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I WAS MADE TO HIT IN AMERICAAAA
He should know not to go out at night by himself. Not because he's in any danger - Captain America in New York City on a less-than-average day doesn't have much to worry about. But because, almost without exception, he gets lost. Steve tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and squints up at the buildings around him, ignoring the college student who staggers by, stops to stare at him, and bursts out laughing before moving on.
He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.
Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.
A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.
Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.
Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.
He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.
Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"
He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.
Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.
A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.
Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.
Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.
He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.
Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"
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He calms down just a touch when there's no immediate yelling or screaming or more crashing or any kind of response that would indicate something's horribly wrong.
As for everything else... Well. Bruce doesn't much comment on that because he can't really imagine it as true. Not that Steve lies, oh god, no, Bruce doesn't think he even can, but. It's kind of hard to believe that Steve Rogers, big and blond and blue-eyed and just having that ineffable quality that makes Captain America larger than life in his mind as on the same level as himself. It's like all-American dream team jock versus pimply A/V treasurer who plays D&D on the weekends.
...Not that Bruce was a Dungeons and Dragons guy. You needed other players for that sort of thing.
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He beams at a pair of mounted police, who straighten and salute as he walks by. It's weird, still is and always has been, but it gives him a burst of pride in this place and its people and makes him think yes, this is good, it's right, it's where he should be. Different, maybe, but still his country and his home. "Clint is picking this week, so it'll probably have a lot of things exploding. ...Kind of like a day at the office I guess."
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His mouth puckers into a frown at the mention of Stark and he almost says what he really thinks the multibillionaire can stick that philosophy. But he doesn't because that's not what he does so it's just pushed down in an attempt to ignore that kind of negativity. A calming breath and he's fine. Right. Raking a hand through his hair, he shrugs again.
"Uh, actually, t-to be perfectly honest, I. Not really the biggest fan of, er, explosions or things like that. It's j-" He stills the trembling in his hand as he puts the computer back into hibernation and sits on the bed. It's hard to explain that he'd rather not ruin anyone's evening by having a flashback and spend the whole night shivering in a post-traumatic ball of stress. "I don't react well." A beat passes. "Uh, thank you for offering though."
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He can also see the mansion between the trees.
"You know there's no dishonor in that, right?" He frames it as a question, but it comes out implacable. No room for argument; just the truth. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, not liking to fight. Not liking what happens when you do." He smiles, faintly, remembering Dr. Erskine's first test. "I never wanted to kill anyone. I live with it. I have to. But not wanting to fight doesn't make you less of a hero."
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"I'm no hero. I'm." He can't really finish that since these days he's not sure what he is anymore, but. He knows what he's not. 'Hero' is at the very top of that list. "I don't know, but. Definitely not that."
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He nods to the SHIELD agents guarding the door to the high-rise penthouse Stark built for them. They look at each other and hold the doors open until he's inside. Steve stops before he gets to the stairs, pretty sure he's going to have that problem where he loses the connection if he goes much farther. "I know you didn't get the same choices the others did, but..."
He shrugs, not able to wrap words around what he's trying to say. "You're an Avenger."
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Never mind if he was really as smart as all that he wouldn't be here in the first place. He'd have seen something was wrong before it was all blown to pieces, or he'd have figured out a cure by now.
Shaking his head and flopping against his pillow, Bruce stops himself from heading down that road again. It's one his feet know too well after all these years, and he doesn't need to revisit the scenery just yet. "What the team gets from me, that's. My being a kind of timeshare doesn't. It doesn't work that way."
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"Come downstairs?" he echoes in confusion. "Like. Down here downstairs?" There's a wince at how stupid that sounds as he hauls himself back into a sitting position. "Uh. Sure thing, I mean. If you wanted to. It's not l- You can go wherever you want, you don't really need my permission to."
...If Captain America is coming to his room, it would probably be a good idea to tidy up some.
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Steve tries for joking and isn't sure if it works. He's still not comfortable enough with anyone here to relax the way he could around Peggy, Bucky, the Commandos, Howard - even Colonel Philips. To them, he was at least half Steve Rogers. To the Avengers and SHIELD, he's Captain America, Emblematic Hero, around the clock. Even the way they say Cap is different somehow. "I understand if you'd rather get caught up with what you were doing."
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If he sounds harried, Steve, it's most likely because he is darting around his room in a mad attempt to stack up the various reports and texts and studies littering the place.
"The catching up is slow going anyway, I've missed more than a few things what w-" There's a superbly awkward silence then, followed by a resounding smack that Bruce wouldn't be surprised if it made the house shake as his palm connects with his forehead. "...Sorry."
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"It's all right," he says, automatically, sympathetically. It's not like slips like that don't happen almost every day. They still feel like knives corkscrewed into his chest, but people miss things. They talk about it. Just most of them don't miss seventy years all at once. He clears his throat silently and reaches the bottom of the stairs, where they open out again into a carpeted alcove and a narrow hall made of steel-reinforced concrete supposedly wired with several thousand volts behind the walls, just in case Hulk decides to try smashing its way out of the building.
Guilt and sorrow at the misuse of Erskine's work settle comfortably into the empty spot left by the reminder of Steve's own loss. "Well. I guess I should hang up, since I'm here."
It's really, really weird to talk to someone who's on the other side of a door just a short distance away with a tiny little phone that has no wires. Steve hooks a smile at nothing and makes his way to the end of the hall, still not putting the phone away. He doesn't like hanging up first.
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"Yeah, y- You're here already? Uh. Okay." He opens the door, phone still at his ear as he pokes his head out. Waving a greeting, he's almost forgotten the cell's there until it slips and falls. There's a panicked scramble to try and catch it before it hits the floor, with three near-misses before he finally gets a good hold of it. "Sorry," he apologizes again before ducking back into the room to make a way for Cap to come in, though whether he's saying it for the glorious display of reflexes just now or the faux pas he made moments ago is as up in the air as the phone was.
It's a small suite of rooms set up for him down here - a bedroom-slash-study in front, a small kitchenette separated by an open half-counter, and a door in the rear for the bathroom. It's all done in calm, medium colors - browns and yellows and grays, with a definite absence of green all around.
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"Oh, thanks, but. It's less that than... Well, I don't know New York all that well, and it's been a while since being in a city this big, and." It's slightly easier to forget that he's not stuck here when he doesn't have to wait on the S.O.P. escort of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents when he wants to go take a walk. "Just easier to stay in here, for everybody."
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"Well, if you're going to stay in. It's a nice place to do it." He smiles again, trying to be inviting and get the nervous man to calm down. "I could try showing you around some time. ...In Brooklyn at least. The orphanage where Bucky and I grew up is still there - they made it into a community center in the sixties, I guess."
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But after the moment of quiet fan appreciation, the reality sets back in. A frown flickers across his face before the smile returns, tired and the slightest bit forced. "No, that's. It's a really nice offer, and I appreciate it, I do, but. There's forms, and there's. Me going out at all means a whole to-do, and y-" His ears turn red and his eyes drop down to the carpet while his shoulders go up in a shrug. "You probably get enough attention walking around without a goon squad doing guard duty on me."
The fanboy in him is entirely bemoaning the loss of an opportunity that if he were twelve would have made him the envy of the Captain America Club.
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Technically he's used to Colonel Phillips doing the paperwork while he and the Commandos go out and smash things. "I'd like to go back, but I don't know if I'd want to alone."
Not true, either. He could easily go back alone. He would happily go back alone, and he has. Bucky's death is still fresh and still painful, and walking the old playground and dormitories is something like a one-man funeral procession. He looks down at his hands, his smile fading into something like nostalgia. "The first time we met, he had two guys at his back and was beating the tar out of me. After a while he got tired of me getting up again, and one of the other boys tried to take a swing. Bucky floored him. He said if anyone was going to punch the runt, it would be him. He dusted me off, and..."
Steve shrugs and drags a hand through his hair, not quite looking at Bruce. He's not sure where that came from. Peggy is probably the only one who's heard that story before now, and it feels a little funny telling someone who, despite the months in the mansion, is still a near stranger.
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"...I never really got that at school," he offers tentatively, unsure if this is the right way to go. "I got shoved in a few lockers, but. Mostly I was just, uh. Ignored." His fingers tap together nervously, then he blurts out, "Which was okay, I mean, it wasn't that bad, and. I don't know."
Rubbing the back of his neck, he pulls his legs up onto the bed as he puts his back against the wall. "Why, uh. I mean, you don't have to answer it at all if you don't want, obviously, but. Why were you getting hit on? Er, that's. I mean, beaten up. I get that you couldn't have always been so." He gestures at Steve vaguely. "But were you, uh. Really that small?"
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Steve shrugs, his grin bright and ironic. "And I was kind of a runt."
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He blinks, taking that all in and trying to fit that to a kind of mental picture of a 'runty' Steve Rogers. It doesn't work out so well.
"So you went to having... All that to being all this." Bruce nods slowly. "Well. Then. That's..." Another nod. "Uh. Impressive." Not that it wasn't before, but definitely more so now. Bruce himself did the hardest kind of cardio for the better part of six years but he's never managed to look like Steve.
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The grin hasn't gone away, even if the doctor and what happened to him are a little hard to think about. Steve never gets to talk about all this. Everyone just knows. It's nice of Bruce to let him ramble.
"I was the smallest guy in basic. The other fellas used to call me Erskine's gerbil- Peggy told me later that Colonel Phillips actually started that one."
He laughs. "That's when I met Howard, too- well, after that, after the doctor confirmed me for the program. He- Howard Stark - he designed all the machines Dr. Erskine used, plus all the weapons the SSR used in the field."
He goes a little distant then. "Sometimes Tony reminds me of him. Just for about a second, there are times when he really looks like Howard's son."
Howard's son. When Howard was older than Steve, not even considering a steady girl let alone a family life. Steve looks at his hands again. He would have liked it, he thinks - raising kids next to his war buddies, seeing who they found to stand beside them when it was all over. "He was a good man."
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Bruce shifts in his seat awkwardly as he wrings his hands together in his lap. After a few moments (that seem much longer than they actually are) of awkward silence, he tries to get things back on track. "Uh. S-so. How did that all... Happen? I mean. Most of the stuff I've r- It's not really. The beginning isn't ever really discussed that much. I mean. If you want to talk about it, you obviously don't have to if y- I don't mean to be all nosy or anything."
Being a part of the team and part of S.H.I.E.L.D. has given Bruce some sort of clearance level, he's pretty sure, but. There's something that seems very rude to just go and look through people's files and folders just because he can.
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Cap's face lights up again for a brief, brief moment. "He kidnapped me once for fondue in Lucerne, right in the middle of a mission. It was kind of a running joke. Howard could seem totally irresponsible. He made passes at pretty much every woman he ever met. But he never forgot where we were or what we were trying to do. That's what folks didn't understand about him. He knew he was a celebrity, and he gave people something to talk about that wasn't the War. He kind of looked at it as another duty I guess."
Steve shakes his head, grinning at the floor. It takes him a second to remember the rest of what Bruce said. "Oh. Uh... well, there was this procedure. It worked. And then... Schmidt made sure it couldn't work again. His guy... blew the place up. Murdered the doctor."
His hands tighten into fists and his jaw works a little as he remembers Johann Schmidt and the operative that killed Erskine. "I caught the man who destroyed the project and he killed himself, right there, while I held on to his shirt."
Steve blinks, jerking slightly in surprise at his own vehemence and the words that just came spilling out. "Sorry."
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"No, no, it's. That's something to get all... About. You don't have to apologize, and, I mean. Especially not to me. I'm kind of pretty much the poster guy for anger issues." He tries to smile an apology there, make it seem slightly less of a deal than it is, but. It only halfway works.
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