"I look ridiculous," Steve said, three days later. He was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the walk-in closet of his suite at the Tower and was scowling at the suit the SI PR department had picked out for him.

It had taken most of the day after his trip with Bucky to work up the courage to talk to Tony about Garcetti's proposal. In the end, he'd gone down to the gym and ran on the treadmill for over an hour—under JARVIS' supervision and with any speed over six suspended—to tire out his nerves before he'd texted Tony to ask if he was free.

I'm never free, Tony had responded, followed by a quick, I'm in my lab.

Once in the lab, Steve kept his eyes very firmly on Tony's face, not letting them stray down to Tony's neck where just the faintest remnants of his fingerprints remained, as he explained the situation. After a series of rather impressive curses, Tony promised he'd handle it.

And handle it he had. Within hours, the branch of SI PR devoted to the Avengers had confirmed the event with Garcetti and were handling transport to and from the White House. Over the next few days, they'd covered everything from holding focus groups for the team's formal wear options to determine which ones resonated best, to writing a carefully prepared statement for Steve to review.

"It's a little… bland," Steve had said to Tony, while attempting to repay Tony's generosity with a home-cooked meal.

"It's perfectly non-specific. Trust me, Cap. You don't want to be giving the vultures any details. Just read the statement and take your seat. No ad-libbing, no improvising, nothing." When Steve hadn't responded, Tony had reached over and tapped the back of his hand. "I know that seems hypocritical, coming from me, but this is a time you need to play it as straight as an arrow, so everyone can get this out of their systems and we can move on."

It wasn't like Steve had much choice. The truth would cause mass hysteria, and he would not offload that to ease his guilty conscience. So for the public to continue living their lives in blissful ignorance, Steve would step in front of the camera and read the bland, detail-less statement with all the conviction he could muster.

Technically, Steve was the only one who had been invited to the press conference, but upon hearing that one was scheduled, the rest of the team had loudly and emphatically declared they were going along.

"For moral support!" Clint had declared, with a wide and open-mouthed grin to show the lack of wires on his teeth. Steve was so moved by the fact that they, a group of people who typically shied away from the spotlight, were purposefully putting themselves in one today, for him, that his body almost burst into a round of unbidden tears before he regained enough control to thank them with dry eyes. He was however going to need to do something special for them, when this was all over, to show his gratitude.

And so here Steve, Bucky and Tony stood, just a few hours before the press conference, wearing the outfits that had been carefully cultivated by the PR team for the right balance of individuality, formality, and honesty.

Steve's suit was black with a crisp white shirt underneath, and had been altered to show off his muscular form. He had shaved his scruff and trimmed his hair, which was currently gelled out of his face, though a few pieces had been left to artfully drape across his forehead.

"I'm just glad it fits," Tony said as he straightened out Steve's black satin tie. "I was worried about it and that cast."

In all the excitement of the press conference, it seemed almost underwhelming that Steve had gone in for his last check-up yesterday and had been given a clean bill of health. He wasn't ready for active duty, due to the lapses in his concentration and occasional balance struggles, but he had been cleared enough for desk duty, and if he wanted, training the probies. His hand and wrist, with help from Fitzsimmons' ultrasound device, had also healed enough for the grungy cast to be cut off, and Steve couldn't have been happier to be rid of the itchy thing. He'd almost regained full range of motion in his shoulder, in no small part due to Keisuke, who had strolled into Steve's hospital room only a few hours after he'd woken up last Tuesday, and informed Steve that this was not at all what he'd had in mind when he'd said he wanted Steve back for a check-up in three weeks; with his piece said, Keisuke had taken Steve back into his rotation, designed him a home program—that Steve was following religiously, whether he enjoyed it or not—and mandated in-person check-ins every few days to monitor Steve's progress. Finally, the repulsor burns on Steve's legs and hip had healed enough that they were no longer causing him any pain or discomfort. It was only the one in his abdomen, which had been the worst of the three, that had yet to fully follow suit.

Still, it couldn't be denied that Steve was healing at almost his normal speed again, which meant his return to duty could start being viewed as a mere formality, instead of a looming obstacle.

"Are you sure I can't just wear my uniform?" Steve asked, frowning at his reflection. While this suit fit him very well and was surprisingly comfortable, it just didn't feel right for this occasion.

"Yes," Tony said, without offering any additional explanation. He was dressed in a dark suit of his own, that was textured with large white checkers. His tie, impeccably knotted as always, was patterned with a busier check in a different shade. It should have been distracting, but somehow, along with the light-blue-lensed glasses on his nose and the gold Rolex on his wrist, it all worked in harmony.

Before Steve could reply, Natasha strode into the room, wearing a simple red sleeveless dress that was fitted around the bodice, but then flowed down into an ankle-length skirt. It accentuated her figure perfectly, without revealing too much, and hid the fact she had to wear a knee sleeve (neoprene, not metal) for the next few weeks. A thin white bolero that ran down to her elbows paired with white flats, and beachy curls that framed her face completed her soft, demure look. And yet, no one had any doubt that she could be battle-ready in an instant if the situation called for it.

"Steve could have been changing," Tony protested but Natasha just pushed past him so she had a full view of Steve.

"Not bad, Rogers," she said, looking him up and down. Then, she reached up and brushed Steve's hair off of his forehead, so it flew up over his ear. "And now, you can see your eyes."

She then pulled away from Steve and looked over her other two teammates. Bucky, who was standing off to the side to better allow Tony to fuss with Steve's outfit, was wearing a black button-down with small white polka dots, and a solid black leather jacket with matching slacks. He had made it very clear that he'd been willing to wear a suit, if that's what the situation required, but had subtly been surprised by the clothes he'd been handed… and later, not so subtly excited when he discovered this outfit held way more weapons than a standard suit would have.

"You're alright," Natasha deadpanned before turning back to Steve and poking the collar of his dress shirt under his lapel.

Tony rolled his eyes, clearly knowing his outfit surpassed just 'alright' while Bucky just shrugged, content with her assessment. Even though the team knew Bucky hated public anythings, he looked surprisingly at ease with these turn of events, and not like he was going to bolt at a moment's notice.

Just then, Clint walked into Steve's room, staring cross-eyed at his tie, which was technically knotted, but looked like it had been done by a three-year-old. "Can someone help me with this?" he asked.

Clint was on a crash course with Steve's bed since he had yet to look up from the knot he was mangling, but at the last second, he was saved by Bucky, who pulled himself away from the wall with a dramatic eye roll, caught Clint's shoulder and spun him around so they were facing each other. Then, Bucky quickly undid the damage Clint had started and tied an Eldredge knot into the navy material.

"Thanks," Clint said, staring down at the knot. His suit was a bit simpler than Tony's (navy with black lapel accents, over a plain white shirt), and he'd been bemoaning the lack of purple for the past few days, even after it'd been explained to him by the PR team that purple hadn't trended well. Yet, he'd shown up in the suit he'd been assigned, without any strange modifications, so he appeared to be grinning and bearing it for Steve's sake.

Then Clint turned to Steve and let out a low whistle. "Looking good, man."

"In my younger days, I'd be wondering who you bribed to get your wires out two weeks early," Tony said, tearing his gaze away from Steve to check his own appearance in the mirror. "But now I know better than to ask."

"For the record, I passed all necessary exams to get them removed," Clint retorted with a grin as he flopped down on Steve's bed. Natasha clucked something at him in Russian, and he made a face as he stood back up and straightened out his jacket. "And I didn't even need Fitzsimmons to fudge my labs."

Tony didn't bother to respond, mostly because Natasha clearly had the situation under control.

"Help, please?" Bruce asked a beat later as he walked into Steve's room with his own tie flapping against his chest. He was dressed slightly more casually than the rest of the team, in clean, dark jeans and a softly checkered button-down. His sport coat was open and slightly wrinkled around the buttons, but somehow made his overall look that much more true to form.

"Does anyone besides me and Barnes know how to tie a tie around here?" Tony questioned with a groan.

"Maybe we just wanted to hang out with you guys." With that, Clint grabbed the ends of Bruce's tie and made a perfect Windsor knot, all the while maintaining eye contact with Tony. He grinned widely and toothily when he was done, causing Tony to tip his head in acknowledgement of the feat.

"We need to be hitting the road, guys," Natasha announced, snapping her clutch closed and tucking it under her arm. "We can't have Steve be late for his big day."

Steve took this chance to venture into the conversation for the first time since Natasha had arrived. "Anyone seen Sam?"

"Here." As if on cue, Sam walked into Steve's room while struggling with the knot of his light purple tie, which stood out nicely against the dark purple of his shirt and the grey soft plaid of the suit and waistcoat.

Clint squawked upon seeing the color of Sam's suit and whirled around to face Natasha. "How come he gets a purple suit?"

"Apparently it trended better on him than you," Tony responded.

"That's ridiculous." Clint crossed his arms petulantly over his chest. "Haven't they seen my uniform?"

Sam tried one more time to fix his tie then gave up and asked for help. Bucky stepped forward and quickly tied another Eldredge knot, to match the one Clint was wearing.

"Oh, so you don't ream him out for not knowing how to tie a tie?" Clint grumbled, still visibly offended by the idea that the world thought he didn't look good in purple. "Just the rest of us?"

"He has a concussion," Tony replied, running his fingers through the ends of his hair one last time before stepping away from the mirror. "He's the only one out of all of you who has an excuse."

"Or maybe I just don't wear ties that often," Sam said as he shifted so he could see himself in the closet mirror. "Fancy. Thanks!"

Now that the rest of the team was present and properly dressed, Steve allowed himself one last look at his appearance before they headed out. He was wearing a thin sheen of make-up to minimize (but not hide entirely) the bags under his eyes, and a slightly thicker one on his neck to cover up the shadows left by the Widow's Bites. They were practically healed and probably could have been left alone, but the PR team had informed him that now that 4k content was a thing, they couldn't leave anything to chance. It was as good as he could possibly look, considering everything that had happened to him. And he owed it all to Tony. He would not have been as equipped to handle this without him and the rest of the PR team.

Steve looked up at Tony, easier this time since the bruises around his throat were practically invisible under a similarly thick layer of concealer, and voiced those sentiments.

"We're all here for you," Natasha replied, sidling up next to Steve. "Plus, if anyone gets out of line, Barnes has at least six weapons on his person."

Clint squinted at Natasha from head to toe, in a way that was guaranteed to get anyone else, but apparently not him, swatted. "You have at least eight," he then said, "so Bucky's slacking."

Tony's head whipped around to look at Natasha, but kept his gaze pointedly on her face. "Where the hell are you hiding eight weapons in that get-up?"

Natasha just smiled, then sauntered out of the room. "Wheels up in five, boys."

"We'll see you up there," Sam said as he left, with Bruce and Clint trailing not far behind. Though Sam's balance and mental acuity was getting better by the day, it was still wise for him to have company for longer distances, on the off-chance his head began to hurt or his balance suffered.

With the four of them gone, that left Bucky, Steve and Tony alone in Steve's room.

"Remember to stick to the prompts today," Tony reminded Steve, patting the supersoldier's suit just over where the cards were sitting in his inside pocket. "Going off script at such a large event is a senior move. You have to work up to it."

"You know there's going to be a teleprompter, right?"

Tony shrugged. "Just in case. Besides, aren't you the one who always says it doesn't hurt to be prepared?"

"I don't think he's ever actually said that," Bucky interjected. "But I have a feeling we need to be heading to the garage, before Natasha leaves us behind." He then cleared his throat, which Tony, after a moderately awkward beat, took as his cue to leave.

"You sure you're up to this?" Bucky asked Steve once they were alone. He stepped to his left so he was directly in Steve's line of sight.

Steve took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, lengthened his spine, and nodded. "Let's do this."

This time, it was eerie landing on the White House lawn. As the Avengers disembarked, they were immediately sent through a metal detector, then another scanner which Bruce had rigged up to detect frequencies like the alien weapons. Steve couldn't help but grin slightly as he passed through both without setting them off, and didn't feel the need to mention the weapons Bucky and Natasha were carrying that somehow hadn't set off either.

The White House staff wasn't very subtle about shooting looks at the seven of them, as they were heavily escorted to the Press Room. Once there, they took the proffered seats in the green room and each accepted a bottle of water. They sat in silence while, on the other side of the curtain, they heard the sounds of minor adjustments being made: seats being rearranged, microphone checked, etc.

They had only been sitting for a few minutes when Garcetti walked in, flanked by eight Secret Service agents.

"Captain Rogers," Garcetti said warmly, walking directly over to Steve and holding out his hand. Stopped just behind him, the Secret Service agents tensed, and one even flipped the snap off of his weapon.

"Unnecessary," Clint called, but Steve motioned for him to back down. The agents were only doing their job; given what had happened the last time he (or Robinson) was here, Steve didn't hold it against them to be a little apprehensive.

Steve smiled thinly at the agents and rose to his feet. "Thank you for having me back, Mr. President," he said as he shook Garcetti's hand. "And for what it's worth, I'm incredibly sorry about your staff and men."

"Thank you," Garcetti replied. "But as I understand it was not your fault."

"Not directly, sir."

"Then we don't have to speak of it again." Garcetti waved off his men, who very reluctantly followed the unspoken order, then motioned for Steve to step closer. "Did you get the updates to my portion of the statement?" he asked in a softer tone.

"I did, sir."

"Any comments?"

"No, sir."

Garcetti nodded. "Good."

There was a rumble from the other side of the curtain, which indicated the reporters had been let in. "We'll give them a few to get settled, then go out." Garcetti looked over Steve's shoulder to the rest of the Avengers and asked, "Is that alright?"

When they nodded, he excused himself to discuss a matter privately with Vice President Collier.

The Avengers milled around anxiously for about three minutes, until the Secret Service walked on stage and calmed down the crowd. Then, they motioned for the Avengers make their entrance and to take the seats on the opposite side of the podium from their wing. Garcetti and his venerable army of agents were last in and took the remaining seats closest to the exit. From this vantage point, the Avengers were able to see that the stage was separated from the crowd by a clear bullet-resistant pony wall that hadn't been installed the last time Bellinger, the Press Secretary, had made a statement.

Now, Bellinger straightened his suit then walked up to the podium.

"President Garcetti and Captain Steve Rogers will be making a joint statement," he said once the room had quieted down. "They will not be taking questions afterward."

He waited until the room was completely silent before motioning Garcetti and Steve to the podium.

"My fellow Americans," Garcetti began. "Just over two weeks ago, a tragedy befell the White House. Four of my trusted agents and two of my closest advisors lost their lives in an unspeakable act of violence. Their names, which are displayed on the screen behind me, will never be forgotten, and will live on at the White House in remembrance of their dedication and service.

"You all know the man next to me and you know what he does." Garcetti paused to look over at Steve. "You have seen time and time again how he fights for our great nation and protects our freedoms. The two of us don't always agree on matters, but I know that when we need him, he will be there.

"The violence experienced at the White House was not the fault of Captain Rogers. Already injured from our welcoming event, he was ambushed outside of Avengers Tower that same morning by Clarke Robinson, who, as you might have seen, bears a remarkable resemblance to Captain Rogers. It was Robinson who then took Captain Rogers' place, invaded our House and killed my people. His own life was ended by the Secret Service when he refused to put down his weapon and turn himself in.

"I will now turn over the microphone to Captain Rogers, who has prepared a statement of his own, but first, I want to be painstakingly clear than neither the White House nor myself holds Captain Rogers responsible for this tragedy. Captain?"

Steve cleared his throat then stepped in front of the podium and pulled out his notecards, if for no other reason than to give his hands something to do.

"Thank you for having me today," he began, fully aware of every eye that was on him, and every light from every camera that was snapping pictures or recording footage.

"I would like to start by expressing my sorrow for the lives that were lost at Robinson's hand." Steve paused slightly as his throat clogged, but forced himself to continue. "Though I was not directly responsible, I feel as though I share some of the blame." Murmurs ran through the reporters, but they all stayed silent. "After all," Steve continued, "it was through my likeness that Robinson was allowed access to the White House.

"I am happy to report that I am recovering from my injuries and expect to be cleared for duty shortly. I will be ready to serve whenever you need me. Thank you."

He stepped away from the podium and the reporters surged forward in one solid mass. Most of the Secret Service raced to block them from clearing the divider while the rest escorted the Avengers, President Garcetti and Vice President Collier off stage.

"You did great," Tony said once they were safely backstage again.

"It feels dishonest," Steve said softly, his words barely audible over the roar of the reporters they'd left behind.

"We talked about this." Tony wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulder and pulled him close so no one could eavesdrop. "It's for their own good that they don't know what happened. That," he pointed over his shoulder to the commotion in front of the stage, "is just them finding out you have a doppelganger. Imagine the reaction if you…" one White House staff members was crossing in front of them, so Tony just shrugged, implying that Steve could figure out the rest.

"He has a point," Natasha said, under the guise of giving Steve a hug. "You should listen."

"Just take the win, Steve," Sam chimed in. "We get so few of them."

It was hard, especially in these circumstances, to agree, but as Steve had established multiple times over the past few days, there weren't any other viable options. Sure, this story had mostly been fabricated to keep him out of a lengthy trial and prison sentence, but it was backed by the very real fear of a public revolt and mass hysteria if the citizens of the United States, or even the world, were told the truth.

It felt wrong to be celebrating after the events of today, but Tony had planned a small get-together for that night and framed it as a 'glad Steve was finally better' party. Steve had still refused to attend, until Tony turned it into a formal evening, with proceeds from the ticket and alcohol sales going to the families of the Secret Service agents and advisors who the symbiote had killed. It still hadn't felt like enough to Steve, to combat all these families were going through, so he'd worked with Malcolm Krall, Tony's personal accountant, to set up anonymous funds for the victim's children and families, funneled from his back pay at SHIELD. He would have liked to have done more than that yet, but since he couldn't take public responsibility for what he'd done under the symbiote's control, it would have to be enough. For now at least.

It was at this event, many hours later, that Tony pulled Steve aside. "I know this is long overdue, but I need to tell you something."

Instantly concerned, Steve put down his beer and waited for Tony to continue.

"I'm sorry," Tony said.

"For what?" Steve asked, genuinely confused.

"For sealing that thing inside you. Alhambra said the tip of the staff broke off against your bone and by cauterizing your wound, I sealed it in."

"Tony." Steve gently grabbed Tony's tumbler so the genius would be forced to look at him. "You saved my life. Nothing that happened was your fault."

Tony blinked. "Everything that happened was my fault, what are you talking about?"

"If you wouldn't have cauterized the wound, I would have bled out. You didn't have a choice."

Tony opened his mouth, presumably to object, but Steve shook his head. "If I'm not allowed to blame myself, you aren't either."

Tony pulled a face and freed his tumbler from Steve's grip. "Has that actually worked on anyone?"

"I was hoping you'd be the first," Steve said with a grin. Then he downed the rest of his beer and asked, "Can we just… not think about it tonight?"

Sure, the guilt would still be there when the event was over, but for the first time in two weeks, Steve was hoping that, for two hours, he could be distracted into thinking about something else.

As if sensing what Steve needed, Natasha grabbed his hand and tugged him out to the dance floor. He was sure he stepped on her toes more than the floor, but as they moved across the room and he focused on the here and now—the melodic notes of the flute floating over the staccato of the piano, Natasha's simultaneously soft and calloused hand in his, the smell of his cologne mixing with her perfume, and the taste of the beer on his tongue—Steve felt deep within his heart that he wasn't alright and probably wouldn't be for a while. But one day, he just might be again.

Epilogue

It took a lot more work than even Steve had expected, but the next Friday, eight days after the press conference and just under five weeks after his original injury, he passed his physical fitness, mental and psychological assessments, exceeded expectations out on the range, and was cleared for active duty.

It had been a series of hard-fought battles, some which ended well, others not so much. For every instance when Steve's body stopped acting without his conscious consent, there was a time where his legs became so fatigued during a workout that they no longer supported his weight and dropped him to the ground. For every time he remembered something without really having to search for it, he forgot something extremely obvious, like where he was going or what he'd been doing. Every time a food tasted good, he found something else that he loved that still hadn't returned to its usual taste.

Spending time around his team was still difficult, but Steve was making an effort. It was hard to look at them and not see their bodies sprawled lifelessly over the helipad or the physical evidence of what his hands had done. But he forced himself out to the common room as much as he could manage, especially as the bruises started fading, Natasha no longer needed her metal knee brace, and Sam could hold an entire conversation without zoning out. It was never easy, but it became easier to manage.

The nightmares were about the only thing that hadn't faded. Every few nights, he'd jolt upright, his body covered in a cold sweat and his brain caught in the unending nightmare of watching himself kill his team in more and more horrific ways. But between the therapist he was seeing of his own volition, not coincidentally the same one who was helping Bucky through his trauma, and the advice from Clint and Bucky about how they'd handled their own nightmares, Steve was working through them. He wasn't sure any of it was actually helping, but he wasn't going to risk stopping, on the off-chance they were. The sooner he could get this all put behind him, the better off they'd all be.

"This is long overdue," Fury said, Friday afternoon, as he handed Steve back his badge, which had been updated to his old clearance level.

Steve smiled as he clipped it to his waistband of his jeans. "Thank you, sir."

And then came the wait for a call to action. Fortunately, it was only two days before a situation arose that required the Avengers' assistance, and for the first time in five weeks, all seven of them would handle the call. The Avengers had been operating at a skeletal crew since right after the second attempted assassination. First, it had been just Tony, Bucky, and Bruce, but as time wore on, they were joined by Clint, Natasha, then finally Sam as each healed and passed their own tests to return to the field. On these missions, Steve, who had yet to be cleared himself, had been allowed to ride along or join the War Room, but had been calmly informed by multiple parties what would happen to him if he went out there before he was fully cleared. So he sat there, doing the best job he could behind the screens to ensure his team's safety.

After each mission, no matter how successful, the public always wondered where Captain America was. Had he lied during the press conference when he said he was recovering? Had Captain America truly killed Garcetti and been killed in the process, meaning the person who had given the press conference was Clarke Robinson, who was now going to masquerade as the real Steve Rogers?

It was all hearsay, but Steve had refrained from commenting on any of it, virtually or otherwise. Today, he was ready to show the public that he, Steve Rogers, not Clarke Robinson, was back and ready for action.

That was almost the exact second Steve realized that the last time he'd seen his stealth suit was the day he—well, the symbiote—had tried to kill President Garcetti, and he had no idea if Tony had repaired it or not.

Which left him in the awkward position of heading down to Tony's lab to ask the genius in person. If worse came to worse, SHIELD still had his Battle of New York uniform, but Steve would rather not wear it if there was another option.

In the center of the lab, Tony was hunched over the Iron Man suit's right gauntlet, seemingly indifferent to the call to assemble the team had just received.

"Are you going out?" Steve asked once the glass door slid open.

"Sure am," Tony replied. "Just need to finish—" He yelped as he shocked himself with a long metal stylus.

Before Steve had taken one step, DUM-E whirred by him, holding a tray filled with bandaids, instant ice packs, and a pair of rubber gloves. The robot stopped near its master and lifted the tray to Tony's shoulder height.

"Thanks, bud," Tony said, patting the bot on its claw while he picked up the pair of gloves.

DUM-E positively preened under Tony's ministrations, then slid the tray onto the workbench, beeped twice and rolled off.

Tony pulled on the gloves then looked over at Steve, who was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. "You're not going out like that, are you?"

"Hopefully not. D—"

"I couldn't save your stealth suit," Tony interjected, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "There wasn't enough of it to save, and it carries a lot of memories we'd all rather forget."

Tony held up his hand. "And if you apologize again, I will sic DUM-E on you."

Steve clamped his mouth closed. For about a second. "Do you have my old suit, by any chance?"

"You mean the condom suit? No, thank you. You've been through too much this last month to go out looking like that."

Steve wanted to protest that it wasn't that bad, but even he couldn't make the words leave his mouth. "Do you have something else I could wear?" From the way Tony was acting, Steve suspected so, and for the amount of effort the genius had probably put into it, he could play along until Tony was ready for the big reveal.

"I do." Tony pointed over his shoulder as he leaned down and reexamined the gauntlet. "Go try it on."

Steve's new suit was sitting in a neat pile by the bathroom, under a helmet that resembled the one from his stealth suit, except this one had brighter detailing on both the 'A' in front and what Tony called "the Wings of Liberty" over his temples. Next to the suit was a pair of brown combat boots with red accents around the calves and ankles.

"What do you think?" Tony asked, over the humming of whatever he was doing to the gauntlet.

Steve gently batted aside the helmet and held up the suit by the shoulders. His first thought was that Tony had repaired his WWII uniform, but then he noticed the small differences: the way the red was woven into the abdomen, instead of on the straps that connected the top of his suit to the utility belt; the increased padding and protection in his legs, especially around his knees and shins; the way the harness for his shield was separate, and not a part of the original uniform.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, turning it so he could see the back. He looked over at Tony and shook his head in disbelief. "Thank you."

In typical Tony fashion, he just waved his free hand dismissively. "Glad you like it. Now, go suit up, Cap. We have an army of angry bots on a collision course with Times Square."

Steve shot Tony the snappiest salute he could manage without dropping his new suit, then headed into the bathroom to change.

When Steve walked onto the quinjet twenty minutes later, most of the rest of the team had already assembled. Bucky had his numerous weapons laid out on the metal counter welded to the site of the quinjet and was systematically examining each one. On the other side, Clint was doing a similar thing to his arrows before carefully arranging them in his quiver. Bruce, in a pair of stretch-proof pants and a cheap shirt, was in the cockpit going through the pre-flight procedures, while Sam was off to Steve's right, adjusting the straps of his wings.

He stopped as soon as Steve walked in. "It's good to have you back," he said, holding out his hand.

"It's good to be back," Steve replied as they quickly ran through their handshake.

He was happy to report that it was, in fact, the truth. From the moment he'd done up the final attachment of the suit and slipped his shield onto his back, right was the only way to describe how it felt. Sure, he was nervous for his first mission back since being stabbed, controlled by a symbiote, and almost dying multiple times, but the feeling was tempered by the reassuring weight of the star on his chest and the shield on his back.

When the handshake was finished and they'd pulled apart, Sam let out a low whistle. "Tony really outdid himself," he said as he looked over the suit and motioned for Steve to spin around so he could see it from all sides.

"Where is he, anyway?" Natasha asked, appearing out of nowhere and startling the two of them.

"Finishing up his gauntlet," replied Steve.

Natasha nodded, then looked Steve over from head to toe as well. "Sam's not wrong," was all she said, before she headed toward the front of the quinjet.

It was then that Steve realized Bucky hadn't yet turned around. In fact, every inch of his rigid posture was sending off strong "don't engage" vibes.

He okay? Steve mouthed to Sam, who shrugged.

Steve then walked over to Bucky and knocked his elbow against his friend's—after Bucky put his current weapon down, of course. "Everything alright?"

"You're about as subtle as a brick to the head," Bucky retorted as he picked up another handgun, pulled out the magazine and counted the remaining bullets.

Steve reached out and put his hand over the barrel of the gun, keeping Bucky from avoiding the conversation. "If you're worried about me, I'm fine."

"I know you are," Bucky replied. He flicked the gun to the left, dislodging Steve's hand, then slipped the magazine back in.

"So what's up?"

Bucky blew out a long breath then looked over at Steve. "It's nothing," he finally admitted. "I guess I am just a little..."

"Worried?"

"Concerned," Bucky quickly corrected. "It's only been two days."

Two days of him since he'd been cleared by SHIELD, but honestly, Steve had probably been combat ready for the last five, if something had occurred before today. Steve also understood that Bucky wasn't being hypocritical to their conversation back in Brooklyn. His friend wanted and still encouraged Steve to start getting out of the Tower, whether to go to the store or run around the city, but that was an entirely different beast than him going out into battle, against an army of fully-weaponized robots. After everything that had happened over the past five weeks, it was a lot to be back, but at the same time, there was never going to be a good time to get back in the proverbial saddle.

Deep down, Steve knew Bucky knew that too.

He reached over and grabbed his friend's hand. "I'm okay, Buck. Really."

"I know." Bucky let out another long exhale then shook his head. "Just maybe… for once in your life, be careful today?"

It wasn't something Steve could outright promise, but he could honestly say that he'd try.

They stood in silence for another moment before Bucky threw off Steve's hand and began attaching weapons to his uniform. "What are you over here worried about me for? Don't you have a strategy to plan? An evil doctor to take down?"

"Maybe for good this time?" Clint called from the other side of the quinjet. "I was in the middle of binge-watching Stranger Things."

"You are a stranger thing," Natasha quipped as she walked into the cabin and took a scan of its occupants. "Someone better get Stark in here before I leave without him."

At that exact moment, Steve heard a noise behind him. "Your wish is my command," a metallic voice said as the Iron Man armor stepped onto the ramp, then peeled away to reveal Tony, dressed in his undersuit.

"We're on the clock here," Natasha informed him.

"Don't chastise me. The suit needed upgrading. Next time Fury wants us to drop everything and fight Doom, have him give us more notice." With that, Tony sat down in his preferred seat, motioned for the armor to stand sentry in the corner, and strapped himself in. "Waiting on you guys now."

Steve felt a smile tug on the corner of his mouth as he slipped the shield off his back and slid into his seat. As the rest of the team followed suit—Bucky predictably on his right and Sam on his left—Steve pulled out his tablet, which had been synced with the latest data from the Doombots' path, and began to devise a plan of attack.

And that concludes the longest fic I have ever written! Thank you all for coming on this journey with me!

Once again, super shoutout to RobotRollCall (or buckywiththegoodhair86 on Tumblr) who beta-read this fic for me. [If you enjoyed the epilogue, you have her to thank as well. I was going to cut it after the party scene, to which she politely asked if there was more.] This fic wouldn't be what it is today without her cheer-reading and guidance.

"What's next?" you may ask. I have plans for the "Esther adopts the Avengers" one-shot but after that, who knows? I've finally reached the end of the backlog of fic ideas. That's not to say more won't happen, but for the first time in a long time, my muse is not assaulting me with 86 different plotlines, all demanding to be written at the same time. I suspect I will have lots of gaps to fill for The Falcon and The Winter Soldier, whenever that finally airs...

Thank you so much for all your support for this story, whether it was on Tumblr during its planning phases, or with your hits, reviews and favorites. It means the world to me.

As always, thanks for reading, and if you have a second, I'd love to hear what you thought on the way out!