A/n: Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for all of your support for this story. Each time I see that it has gotten a favorite, follow, or comment, my heart is filled with joy. We have reached the end of this tale, but the story is far from over. The Plot Bunnies (through the invaluable help of some of their cousins) have gotten ideas for a sequel.

A MASSIVE "thank you" to Tori of Lorien. Your assistance with each chapter has been invaluable. :D

Cloudoffeathers: Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I must admit, now I too am wondering what a cloud of feathers would be like. *Obi-wan chin stroke* I bet it would be super soft, though my Plot Bunnies are also now wondering if it would also be wet because of the whole "cloud" aspect.

Disclaimer: *Looks over at Plot Bunnies who shake their heads sadly* Dagnabit, I still don't own it.

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Flashbacks, fear, and worry were no strangers to Steve. Concern about food, about money, and about his mother's health had been his companions from his youth. Anger over his invalid state did nothing to help those worries. Indeed, at times, they exacerbated them, for if he had been well, he would have been able to work to help provide for his family as Bucky did with his.

Project Rebirth did nothing to help either. He was physically capable of so much more than he had been in his prior 22 years of life. But he was stuck as a showpiece – fake punching a man in a costume – while Bucky and the rest of the troops were out in harm's way actually defending the nation. And so, the worry continued, though he hid it well. What would moral be if it was known that The Man with a Plan worried about the plans of those in charge?

He knew how to "fake it till you make it." And when that wasn't enough, he'd slip away for an hour or two of quiet. There he could rearrange those thoughts into more manageable chunks and then lock them back up in the recesses of his mind where they belonged.

The serum he had been injected with had given him many blessing. The ability to breathe deeply and without pain was the greatest in his opinion. And once he was actually engaging in combat, his strength, stamina, healing abilities, and the myriad of other enhancements came in great use. Those abilities did have their drawbacks though.

The pain, un-relievable by pain medication, that accompanied any wounds he received he could handle. No, he didn't relish the agony he was in while his body healed itself; but there was nothing to be done about it, so he grit his teeth and bore it. What he did wish he could change, at times, was the sparkling clarity and accuracy of his memory. While it was a blessing in many areas of his life – training, battle tactics, plans, maps, recon – it was also a bane.

He remembered each face of the men he had failed. Each name was seared into the depths of his mind. The botched missions, failed attempts, captures, and tortures, the faces of his men twisted and pinched with hunger, but still filled with determination to get the job done all had their place. He couldn't forget anything, and so his brain had a virtual smorgasbord of situations and events to choose from to torment him with.

So, no. He wasn't a stranger to flashbacks and what was now called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He had dealt with them during the war, as quietly as possible, but always privately. Captain American always had a plan, always knew what to do, was always perfect. Captain Rogers was an officer in the United States Army: any problems or difficulties were dealt with by him and him alone. He couldn't place anymore weight on the shoulders of his men. There was no place for Steve Rogers, the 23-year-old kid from Brooklyn, to vent and release the stress that being genetically enhanced and then thrown into a position of command had placed on him.

He had had quite a few flashbacks since his… since coming out of the ice. He had tried to keep them quiet so as not to disturb the rest of the occupants of the Tower. Thankfully, most had happened in his room after particularly nasty nightmares. Mainly, what he dealt with now was crushing depression.

He was a Man Out of Time. All those he had known were either dead or heading towards the grave, scattered across the US and the world. His old haunts and his neighborhood were changed, but not enough that he did not see glimmerings of them whenever he would pass by. Remnants of his time still clung on amidst the advancements of the 21st century.

It was those remnants, those ghosts, that caused him the most pain.

He would be doing… not fine, but all right. Integrating himself a little bit more into this world he found himself in. Trying to be leader to the Avengers, keep them from strangling each other, bring them closer together and more like a team instead of a group of individuals who were forced to work with each other. He kept himself busy, either with Avenger wrangling (if he was honest with himself it wasn't that much different from some of the troops he had had to lead during the war) or with assignment for SHIELD. And then he'd be blindsided by a reminder that he wasn't where he belonged, that he might never belong here, and the grief and confusion and questions would come flooding back.

That was what had happened that evening. He had called the get-together hoping that his teammates would open up to each other a bit more and find things in common. They still preferred to go it solo and spent more time arguing or just ignoring each other than not. It wasn't good for the team, nor was it good for country should another attack happen and they not know how to flow with and around each other because they refused to know each other.

And, for the most part, they actually did try when they had gathered for the evening meal. Of course, Tony spent more time than not with a glass of something in his hand. But Steve noticed that he didn't guzzle it down. Instead, the man used it as a grounding tool more than anything. Clint and Natasha had orbited around each other as usual, but allowed others into their mix. Bruce had been more than content to sit in a corner reading over a scientific journal, but put it to the side when Tony had engaged him in a conversation about some experiment they were conducting. Thor had wandered from group to group.

He had been doing fine, but about halfway through, he had been struck with an intense wave of want and loss. He and the Commandos had done similar gatherings a number of times between missions. It had been time for them to simply be themselves. To not worry about the war or where they were going next or that they might be blown up or captured at any time. It had been good and right and some of the best times he had ever had.

He left then, not wanting to disrupt the good time the rest of his team was having. He thought he'd be fine, he'd deal with his emotions and come back just in time for the goodbyes. Except that hadn't happened. He'd been stuck as wave after wave of just what he'd lost hit him. He knew sorrow was an integral part of grieving – heaven knows he'd had enough knowledge of it – but it had been months since his return. He was beginning to be ashamed that he was still stuck.

The past, though, finally seemed to have relinquished its hold on him for the time being. He wasn't sure how long he had been kneeling on the floor, locked in his own grief. What he did know was that he couldn't stay there for much longer, as much as he'd like to. He needed to check in on his teammates and ensure that there was nothing pressing from SHIELD. There wasn't time for Steve Rogers this evening. He had to be Captain America. Once he completed his duties, he could retreat to his room and sleep for the few hours he could before the nightmares kicked in.

A hand squeezed his shoulder softly. The suddenness of the gesture surprised Steve, and he jerked up and away. His hands balled into fists, and his muscles tightened in preparation to fend off whoever it was who had snuck up on him.

"Whoa there, Capsicle. Hold your horses. It's just me."

The voice – and the teasing name that had followed him since he had met the owner of said voice – broke through the last remnants of fog in his mind. Tony. He had almost hit Tony… again.

The fight or flight reflex faded. His brain began to fully process the scene around him. Tony knelt an arm's length away from him, though his hand was still on his shoulder. His eyes were filled with concern, but no pity.

The muscles in his arms, back, and neck relaxed, and he settled so his back was supported by the wall. With a groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and trying to reign in his still tumultuous emotions.

Great. Now he had ruined Tony's evening as well. This was not going well. Tony never acted put out by his… episodes. In fact, he always seemed to find Steve during them, no matter where he was. But the not-quite-a-soldier-anymore couldn't imagine that the billionaire liked having a super soldier with mental issues disturbing his life. After a few minutes of silence, Steve lowered his hand and took a deep breath.

"You back with me, Steve?" Tony asked softly. He hadn't moved at all, and his gaze still held no pity – simply an open desire to help.

"Yes." Steve rasped. Clearing his throat, he continued, "I apologize for disrupting your evening. I will be all right now. You can go and rejoin the group. I will be there momentarily."

He moved to stand up, to put this mess behind him, to put Steve Rogers aside and put on Captain Rogers. He knew he was no longer in the army, but the expectations of the nation and those around him, and his commanding officers still hung heavily on his shoulders. He had never allowed anyone to see his few breakdowns during the War. Bucky had been the only to force himself and his help onto Steve, and even he hadn't been there for all of them.

Tony pushed him back down, a frown on his face.

"Don't give me any of that crap. You wouldn't have left the shindig unless something was wrong. You know no one will begrudge you time to set things right, or judge you for it. For Pete's sake, Steve," He waved his hands, "we all have times where we just need to be by ourselves. Why can't you allow yourself the same leeway?"

Steve straightened, frowning slightly at Tony, "I am the leader of this group and an active member of SHIELD. I cannot allow myself to slip, to fail to be anything but prepared for whatever needs done. I am fine, Tony. I was fine during the War, and I will be fine now. Thank you for your concern, but please, go back to enjoying your evening. We have training in the morning. I will see you there."

He tried once more to move from his position on the floor. Yet once again, he was stopped by Tony's hand on his chest. He took a deep breath, but allowed himself to be pressed back to the floor once more.

"That's a load of malarkey." Tony snarled. "I don't know who's been filling your head with that nonsense, but it's not true. You're human, Steve, with human fallibilities. No one expects you to be perfect, least of all anyone in this Tower. Well… Coulson might whenever he comes over, but he only stops in to visit, so he doesn't count."

Tony stood up and began pacing. Before he could continue his harangue, though, the door to the room slid open. He and Steve both looked up to see Clint returning with the box of tissues and glass of water Tony had sent him for.

"Clint! Good, we can get another opinion. Not that we need one, I'm right, but I don't think Steve will be too interested in just taking my word. That's beside the point. Do you think that Cap has to be infallible and 100% perfect all the time?"

To his credit, Clint only looked between Tony and Steve – who had tensed even further at his entrance – once before shaking his head, "Of course not. No one can ever be perfect – not even you, Tony."

Tony ignored the barb in favor of turning back to Steve, "See? Whatever that was you just spouted should be reclassified as nonsense." His posture eased slightly. "I don't know what it was like during the War, Steve. But times have changed."

Clint held the glass of water and the tissues out to Steve who took them gratefully. "He's right, you know. None of us are perfect. In fact, we're the farthest thing from it. Why should our leader be perfect?"

Tony pulled one of the officer chairs out from beneath the table and plopped into it, "We're here to help you just as much as you're here to help us, Steve. How many times have you talked to me about teamwork and trust and leaning on one another? Sounds like you need a taste of your own advice."

Steve gave a half-grin before blowing his nose and downing the water. The stiffness in his body had eased as Clint and Tony had talked, but it had not disappeared entirely.

"Thank you, Clint, Tony. I will take that into consideration." He stood up and moved to the door. This time Tony didn't try to stop him.

"What were you saying?" Clint asked right before he reached the door.

Steve flinched as if struck, "What do you mean?" He asked in an even voice without turning around.

"When I came in here the first time, you were muttering something in what sounded like Hebrew? Was it?"

Steve's stomach clenched tightly, "It was." He acknowledged in a voice that begged the other man to drop the subject. "It was a prayer."

"What for, Steve?" Clint pressed.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. Tony noticed that his shoulders had tensed even further.

"Steve?" Clint asked once more.

"For the dead." Steve whispered. "It was a prayer for the dead, Barton. Please, let it be. I will see you both in the morning for training."

"You aren't the only person to lose those you care about, Steve." Clint's voice was equally soft. "We all understand. We're here, if you want a listening ear."

Steve didn't turn around, but he nodded. "Thank you, Clint. See you tomorrow."

Tony sighed to himself as the door closed behind Steve. It wasn't exactly what he had been hoping for. He and Steve had been making headway, and they seemed to have taken five steps back.

What will it take for you to trust us?