, I fail to see—"

"Put someone on the comm who knows what the hell they're doing! Stark! You want me to do this, you give me somebody who isn't actively trying to kill me!"

"Sir, I don't—"

"Shut up, Harrison. Go get an iced latte or something and leave this to the big boys to handle."

Steve's reaction to hearing Tony's voice in his ear was, to his chagrin, relief, but at least it was tinged with irritation. "You could have intervened on your own," he grumbled, sprinting down the tarmac and jumping on the nearest tank. He could hear the men inside talking loudly and frantically, and he worked quickly to get inside and put the tank out of commission.

"I feel the constant need to remind you of how I have an organization to lead," Tony replied, a faint tilt of humor in his voice.

"And whose fault is that?" Steve shot back.

"Touché, Cap. Okay, incoming on your left—five heavily armed soldiers with rocket launchers and pistols, and wow, one of them looks scarily like the Rock," Stark said, mixing his unique brand of humor with business as effortlessly as Steve remembered.

"A rock?" Steve frowned, swinging around to meet the men. He disabled them with little difficulty, Tony's voice a horror-filled ramble in the background.

"A rock? A rock?!Oh my god, did you backslide that much? The Rock. He's a…you know what, I'm ordering my minions to make you a packet. You will be debriefed on himas soon as you're back in America. 'A rock,' he asks," Tony muttered, before he told Steve to take a right and enter the building through the door he'd just remotely unlocked for him.

Needless to say, the mission went much smoother than the previous ones where Harrison was relaying the information and watching over him.

That didn't mean Steve trusted Stark or had forgiven him. He didn't; but at least the mission had ended with him only receiving minor injuries.

…

Arms in handcuffs behind his back, ankles chained together, he shuffled to the courthouse between an attachment of six guards, three on his left and three on his right. He'd been given a suit, at least, complete with a red, white, and blue tie, but his dignity had been stripped by the paparazzi as they took picture after picture of him being led out of the van and up to the courthouse like a common criminal.

Setting his jaw and holding his chin up, he did his best not to stumble as the guards set a pace that was a little too fast for the chains. He still tripped when they reached the curb, and one of the men reached out to steady him, calling for the others to slow.

When they reached the stairs, Steve sighed, taking in the steep steps he had to climb to reach the courthouse. He caught sight of a familiar face while he looked up and felt his expression harden. Of course Tony had chosen to come see his trial. There was a splash of red to his right, and he turned his head to see Pepper, a mixture of sympathy and compassion on her face as she watched him struggle to climb the stairs.

He turned his face away, ashamed she was seeing him like this, that the whole world was seeing him like this. His cheeks were heated in a perpetual blush of embarrassment and anger, and he deliberately took several slow, deep breaths.

America was choosing to make an example of him today, and he would do nothing but be the example Peggy and Colonel Phillips and Bucky and his Howling Commandos would expect him to be. Lifting his eyes from his feet once more, he caught a flash of light from the rooftop. He frowned in confusion and swept his eyes across the roof in search of what had created the reflection.

He saw the sniper at the same time he heard the gunshot.

A bullet ripped through his chest, hitting his heart, as screams rang out. Crossbones grinned, and Steve fell backwards and slid down the stairs at the impact. He came to a rest upside down on the steps and blinked in surprise once, twice.

It was a beautiful day. A true blue sky with fluffy white clouds, the kind he and his mother would stare at for hours and point out shapes in.

There were more gunshots, but he ignored them, feeling a smile stretch his lips as he watched the clouds drift across the sky. He blinked again, slower, longer. The guards filled his vision, and then Tony and Pepper, and he looked at the two of them before his eyes slid closed and refused to open again.

He could feel someone (Tony) putting pressure on his chest, before it all slipped away. Tony was too late.

Steve was already gone.

"Captain Rogers?" Someone shook his shoulder, and Steve woke with a start. "We're back," the young agent in front of him said.

Steve rubbed a hand up and down his face to clear the fog of sleep and stood to follow the agent to Tony's office for the debriefing. Like it always did when he entered the building, his skin crawled at the lines that had been crossed during The War by both S.H.I.E.L.D. and the rebellion Steve had led. War was never perfect. Soldiers followed orders and sometimes took liberties they shouldn't.

Tactics weren't always black and white.

Steve hadn't been blameless in The War. He'd done things he regretted, things that had hurt Tony. Steve knew that, and yes, surrendering in that final battle had been an effort to try and make up for what he'd done. He'd never thought his surrendering would result in his attempted "reeducation" and death, however.

Walking into S.H.I.E.L.D. reminded him of everything he had lost. Friends. Family. A home.

When he entered Tony's office, the man fanned out five folders on his desk. "Take them, look 'em over, and let me know which one you want. Handlers," he said when Steve made a questioning noise. "They're the best of the best. Whichever one you want."

"You seem to forget I don't work for you. You blackmailed me into taking jobs, but I don't work for you," Steve said, shoving the files back towards Tony.

The other man leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest. "And while you are my blackmailee, you deserve the best handler I can get for you. Honestly, it's a matter of pride now. Harrison was pathetic. He let his feelings, or lack thereof, get in the way of keeping you safe and informed. Choose one, Cap."

His eyes closed. "I lost every shred of dignity I had when I got out of that van in the handcuffs and leg irons. Now, you persist in lording yourself over me by forcing me to work for you," Steve said softly. He gestured to the files, refusing to look at Tony's face and see what reaction his words had caused. "I don't want them. You want me to have the best, I want Coulson."

The chair squeaked as Tony sat up straight. "Steve, he won't—"

"I want him. You can't get him, you might as well send me with Harrison again, because those other options will be just as incompetent in comparison to Agent Coulson."

Coulson didn't work at S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore, Steve knew, hadn't since The War had broken out. He, of all people, had known the importance of discretion for his agents, let alone the necessity that a superhero not be unmasked as it could compromise the super's life or mission. From what Pepper had explained, Coulson and Tony had teamed up shortly after Steve's death to finish cleaning up the agency and get rid of Red Skull's double agents. As soon as that had been finished, Coulson had summarily warned Tony against following him or tracking him and had left to work with Clint and his group.

"Oh, and if you do manage to get him, he's free to leave when he's done with each mission. You don't force him into anything, and you don't follow or try to track him when he leaves. Plus, you fill his requests, whatever they are, within reason. He's a free agent, got it, Stark?"

"Director."

"You'll be a director when you do the right thing," Steve said. "Do you agree to the terms?"

"And what is the 'right thing'?" Tony emphasized the last two words. When Steve continued to stare at him, he scowled and rolled his eyes. "Fine. I agree."

It was to Steve's surprise, disbelief, and absolute relief that the voice that greeted him in his comm on the next mission was the competent, calm, assured voice of the Avengers' former handler.

"Hello, Captain Rogers."

"Agent Coulson," he said with a grin. "Been awhile."

The other man huffed a laugh. "You don't play by the rules, do you, Cap? You not only survive being thawed, but you come back to life after being shot, and then you get Tony to agree to requesting me as your handler."

"You are the best," Steve said sincerely. "Please tell me Harrison wasn't one of your interns before you left," he couldn't help but tease.

There was a moment where Steve knew Phil was twisting his mouth in disgust before he answered. "I was planning on reassigning him, but never got a chance to. My apologies you had to deal with his incompetency. Your drop-off location is approaching. 50 seconds."

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Phil," he confessed as he stood and slowly made his way to the door.

"Honestly, I'm glad. You need somebody in your corner, and I'm honored you chose me. 30 seconds."

Steve braced himself in the doorway as he stared at the landscape so far below him, his heart pumping faster in preparation for the jump. "Yes, but—"

"No. We've always been a team. By the way, Widow gave Hawkeye a black eye when she found out he visited you without her. She's doing fine, by the way. 15 seconds."

Steve gave a fond grin. "I worried about her the least. It's Widow, after all."

"I'd expect a visit from her soon. Five seconds. Four, three, two."

"Here we go," Steve whispered and launched himself out of the plane.

…

There was something about Brooklyn that always called him back. It could have been how familiar it felt, even as it was so different from what he remembered before he fought in WWII. It could have been him searching for that sense of home, fleeting though it may be. Whatever it was, he always made a point to spend time in the city when he was in the area.

There was this little art store, a place that had been there since he was a child, and he'd been so thrilled, after his almost 70 years "nap," to find the store still open. Even more of a relief, it had still been open after The War and his subsequent death. On this visit, he'd already grabbed the sketchbooks and pencils he preferred, but he still wandered the store, wishing he had a place that was his so he could try a few ideas he had for larger art projects. That canvas in the corner would be perfect for a painting of his cabin in the woods, but he had no way to carry a 9x5 canvas with him. He had no place he could call home to work on it or display the finished product.

"You could just choose to live with us, Cap. That would solve the problem," came a voice from beside him, and Steve shook his head as he wrapped an arm around Natasha's shoulders. She'd been trailing him since before he'd entered the store, her movements deliberately obvious enough to give him a warning of her presence.

He didn't need to ask how she knew what he was thinking—Natasha had always been adept at reading the team and, in particular, him.

"It might solve one problem, but it'll create a whole slew of others," he said, turning his head to look down at her. She leaned up to kiss his cheek, eyes narrowed in concern as she looked him over.

"You want me to hurt Stark? I've been tracking his whereabouts."

At that, Steve huffed in amusement. He pulled her closer, gaze falling back on the canvas he'd been tempted by the last two times he'd visited the shop. "Let's go," he said, tugging her to the cashier and then out the door.

"There's this café over on Third Avenue that went in a few months ago. I've been thinking about trying it. You game?" she asked, slipping her arm around his waist as he wrapped his arm back around her shoulders.

He was, and they spent the afternoon talking and eating and, in his case, sketching. He started filling his new book first with a picture of Natasha's smile and then the café they were visiting. He continued to sketch after she left, the next page filled with Hawkeye slouching against the wall of Steve's apartment, arrow in hand, and then he drew a picture of what he imagined Coulson had looked like when Steve had brought up his delinquent intern. Pepper, cooking for him in her home.

Tony in the alley, eyes wide in horror as he denied knowing about the guards' treatment of Steve until it was too late.

…

"Captain, pull out! Now!" Coulson yelled, and Steve winced even as he ducked low.

"What's the situation?" he snapped as he spun around and made for the doorway he'd just come through. Before he could take more than two steps towards it, a heavy metal door slammed into place, locking him inside. "Son of a gun! Coulson! I'm locked in!"

He turned to study the rest of the room, looking in vain for another exit. That was when the sirens started, and Steve flinched at the noise. Static filled his earpiece, and then one word came through, clear as a bell.

"Hydra."

At the soft hissing noise, Steve looked towards the ceiling, heart sinking when he saw white vapor coming through the air vents. He didn't know what it was, but odds were good it wouldn't be beneficial to his health.

"Cap—n? Can…hear…?"

Steve covered his mouth and nose, already coughing at whatever it was that was being pumped into the room. He threw himself at the wall, then the door, then another wall, trying to find a weak spot and break through. Nothing worked.

"Coulson," he gagged and fell to his knees. "Gas. They're filling…the room with gas." He couldn't stop coughing as he fell forward onto his hands. "Can't…can't breathe."

"Hold…! Help…soon."

Steve wheezed, shaking his head against the black dots filling his vision. "Can't…breathe. Coul…Coulson…"

"Cap…!"

Collapsing on his side, he couldn't help but give in to the encroaching darkness.

Steve crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. Shaking his head, he said, "I just don't think it's a good idea. It's our right to keep our identities a secret. If we want to, we can come out, like you did. But think about it—knowing our alter egos puts those we care about at risk. It makes them a target; it makes them leverage."

"You don't need to convince me," Tony said, holding his hands up. "I learned my lesson when I told the Mandarin where I lived. I put Pepper at risk, and I…I won't forgive myself for that," he said, shaking his head.

Steve bumped his shoulder against his friend's, offering wordless support. "Still," he continued with a sigh, "if it continues like I think it will, we're not going to have much of a choice."

"There's always a choice, Cap," Tony replied, lowering his chin at Steve and giving him a meaningful look. Steve shifted his weight, and Tony clapped his hand on his shoulder before he moved to the coffee maker. "I've got your back, Steve. Whatever you decide to do."

His shoulders were killing him. So were his ankles. Actually, his whole body felt as if he'd been stretched, and he found his breathing labored in a way that reminded him of when he'd had asthma.

Prying his eyes open, he stared down at his ankles, feeling his eyebrows curl when he saw his feet weren't on the ground. Wrapped in chains, his feet were hovering a good six inches from the floor. Well…that didn't make sense at all. He let his head fall back so he could look up and then made a noise of comprehension. He was hanging from the ceiling.

He shook his head carefully, trying to clear the fog that was making him loopy. A quick twist proved he was not only stretched a little too much to be comfortable, but the chains weren't going to break, either.

"I apologize for the gas, Captain," Schmidt said, stepping out of the shadows to stand in front of Steve. "Your mind will clear momentarily."

He continued to stand in front of Steve, but said nothing else. Steve had a feeling he was supposed to say something, a feeling that grew when the silence stretched. For the life of him, though, he couldn't think. He pressed his lips together and then brightened considerably as he figured out what to say. "I don't accept your apology!" he exclaimed proudly.

Schmidt cocked his head at the response and tsked in disdain. He pulled his hand back and lashed out, his fist burying into Steve's gut. Groaning at the hit and trying to curl into himself, something the chains wouldn't allow, he found the pain and the adrenaline that spiked at the punch enough to clear his mind.

"What do you want, Schmidt?" he asked.

"Only you, Captain," the Red Skull smiled. "Only you."

Schmidt, being the scientist he was, started off with a few creations of his own that left Steve biting back whimpers as the poisons raced through his veins. He moved on to more physical methods next. Steve didn't cry out at the first crack of the whip, but he did after the eighteenth as Schmidt put every bit of the strength the serum had given him into each strike.

Another lash, but this time, the whip wrapped around his throat, and Steve choked.

"You're going to want to let go of him now."

Schmidt gave a short laugh. "I think not."

"You're also," the voice continued, "going to want to get a better security system, because as soon as I was in range, it literally took me five minutes to override it, and for a villain of your stature, that is, to be honest, pitiful."

"Iron Man," the scientist greeted.

"And Hawkeye," Iron Man filled in. "He doesn't usually say much to bad guys; he prefers to look badass with his bow and arrow, which he pulls off pretty well. There's also Black Widow, who's poised to do something very painful to you right now; I wouldn't take another step backwards. There's an angry agent yelling threats in our ears that are meant for you—something about a taser, and let me tell you…that taser is one of the worst things he can hit you with. Trust me. And someone else…who am I forgetting?"

"T…Tony…" Steve gasped, and Schmidt pulled the whip tighter. He broke off, choking, his vision growing dim.

At the enraged roar of the Hulk, whose entrance in the room was breaking down the wall across from Steve, Tony said, "Oh, yes. How silly of me. The Hulk. I'd let Captain America go right now, if I were you."

Steve's vision was going black, but he could still hear the whine of repulsors as Iron Man backed up his demand with a threat, and then something that sounded like a rumble of thunder in the distance.

"Oh look, Thor's coming. Let him go. Now," Tony ordered, and Schmidt finally let the whip go.

Steve coughed, his body trembling as his chest heaved. The voices of his team washed over him, and he felt at home for the first time since he and Tony had squared off on the battlefield against each other.

"Hey, buddy," came Tony's soft voice, and Steve opened his eyes to see his former best friend's face hovering near his. "We've got you. I've got you. I'm going to get you out of these chains, and then we're going to get Bruce to look you over, okay?"

Stunned by the turn of events, Steve simply looked at him. "You…you came?" he finally asked, voice hoarse, and Tony's face twisted in an expression Steve was too tired to decipher.

"Yeah, Cap. We all did."

"I don't…understand…" he whispered, and Tony lowered his head for one short moment before he shook his head and started to cut through the chains binding Steve with one of the lasers on his suit.

"I know. And I'm going to fix that. I promise." Brown eyes met blue a split second before the chains gave way, and Steve fell. Tony went to catch him, armored hands wrapping around a back that had been mangled. It was too much, and Steve finally let go.

It didn't matter, though. Whatever happened next, his team, his whole team, was watching out for him.

AN: Part 2 will follow soon. I had hoped to post both parts before the movie premiered, but hey, real life. ;) Thank you very much for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought, if you have a moment to spare. I only ask there be no spoilers for the movie, as I haven't seen it yet. Sooooon, my precioussss...