Chapter Text
Steve always had something to say to his mom. Regardless if she had passed, he'd still wander around his apartment with the words at the tip of his tongue. Ma, I grabbed some prunes— your favorite. Ma, d'ya see the paper today? Ma, the weather was almost nice today, can you believe it?
He'd stare at a photo on his desk instead.
They'd gotten a group photo of all the nurses after a ruthless winter, celebrating the close of a year once the hospital had a moment to breathe. Exhaustion and stress sagged in all of their faces, medicated by weary smiles and hopeful eyes. His mother was towards the front, beside a colleague Steve remembered her talking about— but couldn't conjure the name of. Her uniform was crisp, as she always maintained, but her hair and features told the story of perseverance.
His finger traced the wood of the frame, not daring to ruin the photograph for a shred of comfort. Steve's eyes focused on her face, staring so hard, the backs of his eyes strained. It felt like he had to memorize every hue, every crease, every wrinkle. The way her disheveled strands of hair fell slightly in front of her ears, while the nurse's cap pulled the rest away.
He continued this ritual, even after the serum. The sharp edges of grief wore down from use, now a dull ache he carried in his heart. He left the photo behind though, when he was deployed. Steve couldn't bear the thought of the frame chipping, or the glass cracking, or the photo fading from the sun or being damaged in any way. Foolish mistake, of course. If he had taken that photo with him—
Well, it'd be waterlogged, but he'd still have it.
Pain bloomed from behind his eyes, welcoming itself in slowly. He could feel his face pull tight, re-acclimating to consciousness. Sound was spotty, missing the usual muffle he got from his helmet, but eased in as he took account of his faculties. A twitch of his fingers, a shift of his boots. Everything seemed… decent and functional, all but the throbbing of his skull.
Right— blunt object to the back of his head. That'd do the trick.
"I told you to get him out of his room— not get him concussed!"
"Well, I'm sorry. I guess your instructions were unclear, Stark."
"How'd they even get the hit on Cap? These were bottom feeder guys, for us at the very least."
"I don't know— He's been… off, today. Stuck in his head. More so than usual."
There was a pause.
"No. Nuh-uh. Don't blame this on me. How was I supposed to know-?"
"…s'posed to know what?"
Natasha spun her head around. With the waves in his vision, he'd be easily convinced her head did a full turn. He cracked his eyes open, adjusting to the light of the jet they initially flew in on. He could even see his motorcycle, carefully secured, his helmet sat on one of the handles.
"Hey, Cap. Back with us? 'Cause I can't carry you out, no offense."
Steve's eyes were flicking around involuntarily, taking in her face section by section. Her jaw was tense, the corners of her lips twitching microscopically. Her eyes were scanning him over, calculating their own analysis regardless of whatever he chose to say. She could hide all these tells effortlessly, he knew, but chose not to.
"Yeah- yeah. Sorry- did… did we stop…?"
"We stopped the deal." Natasha nodded, "Unfortunately, not before you took one to the back of the helmet. Idiot didn't know how to work the actual end of the weapon so he settled for using the handle-part. You were out for… probably fifteen minutes. Task force was pretty quick on clearing the place and getting you out of here."
"Good to know you aren't dead. Would've been a really sad headline. Captain America, lost to pistol whipping." Tony's voice cut through the speaker of a screen Natasha had been previously talking to. Her tablet she had previously shown their mission intel on. He was in his lab, recognizable from the mess of tools and parts Steve would usually tiptoe through. Bruce's face was beside him, the background of his room blurred by some filter— or maybe his eyes were still adjusting.
"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Bruce's eyebrow quirked up, unamused. He shook his head dismissively, "The Medbay is being prepped for when you guys land back. They'll take a look over you, Cap."
Steve pushed himself to sit up, "I'm good. I've taken worse hits."
He felt Natasha's eyes track him, "Not something to brag about. If it makes you feel better, I'll let them look over me too. I'll even go first." She hummed.
"That's very brave." Steve huffed, shaking his head, "I appreciate the concern, really. I just- slipped up, and earned myself a mild headache."
"You're still getting checked over. I promise we'll let you skip on your flu-shot." Tony's voice crackled as the jet lifted up, connection flickering momentarily.
Before he could get a word in, Natasha picked up the tablet and held it towards her, "Alright- we're moving. We'll meet you at the Medbay." She spoke before leaving the call.
Steve squinted, "We're meeting in the Medbay? Don't you think this is all overkill? I got a knock on the back of my head, we've all managed worse."
"You'll see, Rogers. Why don't you sit back and enjoy the ride." Natasha settled beside him, the ghost of her touch hovering in case he wavered. For being a supersolider, he felt like he was being handled like glass.
"Sir yes sir." was all Steve could drone before settling into his own mind for the rest of the flight.
He's being pulled in the direction of the Medbay as soon as his feet leave the floor of the jet. He blames his recent reminiscing, but the walk breezes by before he realizes they've arrived. Steve was ordered to change out of his suit, and mindlessly, he follows like he's being puppeteered. He's sat in a chair, lights are shown into his eyes, ears. Scans are taken of his body from multiple angles, and everything comes up clear- besides the low-grade concussion that's been meddling with his train-of-thought.
His eye glance to the entrance of the room, where Natasha, Bruce, and Tony are lurking. They all have their arms crossed, eyes narrowed in concentration. They were certainly planning something— but Steve didn't have half the mind to care. His resolve was quelled as soon as he sat down. For a day in which he accomplished very little, he felt so drained, robbed even.
Tony slipped out sometime during Steve's thoughts, disappearing without a trace.
Once he was cleared by a whole panel of professionals and their machinery, Steve attempted to retire back to his room. He couldn't think of anything else he could do without two certain individual's eyes bearing into his every move. Both Bruce and Natasha agreed that some R&R was in order, and allowed him to cede to his quarters.
The room felt more empty than before. The cold air of an unused room brushed over his skin. The sight of his made bed causes his shoulders to sag and hunch over, calling to him. He sits, nursing the pain in his temples with his fingers.
Even now, he could sense that crumpled ball of sketch paper staring at him from his trash bin. There are ghost touches of pastels over his easel, his doorknob, and right now, Steve wishes he was half as observant as he is. The only salvation he finds is with the lull of exhaustion hanging over his bed, guiding his body to sink into his mattress and stare at the empty ceiling.
He's asleep before he even knows it.
Splashes of navy flash in his mind, ghosts of an almost finished drawing find him, and loom like a dark cloud. A face he can't remember for certain, but memories that won't spare him any mercy. A laugh, a cough, silence. They all come in interludes, never staying long enough for Steve to get a proper grasp on.
A synthesized voice chases them away.
"-tain Rogers?"
He turns on his side, looking out the window. Barely any time had passed, "Jarvis?" He wiped a hand over his face, catching the stain of blue under his index finger's nail.
"Your presence is requested in the recreational room."
He sighed, a sore rumble caught in his throat. Steve pulled himself up and swung his legs over his bed, "I'll head down. Thanks Jarvis." He murmured, walking briefly past a mirror and deeming himself presentable.
Steve lugged himself down the halls and drifted to the rec-room. All was suspiciously normal- quiet. That was, until he spied Tony lurking.
"Tony?"
"Oh- hey. If it isn't my favorite bomb-pop!" He turned towards the Captain, acting too cool, and too casual.
"Wha- I'm not going to ask." Steve shook his head, causing a twinge of pain to pull at him.
"Look- Cap. Why don't you sit down for a second." Tony walked across the room and herded him to one of the couches, not leaving any air for Steve to protest.
"If this is about my slip-up today-"
"-It's not. Well- It kind of is, but not in the way you think." Tony sat down in a separate chair beside the couch, pulling a wrapped box from somewhere on his person, "You've been a bit off your game, Steve, and after working together for awhile, I know that it takes a truckload of bullshit for you to even stumble. So- something's got you in a fix. Am I right?"
Steve squinted, was he trying to bait him into something? With a pinch of caution, he dared to nod minutely, "In a way-"
"Right- And I'm just going to go ahead and be brave and honest when I say I suck at the sentimental crap. But- after this morning- and hearing Nat describe how everything went down in the field, I think I put two-and-two together." Tony pushed the wrapped box into Steve's empty hands, "And, this is the only way I know how to apologize."
A gift? Endless possibilities circled around his mind as he stared at the discreet box. He ran his finger over the texture, and felt his face scrunch in curiousity.
"You don't just have to feel it up- Cap. I want you to open it too."
Steve glanced up, huffing a small and unexpected laugh before pulling the box open.
His mother's photo. More specifically-— her hospital's photo. Almost exactly how he remembered it. His mother, standing beside Arlene, whose name finally returned with a glance over her face.
"How-?"
"Well- It was no easy task, but I'm a genius, so, lightwork." Tony's eyes kept bouncing from the gift to Steve's face, gauging his reaction, studying him close.
Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from his mom— Sarah. She looked more worn than he remembered. Less hopeful. Her face was near gaunt, eyes sunk, yet smile still as kind and subtle.
"I found it in the city archive, lucky they started digitizing their old records- huh?"
"Tony— I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't have to."
…
"Really— you don't have to." Tony sighed, shaking his head, "When my parents died, all I could think of is what I'd do to see my mom's face again. Her smile- her scowl, anything. I guess I never realized how lucky I was to be a public figure, because their faces were plastered everywhere, all over the news." He stared ahead, thinking, before settling on what to say next, "I can't imagine not having all these photos, videos. I'm sure it sucks."
"There's probably a more eloquent way to say that, but yeah, it sucks." Steve held the frame in his hands, letting his thumbs graze over the wood grain, "This means everything to me, Tony. I hope you know that."
Tony let the moment breathe in silence, an awkward smile tugging on his mouth, "The hospital's still running, y'know? It's a new building- but the same. I let them know, and, if you'll allow it- they'd like to make a plaque, dedicated to Sarah Rogers."
"Wow- yeah, that'd be great, Tony."
Tony reached over and patted Steve's shoulder, standing up, "Alright, I'll get on that." The rawness slowly retreated, the moment passed welcomely, and suddenly he was Tony Stark again, "I'll be in the lab. I have climate change to cure all around the world, and that's not going to solve itself." He clapped his hands together and started walking to the exit, pausing briefly.
"Next time you're struggling like this, Cap, tell us. We're a team. It doesn't have to end in a blow to the back of the head, y'know?" He wrung out his hands, sincerity sputtering.
"I know." Steve nodded, "You're a good friend, Tony. Perhaps one of my best." His eyes drifted down to the frame.
"Pshhh. No big deal." Tony waved him away, "I'll catch you later."
Steve was left by himself in the room, but for once, he didn't feel alone. Maybe it was the act of friendship, or his mother's soft eyes staring at him. Regardless, one thing was for certain.
He had a pack of pastels and sketch paper waiting for him back in his room.