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They drug his soda. Steve’s usually above this kind of thing, too present, too grounded, to fall for it. It’s not only his muscles that are peak human; his senses are just as keen. He should taste the faint metallic under taste in the Fanta, should feel something slightly off with the carbonation. He should be better than this.
He’s too far away, too uncertain of himself. He enters the bagel store thinking about the Avengers, about the Illuminati, about Tony Stark. He’s got change in hand as he waits in line — this is so routine he knows exactly how much his order will cost — and he doesn’t notice notice that the usual counter girl is out, replaced with a young man he’s never seen before. A few years ago, he thinks, he would have stopped to make conversation with the newcomer. He’d have been thinking team trainings, about the roster, about the day to day, pleasantly banal arrangements which need to be made for his team to exist.
He’s not on the Avengers anymore. He’s not Cap. He’s Commander Rogers, charged with taking care of a country he barely understands anymore. And, now, by the invitation of his once-best-friend, once-worst-enemy, he’s on the Illuminati.
He sits down on the outside tables by the docks, where he always sits, and eats his usual; sesame seed bagel with cream cheese and ham. He sips his soda and remembers his own feelings of betrayal, the ice cold settling in the pit of his stomach when he’d realized Tony was lying to him, sneaking around behind his back. Even after everything, he’d expected Tony to be honest, had expected to be on the same page. He’d never gotten used to the fact that he no longer had Tony. Not as a team member. Not as friend, really. Certainly not as a lover.
Who is he going to have to lie to, now, to protect this same secret? What has he agreed to?
Lunch finished, he keeps walking, sipping absently at the Fanta. He’s due back at work until the meeting with Hill at three, and, despite knowing he ought to be catching up on paperwork, he walks long, ambling circles through the New York City streets, not realizing he’s walking to the cemetery until he’s gotten here. The walks, too, have become routine, as has staying up late into the night to catch up on the actual work he misses during the day.
It’s not a cemetery he visits often. Several fire fighters he’d once worked with are buried here, along with half a dozen men and women he’d known before the ice, soldiers and classmates and schoolteachers. He doesn’t visit any of them in particular.
Instead, he sticks the empty Fanta bottle in his pocket and walks along the little dirt path by the gravestones, absently noting names and dates. By the resting place of Beverly Adams, 1949-2010, beloved mother, he’s surprised to feel his vision blur and swim. Who am I crying for, he thinks, numb, who am I here for?
When he raises a hand to his face, though, he realizes his eyes are dry. Blinks twice, confused, growing concerned, spins on his heel to look around himself, suddenly realizing he’s unsteady catches himself on the gravestone of Charles Rice, 1981-2003, misguided in life, now resting safe and at peace, crumbles to his knees.
Drugged, he thinks, blearily, feeling nothing but dull surprise, or magic.
Then darkness.
When he wakes, he’s strung up by his arms, his feet barely brushing the concrete floor under him. His shoulders ache, sharp pins and needles traveling up his arms as he tries to move them. He tastes dirt, spits a glob of it out onto the concrete floor in front of him, along with several long green blades of grass. Cemetery soil, he thinks. On the way down.
The room is poorly lit, as these rooms tend to be, and small. There’s no furniture, just metal hooks jutting out of the cement walls. Steve shivers, feeling the chill, wet air on his bare arms, and tries to brute force the cuffs open. They hold steady, the metal unyielding, and Steve breathes in deep, pushing down the rising tides of fear, discomfort.
He should have been better.
He puts his weight on the balls of his feet, then stands up on his tip toes, trying to get some leverage to feel the locking mechanism with his fingers. If he can, perhaps—
“It’s no use,” cuts in a dry voice from behind him. Steve orients himself to where it came from, and sees a short, chubby figure behind him, leaning against the doorway. It’s a man with a flat, pug-like face, perhaps in his forties, dressed in a dress shirt and pants. He gestures upwards, indicating the handcuffs, “these were designed by this generation’s greatest mind, specifically for you, Commander Rogers.”
Steve swallows, still tasting dirt. “What do you want?”
“I was hired,” the man says, stepping forward, “to ensure the failure of your little project. How long do you think it’ll take your team to fall apart without you?”
Steve huffs out a laugh, dry and disbelieving. “I’d suggest doing your homework next time. I’m not even on the team.”
“Oh, don’t kid yourself. How many are there as a personal favor to you? How many came out of obligation to you, out of debt?”
Steve thinks of of Jessica, of Logan, of Tony, even, but only shakes his head.
“They won’t quit without me,” he says, “they sure didn’t last time.”
“Well, that depends on what happens to you, doesn’t it? If someone from your own little team…”
Steve grimaces, then shakes his head. This sends little black pin pricks across his plane of vision, making it hard to see. He’s still dizzy. He’s still drugged. Odd for his metabolism; they must have injected him with something else while he was out, re-upped the dose.
“They wouldn’t believe that,” he says, with conviction he doesn’t feel. The war is too fresh, too recent, too real.
The man steps forward. In the light, Steve can see his face, smooth and white and slightly bulbous, two chins and swollen eye bags.
“Do you know who designed those handcuffs?” He asks.
Steve cranes his head upwards, trying to think. In the faint light, he can see little of the handcuffs.
“Tony Stark,” the man says victoriously, “Iron Man. My men found this in one of his Area 51 storage units.”
The feeling of betrayal returns, coiling tight and cold in Steve’s gut. The whole time with the Illuminati, had Tony expected to meet resistance from him? Had he expected, all along, that he’d need to go up against Steve to protect his secret?
He stops struggling against the chains, saving his energy. Tony knows his strengths and limits better, perhaps, than anyone on earth.
“You want to frame Iron Man for my murder,” he says, slowly, “that’s why you’ve got me in his equipment.”
“Aand he catches on,” the man says, “but he’s made it so wonderfully easy, hasn’t he? I was half tempted to just step back and take the credit when he inevitably backstabbed you.”
“He wouldn’t,” Steve says, “he’s not like that.”
The man’s only answer is a derisive laugh. Steve frowns.
“It won’t work,” he says, playing for time, “Tony will have an alibi. He’s always around people or in his workshop, with with cameras on. Even if he isn’t, his suit keeps track of where he is.”
The man smiles, pulling something of out his pocket. Steve squints, and then frowns, recognizing his cell phone. “He’s here. You asked to meet.”
He turns on the screen, almost unbearably bright in the dim room. Normal human eyes wouldn’t able to make anything out from such a distance, but Steve squints and picks out the words. We need to talk, the message from him reads, meet me. Then the address. Be there in 2 hours, Tony had replied, what’s this about, Cap?
No answer from his side. Now, he watches the man type out, Running a little late. 10 min. and pocket the phone.
Would Tony know to suspect that? True, Steve is almost always on time, but he’s been so busy, lately. Ten minutes isn’t much; Tony will assume he’s gotten unavoidably delayed by matters of national security.
The body, he realizes, his thoughts still coming too slowly, will need to match up with the story. In the next ten minutes, this man intends to kill him.
There are no guards in the room. His captor’s trust in Tony’s equipment is such that he hadn’t bothered to bring back up to murder Captain America.
Then again, he’s not Cap anymore. He’s a figurehead, a relic of a bygone era, desperately trying to keep together a team that had been enemies only a year prior, to protect a world doesn’t want him, a world that he doesn’t understand. Bucky’s going to kill Tony, he thinks, with horror. Tony, who’d lied to him, who’d betrayed him, who had planned to betray him again. Tony, who he doesn’t want dead, who he’d once loved, still loves.
Why would you do this, he wonders, why would you make it so easy?
Perhaps he’s the relic, the man always out of time. Perhaps this is just how their world is, now, the easy trust replaced with something different. Perhaps Tony stores counter-measures for everyone one of his friends, expects to fight them all, one day. Perhaps they all expect it.
I don’t want to live in that world, Steve thinks, but he doesn’t want to die in it, either.
“Now, we can’t have him interrupting.” The man steps forward, pulling something dark out of pocket, black leather. Steve tries to crane down to get a better look at that, and stops short.
It’s a gag, meant to muffle all sound. He recognizes it.
“You got this from Tony,” he says softly. The freezing thing in his stomach uncoils, his reality shifting.
“Yes,” the man says, “God only knows how he was planning to betray you.”
He wasn’t. The sad, absurd irony of the situation hits Steve. He tries to kick up, angling to kick the man in the chest, but the drugs leave him sluggish, weak. The man ducks easily out of the way, grabbing Steve by the hair and sliding the bar of the gag in place with little resistance, fastening it behind Steve’s neck.
Christ. He’d thought he was better than this.
He tries to yell out — should have tried earlier, as soon as he’s known Tony was somewhere near, what the hell, Rogers, — but the gag muffles the sound completely, like he knew it would. The man smiles approvingly and takes something else out of the bag.
It’s a gauntlet. Tony’s repulsor blasts. Tony’s weapon.
Steve screams in earnest when the blast hits the center of his chest, red-hot pain blooming across his entire front. Only the epicenter of the blast feels nothing at all, and he knows that’s a bad thing. Third degree.
He lets his head fall forward, hoping the man might mistake him for dead, might leave him this way, but no luck. The second blast, ineptly shot, grazes his shoulder, sharp, burning pain. Steve bites down on the gag and tastes carbon reinforced leather.
One way to get blood rushing back into his arm, he supposes.
He hears something crumble behind him, concrete caving in. The shot, he thinks, at first, it missed me.
But no. It’s too big, too grand, the whole wall coming down. Steve catches a glimpse of gold and red as Iron Man moves past him, a blur of motion. He hears shouting, sees repulsor blasts, this time fired skillfully, precisely. More men, guards, storm the room.
Steve twists, trying, somehow, to join the fight, to shout out. Something in his chest pinches and gives, pain ricocheting over his whole body, vibrating through his bones. The figures around him blur in and out of focus, impossible to follow, and, finally, disappear.
When he comes to, which can’t be a very long time later, he’s in the waiting room of an office building, his head resting on scratchy bright yellow sofa cushions. The light is too bright. His chest hurts, the cool air stinging exposed skin. The gag is off. Tony, half in the suit and half out, is pulling the handcuffs off him as well.
In the light, he recognizes them immediately, the gleaming gold, the little touches of red. They’re ornamental, beautiful, even. This hadn’t been his first time wearing them.
“With me, Cap?” Tony asks, his voice concerned.
“Not Cap anymore,” Steve reminds him blearily, and coughs.
“Yeah, there he is,” Tony pulls his hands free, gently rubbing his wrists for a moment. Steve feels almost nothing around his fingers, the warmth of his touch piercing through ice.
Steve pushes himself up, wincing at the pain in his chest, and reaches over to pull away the cloth. “’S it bad?”
“It’ll scar,” Tony says, “but you’re lucky he had no clue what he was doing.”
“Don’t feel very lucky now,” Steve says, grimacing. He’ll heal in a couple days’ time, he thinks. He goes to stand, but Tony’s hand on his shoulder stops him.
“I’ll take you back,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
This time, Tony lets him try to get to his feet. Steve makes it, then sways, realizing the near-impossibility of putting one foot in front of the other.
His pride burns almost as much as his chest. “This was stupid. Just some hired muscle, some man.”
“I’ll take you back, Cap.”
Steve grunts. Tony takes this as consent, pulling him up into his arms, and Steve doesn’t have the energy to argue. They don’t talk until they’re in a car, Steve slumped over against the window. Tony’s called for one of his drivers, Steve notices; he must have flown here.
“How’d you find me?” He asks.
“I track signals from everyone, now,” Tony says, “just in case. Saw the call was coming from inside the house.”
Steve’s not sure what he thinks of that. He doesn’t press.
“Any idea who he was working for?”
Tony shrugs. “Osborn’s my best guess.”
Steve frowns, surprised. “He’s in prison.”
“Yeah. That’s what worries me.”
Steve doesn’t argue. He glances down at the seats, mulling over the evening. “… You kept our old toys,” he says, after a minute, unable to avoid pointing out the elephant in the room.
Tony glances away, “You were dead, Cap. I couldn’t just toss them.”
Steve turns that over in his mind, then nods. “Yeah.”
He reaches over, running a finger, gently, over the back of Tony’s hand, feeling the bones in his knuckles. “I thought it was the future,” he says, “the mistrust, the— the division. But had been the past, all along. Naïveté. Too much trust.”
Tony looks down, his eyes on their hands. “Let me take you back to the tower, Cap,” he says, “spend a night with the team.”
Steve shakes his head. “I’ve got an apartment,” he says, “I’ll give you the address.”
“Cap.”
“I’m not, Tony. I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Tony sighs, but leans forward to tell the driver the new address. They drive in silence, both equally caught, Steve suspects, on the past, or, perhaps, on a different present.
Tony helps him out of the car, and Steve doesn’t try to stop him. He hands Tony the key, lets him unlock the door, lets him walk into his Spartan apartment. He’s never bothered to get curtains, and he doesn’t know if Tony’s going to notice this.
He sits on the edge of the bed and Tony unlaces and pulls off his boots. Steve stops him before he reaches any higher. “I’ve got this part.”
Tony stops short, unease clear on his face.
“I should go,” he says. He’s still kneeling by the bed, his face only inches below Steve’s. They could kiss. Once, they would have.
“Keep the toys,” Steve says.
“Yeah?” Tony asks, “What for?”
“Good luck. A future that looks— the way we used to look, Shellhead.”
For a moment, Steve thinks Tony will kiss him. Instead, he only nods, straightening up. “I’ll see you later, Steve.”
Steve nods back, lets himself flop back, exhausted. He’s already thinking about the meetings he’s missed, the paperwork taking in the new perp, Norman Osborn. He’s already wishing he’d asked Tony to stay, already imagining a reality where he could have.
And yet something warm stays with him into the night, something he’s been forgetting for a long time. He believes in the Avengers, believes in Tony. None of this, he thinks, hopes, is beyond repair.