Author's Note: Many thanks to my beta, Lady Deathstrike!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Steve jerked awake with a cry and bolted upright in the bed. For a moment he didn't know where he was, didn't recognize the room or the furniture or the lacey curtains that fluttered by the open window. It was warm in the room, but he was cold and shivered as if he had a fever.

Something stirred in the bed beside him and Steve drew back in alarm. "Steve?" a sleepy voice murmured. A woman sat up and reached for him. He could see the outline of her body through her thin nightgown. Her dark hair glistened in the moonlight. "Darling, what's wrong?"

She tried to touch his cheek but he pulled away. "Where am I?" The question came out as lost and confused as he felt.

Her big eyes shone with concern. "Shh, Steve, you're at home."

"Home?" he repeated uncertainly. Home? It didn't seem right. "No, I—I was—there was—there was a battle…" The images were there in his mind, but they were blurry and disconnected and faded even as he tried to recall them.

"Oh, Steve." Her voice was beautiful, soft and lyrical; her words were clear and precise. "You were dreaming, that's all. It was just another bad dream."

She reached out to touch his cheek again and this time he let her. "A dream?"

And then it all came back.

Home.

Upstate New York. A little farmhouse on the outskirts of a small town. The war was over, had been for years. No more battles, nothing but his family.

Home.

"Peggy," he breathed, gathering her into his arms and holding her as if he would never let go.

Clint glanced from the conspicuously empty chair at the table to the clock on the far wall. "Did Cap head out already?" he asked around a mouthful of cereal. It was entirely possible that Steve had gotten up at the ass-crack of dawn and left for the day, but he always let one of them know beforehand.

The others shrugged, grunted, or shook their heads in response. Tony didn't bother to look up from his tablet as he spoke. "Jarvis, where's Rogers?"

"Captain Rogers has not yet left his suite this morning, sir."

Even Tony's head jerked up in surprise at that. Steve was never—never—the last one up. "Is he still sleeping?" Tony asked doubtfully.

"Unknown, sir. Shall I override the privacy regulations and scan Captain Rogers' rooms?"

As Tony cast a questioning glance around the table, Clint cut in, "Don't bother." He shoveled the last of his cereal into his mouth and swallowed thickly as he pushed back from the table. "I'll go check on him," he volunteered as he stood up.

"I hope Steve's okay," he heard Pepper say to Tony as he strode out of the room.

"He's fine—he's an ox and this is the Tower. What could've happened to him?" As the elevator doors cut off the rest of the conversation, Clint found himself hoping that Tony was right—but still. Steve was never the last one up.

The elevator came to a stop on Steve's floor, the doors sliding open on the quiet beige and blue décor. Clint stepped out and tried to walk at a leisurely pace down the hall, but his legs betrayed him and carried him to Steve's bedroom in a few long strides.

He knocked on the door, feeling increasingly uneasy for no apparent reason. "Cap?" he called when the door remained shut.

There was no answer. Clint debated his options. Steve might just want solitude on this beautiful spring morning—sometimes the guy was like that. He'd holed himself away for almost a week on the anniversary of Bucky's death. Or he could be sleeping in for once, getting some much needed rest.

Or there could be something wrong. Seriously wrong.

Clint opened the door, remembering at the last second that Steve didn't bother with locks so Clint had no need to kick it down. "Cap?" he called again, striding through the sitting area and into the bedroom beyond. "You in here?"

Steve was still in bed, curled on his side like a child, almost hidden by the mountain of blankets he always slept under.

Clint knelt by the bed, finding Steve's shoulder under the coverings and shaking it firmly. "Captain?" Steve rolled limply onto his back at the touch. For a split second Clint froze, terror gripping his insides. "Steve!" Clint shoved two fingers under his chin, found a steady pulse, and slapped him across the face with his free hand. "Wake up! Steve!"

Nothing happened.

"Jarvis!" Clint yelled in alarm, activating the A.I. "I need help here!"

Peggy pressed against him, her arms sliding around his waist as he boiled the water for their morning tea. Even after years of marriage, he still hadn't gotten over how alluring the feel of her breasts flattened against his back was.

"What did you dream about?" she questioned softly.

He shrugged, not wanting to dwell on the nightmare, but he always told her everything. She had seen the darkest parts of his soul and she still loved him. "War."

"Germany, Japan, or Korea?"

"I don't remember." That was the truth. The images were like shadows in his mind, but he thought he'd been in a city—not one that he recognized. He could remember faces, too, but they were murky and distorted like the television screen whenever it stormed. He squirmed in her grasp, turning to face her and wrapping his arms around her. "I do remember that—that I'd lost you." Even knowing it had just been a dream, that thought was enough to make his throat close up.

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. "You'll never lose me, Steve Rogers. Who was it who found you in the ocean, hmm?"

"Howard Stark," Steve replied, grinning cheekily. Stark's boat had picked him up, but it was Peggy who kept him alive after the plane crash. She'd talked to him for hours—maybe even for days, God knew he'd lost track of time in that hellhole—her voice broken and static-ridden over the damaged radio, ordering him to stay awake, to keep talking to her, to crawl out of the icy water pooling on the deck, to bandage his wounds so he wouldn't bleed to death, because by God he was taking her to the Stork Club a week from Saturday.

She smiled at him fondly. "You're a terrible husband, Steve Rogers."

He leaned down and kissed her, softly at first and then becoming more passionate. "And you're the most beautiful wife in the world, Peggy Rogers," he replied, knowing it was sappy and also knowing that Peggy liked a little sappiness every now and then.

Someone giggled behind them and Steve looked up, startled. A little girl with dark eyes and hair like Peggy's hovered in the doorway. For one long, strange moment he didn't recognize her, couldn't understand who this small interloper was or what she was doing in his kitchen—then something clicked in his brain and he grinned, joy swelling up in his chest like a warm balloon at the sight of her. The feeling was a familiar one, the same delighted glow that rushed over him every morning of every day since she was born.

"Well, this is a surprise," Steve drawled. "I don't even have the pancake batter mixed, yet." His grin broadened and he held his arms open. "Sarah, sweetheart."

She flew to him, bare feet hardly touching the linoleum floor. He tossed her into the air and caught her against his chest. Small arms wrapped tight around his neck and dark curls tickled his left cheek and ear. Steve reached out and wrapped his free arm around Peggy's waist, pulling her tight so that her forehead rested against his other cheek.

Thank you, God, he prayed silently as he cradled his wife and daughter, remembering the terrible, aching hole in his chest when he had dreamed that he'd lost Peggy, that he'd lost home.

Thank God it was just a dream.

"Why won't he wake up?" Clint demanded as Bruce rolled Steve over to check his back for puncture wounds.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Bruce replied, keeping his voice calm in the face of Clint's increasing agitation. "Call S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical," he ordered Clint, to give the archer something to do instead of hovering over Bruce's shoulder. "I think a trained physician might come in handy right now."

Tony glanced up sharply as Bruce finished his examination and turned their unconscious leader onto his back. "S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't have anyone who knows the serum like you do. They won't be any use."

Bruce could feel tension knotting his shoulders as he pried open one of Steve's eyes for the seventh time. "We can't take him to a regular hospital, they'd be of even less use. And I don't think this has anything to do with the serum." Tony scowled but didn't argue, for which Bruce was grateful. Bruce knew Tony had taken it as a personal victory when he finally convinced Steve to live in the tower instead of his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued apartment; Tony resented any kind of S.H.I.E.L.D. involvement in the Avengers' lives.

"His pulse just changed!" Natasha's voice cracked as it cut through Bruce's musings, her face white and carefully still as she continued to cradle Steve's slack wrist.

Bruce pressed his own fingers against Steve's wrist and counted the flagging heartbeats. "We need to get him to the hospital now."

"The chopper's three minutes out," Clint said, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"Bruce, what the hell is wrong with him?" Tony looked as frustrated as Bruce felt.

Bruce shook his head. There were no wounds, no signs of external damage or poison or drugs or anything. Steve just wouldn't wake up—and now his heart was fibrillating. "I don't know," he admitted. He wondered bitterly if the others ever guessed how little he truly knew about the super-soldier serum and how terrifying it was when they looked to him for answers when their captain was struck down.

Almost as terrifying as seeing Steve injured or compromised and knowing that he—Bruce—was still the best and, to be honest, only person who could help him. "I don't know," Bruce repeated helplessly. The Hulk rumbled in the back of his mind, echoing his fear.

"I do," Thor grimly announced from the corner where he'd been standing in silence.

Steve picked Sarah up from school since Peggy was feeling queasy. He passed the doctor on the road and asked him to stop by and check on his wife.

"Look what I drawed, Daddy!" His daughter bounced down the steps, waving a sheaf of paper in the air.

He caught her when she stumbled on the last step; she'd inherited her mother's looks and his clumsiness. "Drew, Sarah, not drawed." He took the pictures, rifling through them as they walked back to the old Ford. He dutifully admired the work, pleased and hopeful with what he saw: it looked like Sarah might have inherited his drawing skills, too. He hoped it would make up in some way for the clumsiness.

Steve paused when he reached the last picture. It was remarkably detailed for being the product of a six-year-old. Tall rectangles filled the background; Steve could tell they were supposed to be buildings. A small red and yellow figure flew through the air. "Sweetling, what's this one?"

Sarah glanced at it and shrugged. "He flies!" she said, pointing to the figure as if that was the only thing that mattered in the picture. Steve smiled, chalking the picture up to his daughter's vivid imagination, but he kept it out on his lap during the ride as Sarah babbled cheerfully beside him. There was something familiar about the picture, but Steve couldn't remember what. Like a memory of a dream he'd had long ago.

Peggy was waiting in the foyer when they got home. "You sent the doctor," she accused him, arms folded across her chest.

He kissed her cheek, completely unrepentant. "What did he say?"

Even though Peggy tried to keep a stern expression on her face, there was something shining and brilliant in her eyes. Steve could tell she was trying not to smile, but she couldn't prevent it from spreading across her face. "I'm pregnant, Steve."

Steve dropped everything he was holding, catching her in his embrace with a delighted laugh. Sarah danced around them, yelling happily even though she didn't understand what was going on. "If it's a boy," Steve asked once he'd caught his breath after the first rush of joy, "do you think we could name him James?"

The drawing of the flying man lay forgotten on the floor.

The family resemblance was unmistakable. Dark curly hair, cold, light eyes, pale skin. Hel was unquestionably her father's daughter.

"Look, Maleficent," Tony ground out, fists clenching in fury. Pepper had never seen him so angry—and she'd seen Tony in a temper a lot. "I don't care what you did to him—just undo it. Now."

Hel ignored him, keeping her gaze fixed on Thor. She managed to look regal despite the heavy chains shackling her wrists behind her back. She was so tall that her head nearly brushed the ceiling of the helicarrier's conference room.

"Niece," Thor implored quietly, "you played no part in Loki's betrayal. Why do you attack our captain now? What do you hope to gain from torturing him?"

The Asgardian witch raised a black eyebrow. "Gain? Nothing for myself—but for my father, revenge. I, at least, believe in loyalty to my family."

Thor flinched as if he'd been struck.

"And why do you think that I torture him?" she continued mercilessly. "I have done no such thing. I have given him his greatest dream."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Clint demanded, his fist clenched tight around his bow. Pepper was grateful for the steadying hand Natasha held against his shoulder.

Hel spared him a cutting glance. "I control the realm of the dead, mortal. I have given him the life that might have been—the life that died when he disappeared from this world seventy years ago."

Pepper understood it before the rest of them. She stalked over to Loki's daughter and slugged her with a right hook that would have impressed even Steve, had he been conscious. "You bitch," she spat out furiously.

It hurt her hand more than it hurt Hel, but Pepper didn't care.

Thor pulled her away before she could hit Hel again and shoved her into Tony's arms. "Hel, release the Captain and I will convince Director Fury and the All-Father to be lenient with you."

Hel shrugged away his offer unconcernedly. "I cannot, even should I desire to do so. The spell cannot be lifted."

"Then you've killed him." The unmistakable menace in Natasha's voice sent a shiver down everyone's spines—and they were all used to the Black Widow.

"Not necessarily," Hel responded, apparently unimpressed. "The mortal can break free of the spell—if he wishes to. But the more he believes—the more he desires to believe in the dream world I have created, the weaker his bond to this one will be."

Pepper felt her heart sink. Would Steve want to come back to this world, where everyone he knew and loved was dead?

It didn't help that Peggy Carter had passed away in her sleep less than two weeks ago. Pepper had been the one to buy his plane ticket to Manchester so he could attend the funeral. She felt like she was cutting out his heart when she handed him the ticket and directions.

It was as if Hel's words were an ill omen. The video screen on the comm panel flared into life to reveal Bruce's worried face.

"You better get down here," Bruce said shortly. His voice was deeper than usual—a clear sign of his distress. "Steve's going into respiratory arrest."

Christmas that year was white and cold and beautiful. Steve buried his face in the pillows, hiding his smile as he heard his children's footsteps pitter-pattering down the hall to their bedroom. The door opened and a split second later two sets of bony little knees slammed into his back.

"Wake up, wake up! It's Christmas!"

Steve pretended to groan, glancing over at Peggy and sharing a tender smile with her. He made a show of glancing out the window at the sun barely peaking over the horizon and groaned again. "It's too early to be Christmas," he complained.

"Christmas now," Jimmie pouted, throwing his favorite baby blanket over his head. The blanket was decorated with the stars and stripes; Howard Stark had given it to Jimmie as a christening present. Steve remembered him laughing at the bemused look on Steve's face. Jimmie loved the damn thing, though.

Sarah had more practice at getting her parents up for Christmas. She wriggled to the bottom of the bed, tugged the covers free, pulled them off, and dropped them on the floor as her parents yelped in pretend indignation.

"I think we've just been routed from the field," Steve said ruefully to Peggy.

She smiled back. "Well, she is your daughter."

Steve couldn't blame his children for being excited about Christmas. His pay from the army wasn't that great—there were a lot of things he wished he could buy for them but simply couldn't afford—but the Howling Commandoes and Howard Stark had sent the usual loot. The Christmas tree was almost lost among the sea of presents.

Jimmie was still young enough to be entranced more by the bright wrapping paper and boxes than the actual gifts, but Sarah was delighted with everything. Her favorite gift, though, was the art set her parents gave her, complete with a child-sized easel. She spent the rest of the day practicing with the oils and watercolors and getting charcoal and paint on her face and up her arms to her elbows.

The excitement tired the children out and they went to bed early that night, shortly after Jimmie spent half an hour jumping on the furniture, shouting "Smash!" and throwing empty boxes and balled up paper around the house.

Sometimes Steve didn't know what got into his son.

"Sarah's truly talented," Peggy said thoughtfully as Steve handed her a cup of their usual evening tea. She was flipping through some of their daughter's new drawings. "She has such a vivid imagination! Look at this one, Steve."

Steve took the offered paper, cautiously sipping from his steaming mug. It was a picture of a city, but one with ridiculously tall buildings. Six figures stood in the center of the drawing. One of them held Captain America's unmistakable shield but Steve didn't recognize the others. "Do you think these others are supposed to be the Howling Commandoes?"

"Hmm," Peggy hummed. She pointed to a green man that towered over all the others. "Maybe this one is Dum Dum?"

Steve snorted into his tea. "Just because he's getting a little chubby since he's retired," he chided gently, unable to stop himself from grinning.

"Maybe they're characters from one of her comic books. Although this one looks flashy enough to be Howard." She pointed to a man in red and gold armor.

Steve laughed outright at that. "I wonder if he'll ever settle down and have a family of his own," he mused, looking at the drawing but seeing his friend's face instead. "He has so much fun buying things for the kids…" There was something strange about the idea of Howard having children; Steve couldn't quite wrap his head around the mental image.

Peggy tugged the drawing and the mug out of his hands and put them back on the table. "He'll need to find a woman who'll put up with him, first."

"Like you put up with me?"

She kissed him, long and slow. "Like I put up with you," she breathed. The light from the fireplace picked out strands of dark red in her hair. "And you, soldier," she added, a sultry look in her eyes, "have one more duty to perform tonight."

Steve beamed, following her quickly up the stairs. "Yes, ma'am!"

He didn't see their sudden movement blow the drawing off the table and into the fireplace. It burned to ash in seconds.

Tony watched the second hand on the clock relentlessly tick its way around the clock face because it was easier to watch that than the machines forcing life into Steve's body.

They were losing him to the dream.

The Avengers were only allowed into the ICU one at a time now; what with the additional jumble of monitors and life support machines, they'd been getting in the way of the medical staff. It was Tony's shift and he'd been sitting by the bed for the last forty-five minutes, not saying anything.

They were losing Steve to the dream and Tony hated him for it. But at the same time he couldn't blame Steve for wanting to believe in the illusions Hel had created. He knew how much Steve missed his old life, his old friends; they all did. They'd all seen his sketchbook.

The best and brightest of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical team had already given up on Captain America. The head doctor told Tony that now might be the time to say good-bye; he didn't think Steve would survive until Tony's next shift.

Well, fuck that.

Tony wasn't ready to say good-bye, wasn't ready to give up without a fight, even though they'd already tried everything to wake Steve up. But Hel had been right; they'd had no luck in breaking the spell.

He only had fifteen minutes left until Bruce's turn. Fifteen minutes to save Steve's life. It really wasn't fair—he'd had a week to build the arc reactor in Afghanistan to save his own life, and Steve was worth far more than that.

Tony leaned forward in the chair, muscles tense. Each word had to count. "People used to tell me that World War II changed my father," he began. The words came slowly, seemingly from nowhere. He certainly wasn't forming them from any conscious thought. "That the war changed him. But they were wrong. It wasn't the war—it was losing you." The ECG beeped sharply three times before evening out again. Tony swallowed and kept talking. "I hated you when I was a kid, you know. You were the only thing my dad ever talked about, about how fucking perfect you were and how I should try to be just like you, to be a good man like you."

He paused and switched gears suddenly. "Most of the Howling Commandoes died during the last years of the World War or in Korea and Vietnam. Falsworth didn't; I met him once, before he died in the '80s. He visited with my dad in London. They talked about the war, got drunk; when Dad left for a meeting, I asked Falsworth what it was like to be a Howling Commando. He said that in the beginning it was great—that they all felt like they were changing the course of the war, making the world a better place. And then you died, and the whole thing just went to shit. He said that if you'd been alive, Korea would have been over in six months and Vietnam never would've happened." For a moment Tony thought about mentioning the failed Captain America experiments of the '50s and '60s, the experiments he wasn't supposed to know about but did because Jarvis had hacked into all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files pertaining to Project: Rebirth months ago. The countless attempts to replace a man who couldn't be replaced. Something horribly like grief and despair cut off his air and he choked on the words.

Tony coughed, stubbornly pushing away the tightness in his throat. "Falsworth was the one who told me that Dad had changed during the war. That he was still a good man, but he carried a lot of guilt for things he shouldn't be blamed for. I thought he meant the Manhattan Project, but now I know he was talking about you. Dad blamed himself for your death; that's why he kept all your stuff and kept searching for you. He told me once, y'know, that there was something intrinsically wrong with a world where a good man like Steve Rogers died alone while bad men flourished."

It felt strange, baring his soul like this. He hoped to God Steve wouldn't remember any of it if—when he woke up.

"Do you understand, Rogers?" Tony asked softly, his voice barely audible to his own ears above the whirring of the machines. "You changed their lives, and when you died, it scarred them forever. Well, we were already scarred when you met us, already fucked up royally. All of us. We can't—we can't handle any more scars."

Bruce knocked on the window. Tony's time was up. He stood up, suddenly gripping Steve's hand in his own and squeezing it as hard as he could. "If you die—if we lose you like they lost you—it'll be over for us, Spangles. No more Avengers. So don't die."

"Daddy?"

Steve glanced up at Sarah, happily abandoning his paperwork. "Yes, sweetheart?"

She crossed the room to his desk on coltish legs, pigtails bobbing as she walked. Steve felt a momentary sadness wash over him; in another year or so she'd be too old for pigtails. "Could you help me with something?" she asked, dropping her sketchbook in front of him and perching on his lap. "Do you remember the stories you used to tell me when I was little? I want to draw pictures of them for Jimmie."

Steve frowned, flipping through the sketches and not recognizing any of them. "Which stories, Sarah? Winnie the Pooh?"

"No, these ones." She turned the pages back to a drawing Steve had skipped over, pointing at the six figures. The sketches were very rough, much rougher than Sarah's usual work, and Steve could barely make out that they were five men and a woman. "Don't you remember, Daddy?"

He studied the drawings for a minute, but his mind remained stubbornly blank. Steve rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. "Not really, sweetling."

Sarah sighed. "But they were wonderful stories! All about New York and heroes—and you were there with them."

"I'm sorry, Sarah."

She kissed his cheek and slid off his knee. "Just—try to remember, will you, Daddy? For me?"

He smiled and tugged on one of her pigtails. "Of course."

Steve pulled the sketchbook to the edge of the desk once she left, digging out an old graphite pencil from the drawer; he hadn't had much time to draw lately, not with the unrest in the Far East. Heroes, huh? Maybe Sarah was talking about Steve's stories of the Howling Commandoes. That was the only thing that made sense. And now that he thought about it, there had been that Russian gang he and Duggan had helped the NYPD deal with years ago—was Sarah old enough to remember that?

He had promised his daughter, so he (cheerfully) shoved his paperwork aside and set to work drawing the Howling Commandoes.

Only the first face that appeared on the paper didn't belong to a Howling Commando. In fact, it was the face of a complete stranger. Dark eyes, an oddly trimmed beard, an arrogant smirk—Steve had never seen this man in his life. He stared at the paper, baffled, before tossing it to the side.

The next man he drew looked kind but worn, with glasses perched on the end of his nose.

It was like his hand had a mind of its own.

The second drawing joined the first on the floor, and Steve tried again, figuring the third time was the charm.

Nope. This time it was a woman with a snub nose and short hair that wasn't elaborately curled in the current fashion.

A man with a craggy face and mischievous eyes followed.

And then a man with long hair and a short beard.

And finally another woman with long hair pulled back to show off her sweet face.

His hand stopped then, dropping the pencil of its own accord. Steve gathered the pictures, though he felt strangely reluctant to touch them. His gut twisted.

He knew them. He knew these people. He didn't know how or when or why, but he knew them.

The knowledge terrified him, and suddenly he wanted—needed—to see his family, to hold his wife and children and reassure himself that they were still there. He grabbed the pictures and ran upstairs, shouting their names desperately, a dark fear dogging his heels.

Peggy came running from the nursery where she'd just put Max down for a nap. "Steve? What's wrong?"

Steve grabbed her, held her as tightly as he could without hurting her, fisting one hand in her hair and digging the fingers of the other into her hip. She was warm and soft and real and alive.

The pictures fell to the ground, six faces staring up at him accusingly from over Peggy's shoulder.

Each face was a dagger in his heart.

Sarah and Jimmie stood on the stairs, mute and wide-eyed with concern and fear. He could hear Max crying in the nursery, startled awake by Steve's shouts. His children. His children.

The daggers were cutting, ripping, tearing his heart out of his chest.

The pictures wouldn't stop staring at him and now he could name the faces in them.

"Steve? Steve, you're scaring me! What's wrong?" Peggy tried to pull back to see his face but his grip was too tight.

His lungs weren't working anymore. There were iron bands around his chest, squeezing, crushing, threatening to destroy him completely. It was like being back in the ice, back when the ocean flowed over him and into him and he'd died, choking on Peggy's name though no one had heard him.

But the ice was just a nightmare—Peggy had heard him, Howard had found him, he hadn't died, he was still here with his friends and his children and his wife.He could feel her silky curls tangling around his fingers. Feel her heart beating against his. Feel his children's hands grasping his legs and waist.

But he remembered dying. He remembered dying and waking up again only to find the world had left him behind.

His heart shattered.

"I love you so much, Peggy," he choked out, murmuring the words against her neck where he had buried his face, "but you're not real!"

They couldn't get his heart to start again.

The inside of Natasha's cheek was bloody from where she had bitten it sometime in the last half hour. She kept swallowing blood, the taste of iron making her sick.

Or maybe it was the end of their world that was making her sick.

Tony was right; the Avengers wouldn't survive without Captain America. She could already see it in the desperation and terror and utter helplessness that filled their faces as they huddled by the walls of the ICU.

Bruce would be the first to go, because the Hulk only ever took orders from Captain America. He'd wander off to some forsaken corner of the world and try to find a way to kill himself.

Tony would get himself killed soon, too, charging into battle without a plan and without Captain America to save him from his own recklessness. Pepper would be a widow before they even got married.

Thor would return to Asgard and never come back, blaming himself for Captain America's death because he was the one who first brought Earth to his brother and niece's attention. It would make him bitter—sweet, affable Thor who looked at the world with a childlike innocence.

Clint and Natasha would go back to S.H.I.E.L.D. full-time and go down in a firefight, because they didn't know how to fight without Captain America watching their backs anymore. It would be Budapest without the happy ending.

"It's been nine minutes. I'm calling it," the doctor announced, stopping the chest compressions. "Time of death: oh-seven-thirteen."

Natasha spun on her heel, turning her back on the room to hide her crumbling façade.

Six words.

Six little words that shattered Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

She could hear the doctors turning off the machines, unhooking Captain America's still body from the life support that had failed to keep him alive.

Footsteps approached the broken Avengers. "You should leave now," the doctor informed them. "Let us clean up and prepare the body."

Natasha spun to face him, eyes wild. If she had been allowed to have her guns in the ICU, she would have shot him.

Tony's face contorted and he opened him mouth angrily but a strangled gasp from the other side of the room interrupted him. A nurse shrieked in alarm.

Natasha shoved the doctor away, not caring that he fell to the ground. Steve's body was jerking spasmodically, back arching off the gurney as he choked on the tracheal tube in his mouth.

Natasha couldn't remember crossing the room but she was beside him in an instant, catching a flailing wrist in one hand and pressing the other over his heart. It fluttered under her touch like a trapped bird, the heartbeat frantic and shallow but there. "Bruce!" she pleaded, and Bruce was suddenly beside her, pulling out the tube as Steve gagged and flipping the other machines back on.

The others forced their way past the nurses and doctors to surround the bed. Steve's eyes flickered over their faces, wide and confused and panicked.

Clint said it for all of them, gripping Steve's shoulder. "You're back, Cap."

His words stilled Steve's thrashing, and Natasha watched as recognition filled his eyes. A moment later, Steve blinked and rolled onto his side, ignoring the tubes and wires that hampered his movements. He curled up in a miserable ball and hid his face in his shaking hands, weeping hoarsely.

Natasha's cold heart broke at the sound.

Steve dreamed of home each night. He dreamed of dark haired children clinging to his arms and legs, of Peggy's smile in the dawning light, of warmth and safety and happiness. At first, the dream was as realistic as the spell-induced slumber he'd been trapped in. The colors were just as vibrant, the smell of Peggy's perfume just as clear.

The children were playing, laughing and running with the sheer joy of being alive. Peggy sang to the baby as he took his first wobbling steps.

And then the dream turned into a nightmare as Steve tried to follow them, only to find his feet frozen to the ground. He called to them as the ice crept up his body, but he had no voice. He reached for them, but the cold bound his hands to his sides.

And every night he watched his dreams tatter and decay in the tundra winds as he stood trapped, a prisoner of time.

There was a time when Thor had delighted in war, had yearned for the heat and blood and fierce joy of that moment went tensions snapped and the open battle began. Now he dreaded that moment, dreaded to reach the breaking point, because he feared that Steven Rogers would be the one to break.

They were hovering around their captain like moths around a dying flame. They knew it, but they couldn't stop themselves. They just couldn't bear to leave Steve alone, not for an instant, even though they could see that their constant vigilance was fraying his nerves. Clint even insisted on following him to the bathroom, crouching outside the door until Steve came out. Thor assured the others repeatedly that the spell was broken and Steve wouldn't fall back into the deadly dreams again, but he was just as bad as the rest of them.

When Steve tried to retreat to his suite for some privacy, they found any excuse to come see him. Natasha needed him to zip up her dress, even though she wasn't going anywhere. Clint wanted Steve's suggestions for the next recon mission. Bruce brought him lunch and stayed to make sure Steve ate everything. Thor needed help understanding why the UN was angry with the USA because of the Avengers' involvement in overseas affairs. Tony wanted his input on the Mark VIII designs, even though the engineering alone was beyond any of them.

After Pepper and Director Fury made back-to-back visits to his sitting room, Steve surrendered, apparently resigning himself to being smothered for the foreseeable future. He settled onto the couch in the central living area, accepting all of their offerings—ranging from drinks to movies to books—with quiet thanks and not saying anything else.

They didn't ask him about the dream and he didn't offer anything. They still knew, though. From the trashcan in Steve's bedroom Natasha had dug out a sketch of a beautiful woman holding an infant and watching two children who looked like her playing in the snow. Thor thought it was one of Steve's best drawings.

They didn't know what to say, couldn't find the words that would take away the hollow look in his eyes, so they hovered.

Eight days after bringing him home, Steve still wasn't talking. He was always reticent, but now he was silent. The others didn't know what to do. The tension was growing worse by the hour. The breaking point was coming.

In the end, it was Thor who broke. He could not stand the silence any longer. They were all sitting on the couch, watching a movie without really paying attention to it. No one complained when he spoke up, asking the question that had been haunting them all for the last week.

"Steven—if you had the chance, would you go back? If the dream could be real?"

Everyone froze. Steve stared into his mug of hot chocolate as if it held all the secrets of the universe. It felt like an eternity passed before he quietly answered, "I don't know."

Thor felt his shoulders sag in relief. Clint let out the breath he had been holding in a loud rush of air. When Steve frowned at him questioningly, Clint shrugged. "We were afraid you'd say yes," he admitted.

Steve set his mug on the coffee table, not looking at any of them. "I don't know if I'd say no." There was something fragile and vulnerable in his voice.

"At this point, Spangles, we're happy with a 'don't know.' We can work with that." Tony studied him. "Can you?"

Steve finally looked up and let his gaze travel over their expectant, worried faces. "Yeah," he said at last, with a sad smile that didn't reach his hollow eyes. "I can work with that."

Steve jerked awake with a cry and bolted upright on the sofa. For a moment he didn't know where he was, didn't recognize the room or the furniture or the city skyline outside the massive windows. It was warm in the room, but he was cold and shivered as if he had a fever.

People stirred all around him and Steve drew back in alarm. "Cap?" a voice questioned. A woman sat up and reached for him. He could just make out the curve of her full breasts under her hoodie. Her dark red hair glistened in the moonlight. "Cap, what's wrong?"

She tried to touch his shoulder but he pulled away, nearly falling off the sofa. Strong hands caught him from the other side and he jerked around, coming face-to-face with a stocky man. "Easy, Captain, I got you," the man said.

"Where am I?" The question came out as lost and confused as Steve felt.

The woman's big eyes shone with concern. A male voice exclaimed something in alarm from somewhere to Steve's left. "Shh, Cap, you're home."

"Home?" he repeated uncertainly. Home? It didn't seem right. "No, I—I was—there was—P-Peggy, she was there…I was t-trying to save her…it was so cold…" The images were there in his mind, as sharp and bright and clear as day.

"Oh, Steve." Another woman stood over him; her voice was gentle and soft. "You were dreaming. It was just—it was just a dream." She sounded almost like she was trying not to cry.

The woman crouching next to him reached out to touch his shoulder again and this time he let her. The stocky man still had a hand pressed against his back. "A d-dream?" Steve shivered uncontrollably.

Voices murmured around him, words washing over him in waves.

"Banner, check his—"

"All right, hang on…" Warm hands touched his neck and wrist. "—fast, but I don't think we should worry—just a dream."

"J-just a dream," Steve echoed uncertainly, still shivering, still trapped somewhere in between there and here.

"Is he cold?" a deep voice queried, and Steve wanted to say yes and then no and then I don't know anymore.

"Emotional shock, I think," someone answered for him, but something soft and warm was still wrapped around his trembling body.

A rough hand patted his head hesitantly, smoothing his hair and scrubbing away wetness from Steve's cheeks with calloused fingers. The fingers ghosted down the sides of his head to cover his ears for a few seconds, but Steve still heard the man speak. "Do you think this has been happening every night?" No one answered him. The hands twitched before moving again, cupping Steve's chin and forcing him to look up. "Spangles—Steve—snap out of it. You're home."

And then it all came back.

Home.

Manhattan. 2013. The tower. The war—The War—was over, had been over for seventy years, but he was still fighting. Still trying to make a difference, even though he was seventy years too late and the world had better men and women than him to protect it now.

They stood or crouched around him, not letting go of him for even a second. For a moment—for a brief, fleeting, beautiful moment—he felt centered again, as if he'd reached an island after drowning for centuries in a stormy sea.

Home.

The fog finally cleared from his mind, leaving him exhausted and aching. He tried to rub his burning eyes, but his hands were caught tight in Bruce's grip. "Sor-sorry." He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the sympathy and pity on their faces. "I—got lost." Again.

"But you have returned to us now, Captain?"

Steve opened his eyes reluctantly. "Yeah, Thor. I'm back."

He didn't resist when Natasha tugged on his shoulder to make him lie down again, his head resting on her thigh; he just mumbled "sorry" again. He wasn't sure why—for some reason it seemed fitting to apologize. He didn't complain when Pepper tucked Thor's cape more firmly around him as if he were a child or when Tony surreptitiously brushed the last vestiges of tears from his face under the guise of slipping a pillow under his head.

"Try not to get lost again, all right?" Tony muttered, barely loud enough for Steve to hear him.

Steve shivered again, one sharp spasm that made Natasha murmur something soothing in Russian. There was nothing he could do to stop the dreams from coming every time he fell asleep—and some small, selfish part of him wanted them to come, wanted to see Peggy, to live in what have might have been, if only for a little while.

The problem lay in stopping the dreams from turning into nightmares. "No promises," he whispered back, feeling a stab of guilt at the resigned look on Tony's face.

A warm, heavy hand alighted briefly on his shoulder. Thor's deep voice rumbled from his chest, down his arm, through his hand into Steve's cold body. "It does not matter if he becomes lost again, Man of Iron." The demi-god's words reverberated through Steve. "We are here to lead him back." The hand squeezed his shoulder before lifting away. "You know that, do you not, Steven?"

Steve forced his heavy eyelids open again, confirming that they were still there, all six of them.

All six of them. How small his world had gotten. How small, in comparison to the world of the spell dream. Six blurry figures, six black and white portraits obstinately intruding on his dream of color and clarity, demanding his attention.

A tiny bubble of warmth floated up from his stomach to burst forth in something suspiciously like a giggle. "Hey—you wanna know somethin'?" He let his eyes slide shut wearily. Another bubble of warmth skipped through his body, tugging his mouth into a wry grin. "I couldn't forget you. Even when I tried, I couldn't—you're all unforgettable."

"Naturally." Tony sounded pleased.

"I don't think he meant it as a compliment, Stark."

"Suck it, Barton."

"Boys."

Steve let the voices wash over him as he slid back into sleep, too tired to give a damn that all six of them would most likely spend the rest of the night watching him.

All six of them.

How large his world had gotten.

Steve didn't dream again that night.