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ROUND TWELVE WILL OPEN ON SATURDAY THE 8TH.
ROUND ELEVEN
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He doesn’t find out about Captain America until months after the war.
When he does find out, he watches the news reels about him.
That man, the same one who killed the men who killed the other children. Captain America dies in combat. The same man who carried him through the forest. Captain America saves millions of lives. Who let him cry against his uniform. Captain America prevents Nazi victory. The man who asked what his name was. Captain America, American hero. The one who told him not to give up on people. World mourns Captain America.
Nobody knows his name, he thinks, and wonders at the world. Wonders why people will know Hitler’s name forever, but that man- that man who tried to help him, tried to make it better- will only ever be known by the mask he wore.
His father said there were no heroes, and maybe there aren’t, not even when they dress up in ridiculous costumes… but there are men, and nobody knows their names.
Captain America is dead, he thinks. And so is Steve.
He wonders if anybody will mourn Steve.
--
And this is how he goes on: there are ashes, there is grief. There are the dark memories. But there is spring, coming around again, and there is rebuilding, and there is Elsa.
“We survived,” he says, and she says, “But so many didn’t.”
“But we did,” he says, and thinks, make it count.
Make it matter.
--
He has his wallet in his pocket, and pictures in the wallet.
Elsa and he, on their wedding day, holding hands. Their children as toddlers, sitting on Elsa’s lap at the top of Birkenkopf . A more recent family photo: he and Elsa and the children and the grandchildren, and oh, the first great-grandchild…
“Kneel before me,” says the man. Is he a man? He’s like a demon. “I said… KNEEL!”
And they do it. They all get on their knees. He has his wallet in his pocket and the memories racing through his head and that’s why, that’s why he does it.
“Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state? It’s the unspoken truth of humanity that you crave subjugation-”
(And Frau Fleischer says “Good morning,” because that’s what she has to say now, just like before she had to say, “Heil Hitler.”)
“The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life’s joy-”
(“Don’t be a fool. We must leave,” says his uncle, and his father says, “What about Stefan? What about Zyta? Where will we go?”)
“-in a mad scramble for power. For identity.”
(“Because otherwise they’ll kill us one day. They will,” Zyta says.)
“You were made to be ruled.”
(The soldier finishes, “Germans are the ones who will rule in the end.”)
“In the end, you will always kneel.”
(And Steve says, “The point is, if you do stay down, then the bad guys win. You have to stay a good man. Things happen for a reason, but you have to make that reason matter. You have to make it matter, what happened here. Make it count for something.”)
He stands up. “Not to men like you,” he says.
The madman laughs. “There are no men like me,” he returns.
(Don’t let them win.)
“There are always men like you,” he says, and this time, as the man points the weapon towards him, he knows there will be no last minute rescue, no-
Life is still stupid, though and still works in stupid ways, because Captain America is jumping in front of him, and it appears that he will not die today after all.
--
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Afterwards, after the battle and the aliens and the madness, there is speculation on the news about Captain America. Is it the same man? Is it even possible?
He watches footage of the battle and he knows. For a long time he is stunned, too, because the man looks exactly the same. Exactly the same; it could have been yesterday that they were walking through the forest. He thinks that in some part of his soul it will always be just yesterday; in dreams and nightmares, in the spaces between thoughts, he is always walking away from the forest.
Except now… it’s strange. This is the man who saved his life when he was just a boy; now, looking at him seventy years on, he can see that his rescuer is just a boy. He can’t be any older than twenty-five, surely.
At home, Elsa shuffles into the room and watches him watch the news.
“Is it really him?” she asks, curiously.
(“What’s your name?”
“Stefan, sir.”
“That’s my name, too. Well. Steve. Steve Rogers. You can just call me Steve, if you want.”)
“Yes,” he replies slowly. “It is.”
Her eyes soften. “He’s just a child.”
“We were all children.” He shakes his head. “That’s twice he’s saved me,” he murmurs. “I owe him.”
“So do I,” Elsa murmurs.
When he looks askance at her, she smiles.
“He brought me you,” she says, and he feels tears prickle his eyes as she takes his hand. “He brought me you. My hero,” and she laughs.
“I’m not a hero,” he replies.
She arches an eyebrow. “What are you, then?”
He has children and grandchildren; a beautiful wife, a beautiful home. A life that they created from ashes, from dust and fear.
They have lived many years without fear.
Now, looking at Elsa, he realises that it does not cause him pain to admit it and that it hasn’t for many years.
He smiles. “Just a man,” he says. “Just a man.”
--
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The doorbell rings.
Steve sighs, and wearily puts down the book he was reading to answer it. To his astonishment, it’s none other than Tony Stark standing on the other side.
“Are you going to invite me in or what, Cap?” Tony asks, looking supremely relaxed.
Steve wordlessly moves aside and Tony strolls right in.
“Whoa- this place is…” He cuts off whatever he was going to say and forces out a strangled, “…homely.”
Steve is too tired for this suddenly. “Mr Stark,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
Tony spins around from his horrified inspection of the television set, and claps his hands together. “Apparently the world thinks that I’m your personal mailman,” he says drily. “So here I am- playing postman.”
Steve tries to work that out, and in the end settles on saying a dignified, “What?”
Tony pulls a letter from out of his pocket. “They’re sending your fan mail to me, now,” he says, rolling his eyes.
Steve stares at the letter suspiciously. “My… fan mail?”
“Yeah. This is all of it.” He snorts, as if amused, and then sighs when it’s obvious Steve isn’t biting. “Okay, look; remember when I went to Stuttgart to do some damage control?”
“If you can call it that,” Steve says, by way of agreement.
Tony throws him a dirty look. “Well, the mayor of Stuttgart asked me if I could pass this on to you. It’s from their national hero of the hour.” When Steve still looks confused, Tony elaborates: “That German guy. The one that stood up to Loki. The one you dramatically leapt over-”
“Oh!” Steve remembers, suddenly. “He wrote me a letter?”
“Sure did,” Tony agrees. “Or, actually- sent you a picture.”
Steve can’t help but feel a little putout. “You read my mail?”
“No,” Tony says, scowling. “I had Jarvis scan it to make sure it wasn’t filled with bombs or whatever the terrorists are using these days.”
Steve has stopped listening. He’s too curious to wait, and so opens the envelope right there and then. Judging by Tony’s expression, he’s curious as well.
“Well? What is it?” Tony asks impatiently, confirming it.
Steve frowns at it. “A photo.”
“I knew that! What is it of?”
It’s a family; an old man with his arm draped around an old woman’s shoulders. They’re surrounded by what must be their adult children, and then their grandchildren. Steve looks again at the old man, and recognises him as the man from Stuttgart.
“It’s his family,” he says, because Tony is bouncing with impatience.
“What? That’s all?” Tony deflates a little, and then perks up. “What does it say on the back?”
He turns the photograph over. Sure enough, there are words. For a second he’s confused, because they’re not in English, but they’re not German either, which is what he would have expected.
“What language is that?” Tony asks, leaning over.
“Polish,” he answers, as he finally remembers.
“And? Jesus, Rogers, you’re killing me here. What does it say?” He pauses. “Can you read Polish?”
“Yeah,” he answers vaguely.
He’s frowning over the words, because suddenly… there’s a niggle at the back of his mind. He turns it back over and stares at the photograph again, as Tony mutters about not being the postman for nothing.
He’s staring at the old man, and then, of their own accord, his gaze drifts down to the children. It’s the grandson that does it; the youngest-looking one, smiling softly. He looks the same as the old man did.
“Stefan,” he murmurs.
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Tony looks at him, surprised. “Yeah,” he agrees, sounding a little baffled. “That was his name. How’d you know?”
He runs his fingers over the photo. “I met him,” he says finally. “During the war.”
“And you remember him?” Tony sounds a little sceptical, but Steve can’t really blame him.
“It was only-” His stomach twists painfully, because hell. It clearly has been longer than he remembers. “Only a few years ago,” he says quietly. “He was just a kid.”
Tony, for once, is serious. “So he’s Polish?” He nods, and Tony hesitates. “Where’d you meet him?”
“In Poland,” he answers quietly. “We were scouting territory and-” It floods back suddenly; the fear and the horror, and oh god, those children. “Ran into some krauts.” He takes a deep breath. “Interrupted-”
The words suddenly stop coming. He remembers before he found the boy; killing the Germans, and then walking forward, towards the edge of-
“Rogers,” Tony says quietly. “You don’t have to-”
He shrugs, almost violently. “Interrupted an execution,” he says harshly- more harshly than he meant. “They were killing kids. One fired early and the older kids ran for it. He was the only survivor.”
There’s silence for a while, then. He’s remembering it, remembering the boy’s frightened eyes. To his embarrassment, there are tears in his eyes suddenly. “Didn’t think any of it mattered in the end.”
“Any of what mattered?” Tony asks, frowning suddenly.
He shakes his head. “Any of what I did.”
Tony makes a noise, and then takes the photo from his lax grip and turns it around. “What does it say?” he demands.
Steve swallows at his sudden intensity. “It says… ‘I did not give up. I made it count. Thank you.’”
Tony has an odd expression in his eyes. “Why did he write that?”
Steve abruptly feels like he’s in that small farmhouse again, and the boy is looking at him, eyes heartbroken.
“It’s what- it’s what I said to him,” he admits slowly. “When he asked me… why he should keep going. I told him- not to give up. To get back up.”
Tony’s expression is painfully gentle, then. Steve wasn’t sure he thought Tony capable of it, if he’s honest.
Tony grabs his hands and slips the photograph back into his grip.
“See?” he says quietly. “And he did. He got back up; he kept going. It mattered, Steve. To him, to his kids… it mattered.”
Steve looks at their smiling faces. “It was only a few years ago,” he says. He has to blink rapidly against the tears that have returned with a vengeance. “Guess it’s true,” he mutters.
“What is?”
“Time waits for no man.”
Tony seems to struggle for a second. “Only an idiot would think otherwise,” he finally says. “Come on, Rogers; you’re depressing me. Let’s go get something to eat. Something you’ve never had before.”
Steve forces a smile. “Like what?”
Tony shrugs. “Who knows? The world is our oyster.”
“… I’ve never had oysters.”
Tony laughs. “No time like the present,” he says, and then winces a little, like maybe he’s regretting the word choice.
No time but the present, Steve thinks.
“Fine,” Steve agrees. “You’re buying.”
Tony grins.
--
(He puts the photograph on his mirror to remind himself every morning.
This is why, he tells himself. This is why.)
--
I did not give up. I made it count. Thank you.
- this is the consequence.
--
END
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Anon. ;-; Thank you for writing this.
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Thank you for writing this.
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Thank you. That was... that was a beautiful fic and I'm at a loss for words to describe it better.
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That was gorgeous. And so, so painful.
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