December posting 2: Furlough, HL/MCU AU
Since I don't have a fic request or question for today, I'm posting an unfinished story again instead. I don't quite know how this ends, which is why it's unfinished, but there's a decent chance for this getting done. I like the characters, I like the story, I'm just temporarily baffled. (For, you know, four years of baffled...l That said, feel free to comment, ask questions, speculate, etc. It's the most likely thing to prod this along!
TL;DR? Have a WIP/Amnesty fic. Enjoy! (At the AO3 here.)
Nota bene: WIP: aka, 10 pages, it's not done, and it was supposed to be a PWP? (See that gen rating?) Also, set between Captain America and The Avengers, and now an AU. You know: I'd started writing this before I found out when Coulson and Cap first met, but I was having too much fun to change it back.
Furlough
They'd 'wandered' Rawlins Park already, letting Steve get used to the D.C. crowds (not all that different from NYC, he thought; maybe moving a little slower) and giving Coulson time to reconnoiter unobtrusively. Neither of them thought the place looked or felt wrong, so they'd been right on time at the steps of the Corcoran Gallery. The only problem was the FBI agent waiting for them.
"You're not Agent Beresford." Coulson only needed those four words to get Steve back onto threat assessment.
"No, I'm not, which means I don't have a wife who went into labor five weeks early." The suit said FBI, even to a man who'd been on ice for 70 years. The ten o'clock shadow said this FBI agent had either been up too long or hadn't been up nearly long enough. The accent said Southern, although it wasn't quite the same accent Rebel had had.
Steve shifted his focus back to the priorities: Coulson wasn't actually tense, just annoyed, and the FBI agent's voice wasn't sardonic enough to hide all of the worry. "Is she all right?"
"We don't know yet," the stranger said simply. "Beresford headed out 40 minutes ago, as soon as he finished briefing me." Very dry again, he asked, "I assume a senior special agent will do, Coulson?"
Coulson lifted an eyebrow. "You could have warned us, McCormick. I hate surprises like this."
Steve ran a hand through his hair, relaxing a little more in the process and grasping for the patience to point out, "I don't actually need a minder." At least this one exuded an amused sarcasm as oddly comforting as his almost-right accent and the wicked liveliness in his eyes when he quibbled with Coulson.
Coulson's eyes were flicking back and forth, watching the area around them but not the agent who'd shown up. That let Steve relax a little more. "A lot has changed, Captain."
Steve wanted to say he knew that, but he'd already had enough surprises to realize he didn't know how much he didn't know. Not yet.
McCormick nodded, hands still stuffed in his pockets and deliberately nonthreatening, Steve suspected. "And a lot hasn't. I'll watch for the more modern problems, Coulson. I daresay Captain Rogers can watch for the standard and less standard ones." He grinned suddenly. "And we'll take turns admiring the art, how's that?"
Steve smiled back, pleasantly surprised by what he thought he'd heard in that. "You're an artist?"
"In what spare time I have." His mouth twisted ruefully and Steve suspected it wasn't nearly as much as the man would like. That sounded familiar too.
Coulson glanced between them, sighed in exasperation that didn't sound entirely genuine to Steve, and said, "Right. Captain, meet Matthew McCormick, special agent with the FBI and not to be trusted in a poker game. McCormick, I'm counting on the FBI--"
"--to keep him away from the politicians?" McCormick cocked his head curiously. "What are you so worried about, Coulson? If there was ever a man who can take care of himself, I'd have to say we're talking around him."
"Nice of you to notice that," Steve muttered, glancing around them again. No worrying changes in the stream of people going by. Good. But they were going to draw attention if they stood here like this too much longer.
"My apologies, sir." McCormick sounded like he meant it.
Coulson nodded reluctantly, but his apology was also sincere. "Point taken, Captain." He turned his glare back on the FBI agent. "However: You know who he is."
McCormick gave him a very old-fashioned look over his sunglasses. "Coulson. I've worked with your people before, and with you in specific; Beresford knew that. I have a higher security clearance than Beresford; you know that. And they damn well did have to give me a reason to give up a week's vacation I've been promised for the last half-year of hunting serial killers."
Coulson's shoulders came down a little, his version of relaxing. "They should have called me and gotten an okay before telling you. Does the Bureau ever admit anyone else has security protocols?"
McCormick looked at him. "Some of us, yes. I did send you an email of sympathy over that Stark press conference, remember. And forty minutes ago you were most of the way here already. "
That got a very faint smile. "Those of us who've worked with you always want tone of voice to know how many double edges are in the emails, you know. " Coulson dropped that and turned to Steve and said, "Partly, I'm worried that you aren't sufficiently familiar with this decade yet, Captain. The rest of it is the sheer symbolic value. It would be bad enough if you were kidnapped or injured in NYC. If you were kidnapped from the nation's capital, it would be...."
"Messy," Steve agreed, trying to wince at the image of what the '40s would have made of that. He had some idea already of how much worse it would be in the 21st century.
"A PR nightmare, yes. Pardon me, Captain. Public relations." McCormick kept that same mild tone as he asked, "What's the real threat assessment, Coulson?"
Coulson sounded amused as he said, "Oh, the usual. Idiots in black leather, idiots in mail armor, idiots in strange costumes who attack first, idiots with guns --"
"Day at the office," McCormick said, dry enough to compensate for the D.C. humidity. He nodded, however, all business for the moment. "All right. I do know some history," Coulson raised an eyebrow, but Steve had already guessed that was a severe understatement, "so I can make a few guesses at the first. As for the rest, I assure you the armor will get my full attention, as will the costumed maniacs, the guns, and any mad bombers...." He trailed off as if to ask, Anything else?
Coulson paused momentarily before saying, "Modern social mores have been something of a surprise."
"Under that phrasing, I can imagine they would be. There are weeks we roll our eyes at current culture and we're not trying to catch up to it." McCormick pushed his sunglasses down again to frown at Coulson over them before he turned back to Steve. "Now, sir, the more important question: Will I do for sight-seeing company?"
That, Steve hadn't expected. But McCormick had a good smile when he talked about art, he wasn't treating Steve as fragile or lost, and he was even assuming that yes, Captain America could, in fact, manage to take care of himself. Plus D.C. wasn't within the bounded world of SHIELD and Steve's memories. Even during his USO days, he'd never gotten a chance to sightsee through the capital.
Steve nodded decisively. "I'd like that. Have I interrupted your time off?"
"Officially? Yes." McCormick shrugged. "Realistically, no. I was due a few days off. Now I'll still be due a few days off later, and in the meantime, I get to spend time wandering D.C. with someone else who enjoys art and history."
Steve gave him a skeptical look, but enough people had been refusing to take him at his word lately. Whatever a 'senior special agent' was, McCormick might not find it easy to get those few days back, but museums ought to be a vacation for him too, so... why not? Coulson hadn't questioned the FBI agent's competence, just his presence. He nodded. "Right. Since we're here, start with the Corcoran?"
"The Corcoran it is." McCormick took his hands out of his pockets and nodded casually to Coulson. "I'll call when Captain Rogers is done with his vacation and we'll sort out travel itineraries then. Irregardless, go. Keep New York safe and let me worry about D.C. You still have my contact numbers?"
"I do." Coulson nodded, a faint smile finally curving his mouth. "Thanks, Matthew."
"Welcome, Phil. Go on." Matthew grinned suddenly. "Try not to leave the local boys in blue boggled this time, hmm?"
"One bag of flour and no one lets you live it down," Coulson murmured, while Steve blinked at the sudden shift to first names. But Coulson's shoulders had relaxed and the corner of his mouth had that little quirk that meant he was trying not to laugh. For that matter, McCormick's grin was warm, not edged.
Steve smiled at Coulson and said, "I didn't hear anything, either. Thank you." He had his own suspicions as to who had put in a word to get him out of SHIELD headquarters for a while.
"Enjoy your visit to D.C., Captain. We'll see you in a week." Coulson vanished into the crowd of suit-wearing men ridiculously quickly from Steve's point of view.
Steve looked back around to see McCormick smiling a little, hands still in his pockets. "Right, museum."
McCormick shrugged. "Unless there's something else you'd rather see? I doubt you got any leave once you went to war, Captain."
"We got the occasional two or three day leave when we were back from a raid, and if you know it's Captain Rogers, you also know it's Steve. I'm here for a week," Steve pointed out. "Let's start here."
That got a wider smile. "Here will do just fine. And I’m Matthew."
* | * | *
Steve sat on a stool, looking over Matthew's kitchen and smiling now and then. It was a comfortable room, half-full of items in the bright silver stainless steel that seemed to be the new 'in' color, if you could call a lack of finish a color. The rest of the items, however, must have been old favorites: blue willow serving plates, cream and tan dishes, a cherry wood holder full of deep green fabric napkins, and placemats in cream and a slightly darker green -- not washed as often, maybe. For that matter, the table was sturdy and played desk half the time; Matthew had cleared papers into a corner stack without apology and with an ease that spoke of long practice.
The afternoon wandering the museum had been fun, in part because Matthew was as prone to stop and sketch something as Steve was. They'd stayed in line of sight of each other, but Matthew definitely had no doubts Steve could defend himself -- or his opinions, for that matter. They'd traded comments on the art as they went, admiring and disparaging alike, half-sketching their arguments in the air or on pads as they went.
It had been fun and oddly comfortable. Not quite like falling in with the Commandoes again, but still reassuring. Matthew had a sly, sardonic turn of phrase that Dernier would have loved, a wicked sense of humor Morita would have instantly played off of, and eyes and attention sharp enough to make Dum-Dum or Bucky happy. So he wasn't one of Steve's guys, but he wasn't as far off as a lot of the SHIELD agents still felt.
The man was also comfortable enough in his kitchen that Steve only felt obliged to offer help once.
Steve could cook - it had been that or go hungry -- but he was just as happy to sit and study the art on the walls or finish one of his sketches if Matthew preferred to work by himself. God knew Gabe had hated help 'improving' rations, and he'd been good enough at it that unless he wanted a break, the Commandos just left him to it and handled the other chores.
The kitchen was starting to smell familiar, however -- basil, garlic, something salty, tomatoes -- and Steve realized in surprise that he was actually starting to feel relaxed instead of just pretending to make SHIELD's trick-cyclists happy. But it seemed rude to sit without at least asking if his host wanted help, so Steve finally pointed out, "I can be trusted with a kitchen knife, Matthew."
Matthew scraped the olives to one side of the cutting board and pulled basil out of the colander. He glanced over at Steve and answered, "I don't doubt that, but there's not much to this." He glanced at the pan. "Hmm. Oil's ready. If you insist on helping, scrape the left side of the cutting board in and stir it, would you? Let's not burn dinner and have to start over."
"Not the olives yet, huh?" Steve followed his instructions and sniffed at the fragrant steam rising up off it, sniffing. "Garlic, red pepper, and salt I recognize. What's the gray paste, anchovy?"
"Mmm-hmm. Pasta puttanesca." Matthew shot him a quick, wicked grin. "How much Italian did you have time to pick up?"
"Come on, Matthew, that one's basically the same in French, Italian, and Spanish." Steve rolled his eyes. "Why does everyone in this decade think they invented sex?"
Matthew snorted. "Because they don't want to admit their parents had it, of course. Some things never change. As usual, time in the military teaches the basics in any local language, hmm?" Matthew reached over, dumped in the small heap of chopped black olives, then opened a jar, measured out a couple large spoonfuls of capers, and dropped them in the skillet too. "You did say you like Italian food."
"I grew up in Brooklyn," Steve pointed out. "Pasta meals stretch."
Matthew nodded. "So they do. Noisy for a moment, hold on." He used a machine on the counter to reduce a large can of tomatoes to tomato juice and pulp.
Steve gave it a considering look. "Another timesaver?"
"Anything that speeds up kitchen prep is useful so far as I'm concerned. This is called a blender for the obvious reasons." Matthew poured the tomatoes into the skillet too and moved to stir the pasta. "Dinner in five, I'd say. So SHIELD is being a pain in the ass about letting you dip your toes in the modern waters, then?"
"Because it blends things, right." Steve considered that, then shrugged. "They think they have reason, I suppose. I've been spending a lot of time in the gym."
Matthew looked at him more thoughtfully. "Care to define 'a lot'?"
"Hours." Steve shrugged again. "I get antsy if I sit too long without something to do, and I need time to think between visits to their very nice, very helpful doctors." Bucky would have harassed him about never making a sniper and found him paper and pencil… Steve pushed that down and tried, again, not to miss Bucky. Might as well not miss his arm, though. Which some guys have to do, Rogers. Accept it and move on.
The doctors crack still applied, apparently; it got a snort of sympathy, anyway. Matthew said, "Yes, I've had a few of those visits myself. Several of them made me want to go beat something up, too. Have they actually found you a psychologist with a high enough security clearance and combat experience? And do you want wine or beer?"
Steve looked over, frowning when he realized Matthew was serious. "You've had to go to the head docs too? Why? Anything, honestly."
Matthew nodded. "I like the way wine tastes with pasta, although I have some lager that's good with this, too. As for my visits to the psychologists, it's standard Bureau procedure to send an agent to them when we have to shoot someone. Even more so, and for more meetings, if we shot and killed someone. I've had to kill more than a few in my time, so I spend more time than I like discussing my feelings about it with the psychologists." He added dryly, "Somehow, the doctors are rarely happy with an answer of, 'It was for the greater good, so I'm coping just fine.' "
"I've noticed that, too," Steve said. After a few seconds, he said, "Whichever you're drinking, then." Steve kept stirring the sauce while Matthew pulled glasses out of a cabinet and filled them. "The bread smells done."
Matthew nodded, handed him a glass full of a dark red wine, and pulled out a pan of garlic bread, setting it on a hot pad on the table. Steve looked at the amount of food he was cooking and asked curiously, "Planning on leftovers?"
"If there's anything left, surely. If not, that's fine, too." Steve watched in amusement as Matthew kept pulling food out, from the refrigerator this time. Apparently he'd put a salad together while Steve was unpacking. "But I got the impression that your metabolism runs a good bit faster than usual. I haven't seen you eat since you got here, so." He waved a hand at the table full of food as if it made sense to him.
Steve ignored the way his stomach was growling; the pasta sauce smelled almost right and the timer for the pasta was counting down numbers steadily. "What exactly do you do that you kill more than most? Does that tie into you knowing Coulson?"
Matthew shrugged and pulled out a couple bottles and put them on the table too. "One of the current FBI departments is the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime."
Steve shook his head. "Yeah, that's a government division all right. Some things never change."
"Says the man who got a ride in from Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?" They traded amused looks and moved around each other easily, draining and then combining pasta and sauce. The bowl went on the table, and they both started dishing out food. Steve piled his plate high, taking Matthew at his word about the leftovers.
Matthew took less pasta than Steve did, but as much as Dum-Dum would have, and more than a lot of the SHIELD agents did. Either he'd had a very long day or he carried a lot of muscle; maybe both. "Violent Crime Analysis does pretty much what the name suggests, anything from advising other agencies on how best to prosecute -- a lot of the small towns don't have experience with particularly violent crime -- to learning how to think like the violent, repeat offenders to catch them faster. That last is the part that makes the shrinks worry about us."
"That would worry me, too, if it was one of my guys." Steve didn't mention that sometimes it had been. "Can you? Think like them, I mean."
Matthew leaned back, considering it carefully. "Have you ever finished a book and, for a little while, found yourself thinking about how one of the characters might react to something?"
Steve nodded. "A lot, particularly when I was a kid. Like that, huh?"
"It can be. Or it can get more intense. Those of us who specialize in thinking like killers have to rotate out every eighteen months so that we don't turn into one of them. Not that they put it that way."
Matthew made a dent in his pasta while it was hot. Steve did the same, giving him a minute, then asked, "Do you mind the shop talk?"
"If I minded, I'd say so, or just change the topic. It's fine." Matthew passed the bread over to him. "Here. If the stories about your healing are true…?"
Steve shrugged. "I don't know the stories but I heal pretty fast."
Matthew nodded. "Eat, then. That's got to take fuel and you can't have been out of the ice too long or Phil wouldn't still be worrying."
Steve didn't answer that one; SHIELD didn't want him discussing how recently they'd found him, or where they'd found him for that matter. Not even to FBI agents with a high security clearance. "Violent repeat offenders, you said. Can't the local police handle them?"
"Mmm." Matthew accepted the change in topic, refilling their glasses before waggling his hand in a 'sometimes' motion that Steve had no trouble interpreting. "It definitely depends on what it is and how good the locals are. One of my specialties is serial killers; what they used to call stranger killers?"
"Some specialty." Steve nodded, however, leaning back to consider the question. He took some garlic bread with him as he did. "I know what you mean, yeah. There were always a few deaths we wondered about, but Brooklyn was crowded and there were war refugees. The police would blame it on the new immigrants. Bucky and I always thought it was too convenient that newcomers could know the area well enough to get away so cleanly."
"Yes. That's never a good sign. There's a quote since your plane went down. 'Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action.' It applies to serial killing, most of the time."
Steve snagged the salad over and refilled his bowl. He'd sniffed curiously at both salad dressings before trying the blue cheese. This time, he added the Greek vinaigrette. "Most of the time?" He glanced up. "What, other maniacs take the news as a pattern to follow?"
"Copycat killers, yes," Matthew said. "Did you run into that during the war?"
Steve said grimly, "Copycats. You get it enough to have a name for it. No, we saw… there were times when locals tried to make deaths look like Nazi or HYDRA raids to cover up grudge killings."
"Ah. That." Steve looked up from the last of his pasta and realized Matthew was studying him like Bucky or Dum-Dum trying to figure out what Steve hadn't mentioned this time. "Steve… from your point of view, how long ago was the war?"
"How long ago they pulled me out of the ice is classified," he said quietly.
Matthew refilled both their glasses. "I didn't ask that, nor where; how quickly you recovered physically is absolutely none of my business. What I am asking is, from your point of view, how long have you been out of combat?"
The wine in front of him smelled like raspberries and dark cherries, chocolate and coffee and wood smoke under that; the kitchen smelled like peppery pasta sauce and garlic. The seat under him was solid, unsplintered, comfortable. Steve could hear kids calling back and forth outside, cars on the streets, the hum of something electric turning on for a moment.
Under all that, though, he was still listening for broken branches, for sudden silences, for wind and rain, gunfire and mortar rounds. He was still sniffing for unwashed soldiers and cigarette smoke, the reek of cordite or blood or rot. And he kept waiting for the cold to pour back over him.
Steve's grip tightened and the glass in his hand broke, liquid splashing down, crystal shattering farther on wood, the smell of the wine suddenly overpowering. It was the wrong color and scent for blood, at least, and he looked up from the dark red stuff to see Matthew watching him intently and sitting very still. "It's 2012, Captain Rogers. You're in Virginia, and I'm a friend of Phil Coulson's."
Steve swallowed the lump of unsorted emotions down again and managed to say, "Yes. I know."
Matthew only nodded and said, "I'll clean that up. My apologies for setting off whatever memory that was." He gestured Steve back down with the army hand signal to stay put that apparently hadn't changed in seventy years. He also came back with paper towels and a paper bag for the glass. "How's your hand?"
Steve tugged the last few pieces out and let the blood clot behind it. "It's all right." He moved plates and glasses out of the way as his host cleaned it up. "I can't even claim that was the wine. Not anymore."
Matthew passed him a damp towel. "Here, you soaked your shirt. Does hard liquor work any better, then? I've enough to spare if you'd like."
"I haven't tried an entire bottle. Half of one doesn't do enough." Steve sponged off the worst of it before he answered, "It's been seven weeks, six days. From my point of view."
"And we won't bother with hours or minutes?" Matthew considered him and said quietly, "If you've been spending hours in the gym, the museum wandering today can't have been enough exercise. Especially not after the trip down and the museum wanderings. Let's change the topic and give dinner a while to settle, then we'll see about letting you run some of that off."
On the one hand, he was twitchy from hours in a train and then an afternoon of wtalking and sketching instead of running. But on the other hand-- "You went to the trouble of feeding me all this."
"It's not the food you need to run off," Matthew said, gathering up the plates and starting to dump leftovers into containers.
Steve stood up to help. His appetite had vanished, after all. Matthew reached over, dropping a hand onto his shoulder; Steve managed not to shy away from it and ended up freezing in place for the second it took him to realize the gesture was friendly.
Matthew glanced sidelong at him, motionless other than that. Steve relaxed finally. "I'm here, Matthew." Matthew nodded, but he kept watching Steve. His hand stayed put, too. Warm and solid and there, the strongest connection Steve had felt in weeks. Steve finally said, "No one touches anymore."
"I know. Contact between friends changed after your war, for some reason. Too busy, too much 'progress,' maybe." Matthew still hadn't moved. "Eight weeks more or less, after months of combat with your team?"
"Yeah." The word huffed out of him and drawing air again took an effort.
Matthew sighed and tugged at his shoulder. Steve stumbled forward, knocking him back against the counter. The impact had to have bruised; the pasta bowl in the sink rattled with the impact. Matthew just wrapped his arms around Steve and said quietly, "This is definitely one of the times when SHIELD is full of idiots." One hand rubbed at Steve's back, solid and soothing; the other cradled the back of his neck, solidly over that vulnerable spot at the nape.
It didn't feel threatening.
Matthew said quietly, "Touch is one of the basic human needs, Steve. Lack of it leaves children failing to thrive, sends the elderly to their graves too soon. And you, with those artist's hands that have been doing just as well with your shield as charcoals or pens, are direly deficient in it."
Steve laughed despite himself and didn't even try to move away. "They all call me 'Captain Rogers' or 'Captain America' or just Cap. I'm not even cleared to spar with anyone yet. The psychologists are worried I'll have a flashback."
Matthew settled himself more comfortably against the counter, still rubbing Steve's back. The thumb on his nape was stroking back and forth in the same rhythm, firm enough not to tickle the short hairs there. "You went from the war bonds tours and propaganda films to the front and straight into commando raids, Steve. Did you get much leave?"
"A couple days here and there." He couldn't figure out what to do with his arms and finally put his hands on the counter behind Matthew. "They claimed we got five days once, but three days of that was tied up looking good for the news reels."
Matthew nodded. "Then they might have a point on the flashbacks. You can touch me, you know." He sounded almost amused as he added, "Seeing as I'm already taking liberties."
The accent was all wrong but the eyes and the humor reminded him of Bucky. Steve laughed, ignoring the sob waiting behind it, and went ahead and wrapped his arms around Matthew properly. Even put his head down on the man's shoulder, wishing it was Bucky and trying not to think how much Bucky would have teased him about this.
Matthew just kept rubbing his back. Steve wasn't sure how long it had been when Matthew finally asked, "I assume they’ve had the doctors poking and prodding at you?"
"Oh yeah. We might've had some words about how much blood they couldn't have." Steve shrugged, careful not to shake off Matthew's hug. "They might have a better chance now of recreating Howard's machines and Dr. Erskine's formula, but I don't think they'd have any better idea what to do with a super-soldier now than they did then."
"Politicians surely haven't improved," Matthew agreed. "No, that's not what I was wondering - although if you're concerned about that? Phil Coulson has an extraordinary knack for sorting the wheat from the chaff in paperwork and stories. What I'm wondering just now is whether you've ever had a massage?"
Steve smiled, trying not to laugh. "We back to the touch-starved?"
Matthew's words managed to be almost gentle despite the matter-of-fact tone. "You've shown no sign of wanting to let go."
"…I'm on leave." Steve smiled a little when Matthew laughed.
"So you are. Come along then."
* | * | *
Matthew walked up the stairs with him, glanced at the guest room door, frowned for a brief moment, and then waved Steve on. "This way."
Steve watched him thoughtfully but went along. "Afraid I'll bolt?"
"Good God, no." Matthew shook his head. "Dare say if you decide you don't like something I'm doing, you'll say so or get up and leave." His grin slanted like Bucky's for a moment, and Steve smiled despite himself. "The explanation's much simpler. I've got massage oil in my medicine cabinet, and the spare bed's all right for a couple friends of mine who're about your height -- but my bed's bigger." He shrugged and grinned wickedly. "Priorities."
Steve started laughing. "Hey, I didn't ask about that."
Matthew grinned at him. "I never said you did. But let's be honest; what man buys a better bed for the guest room than his own? And you'll want room to stretch properly during this. So." He opened the door and waved Steve in. "Shed your shoes and shirt at least and sprawl out, would you?"
Steve stopped in the doorway to stare, ignoring the art and furniture for the moment. "I don't think I've ever seen a bed that big."
Matthew came back out of his bathroom with plastic bottles. "California kings came out in the 1970s, I think. A little more narrow than a regular king, but my feet don't hang off the end." He paused for a moment, then asked wryly, "Ah. Beds have been another one of the ongoing surprises?"
Steve shrugged and sat down on the bed to unlace his boots, surprised when it gave under him - but it only compressed a little. Then it was even more comfortable than the couch was. "Ma raised me by herself, and the Depression was going on when I got out of the orphanage. Even when it started getting better, well, Bucky and I still had trouble getting jobs. I worked for the WPA when I wasn't sick; he hauled boxes on the piers, worked in any garage that'd give him a couple hours, and went into the army after Pearl Harbor. Buck sent home what he could but… I couldn't see the point in spending that on a bed. Medicine when I had to, or warmer clothes, sure. Luxuries? No."
Matthew nodded, unsurprised. "I can surely see the sense in that. And then you were in the army." He handed over the bottles. "Check the scents, see if they'll bother you."
"Some reason they would?" Steve asked, but he sniffed cautiously at them.
"Scent is one of the strongest triggers for memory, Steve. No sense setting off more landmines."
"Those are fine. That one smells like some stuff Dernier found and Dum-Dum broke." Steve glanced up. "And you're used to shellshock. Do I want to know why?"
"Because I've had plenty of my own." Matthew shrugged. "There's a reason they send us to the doctors, too, Steve."
"Because you hunt stranger killers." Steve nodded and stood up long enough to tuck his boots under a nearby chair that actually looked like it could take his weight and might be comfortable. There was also a reading lamp and an end table covered in books. "You like to read?"
"I get cases all over the country. That's where I pile up the books that look interesting so that I can toss a couple in my bag when I head for the airport." Matthew stripped his own shoes off, rolled up his sleeves, and emptied his pockets into a bowl on the dresser. "So. Use the one that smells like Dernier and Dugan or not?"
After a second, Steve said, "Not. Thanks. Not when I've already gotten lost once tonight." Steve pulled his shirt over his head, folded it neatly, and put it on the chair over his shoes. He glanced up. "You said, 'at least.' How much more?"
Matthew shrugged. "As much as you're comfortable with, and absolutely no more than your comfortable with. The point of this is to make you feel better. Adding to your stress is not the point."
Steve eyed him. "Uh-huh. The oil won't do your shirt a lot of good."
Matthew considered him thoughtfully, then nodded and peeled it off. It left him in a white singlet - t-shirt they were calling them now, Steve thought. "So it won't." He grinned for a second. "And fair's fair, yes."
Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:
Rebel Ralston was a Howling Commando from Kentucky in the comic books. He also originated the Commandos' howl.
'One bag of flour' of course refers to 'A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Thor's Hammer.'
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action. -- It's an Ian Fleming quote, actually, from the novel Goldfinger.
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TL;DR? Have a WIP/Amnesty fic. Enjoy! (At the AO3 here.)
Nota bene: WIP: aka, 10 pages, it's not done, and it was supposed to be a PWP? (See that gen rating?) Also, set between Captain America and The Avengers, and now an AU. You know: I'd started writing this before I found out when Coulson and Cap first met, but I was having too much fun to change it back.
Furlough
They'd 'wandered' Rawlins Park already, letting Steve get used to the D.C. crowds (not all that different from NYC, he thought; maybe moving a little slower) and giving Coulson time to reconnoiter unobtrusively. Neither of them thought the place looked or felt wrong, so they'd been right on time at the steps of the Corcoran Gallery. The only problem was the FBI agent waiting for them.
"You're not Agent Beresford." Coulson only needed those four words to get Steve back onto threat assessment.
"No, I'm not, which means I don't have a wife who went into labor five weeks early." The suit said FBI, even to a man who'd been on ice for 70 years. The ten o'clock shadow said this FBI agent had either been up too long or hadn't been up nearly long enough. The accent said Southern, although it wasn't quite the same accent Rebel had had.
Steve shifted his focus back to the priorities: Coulson wasn't actually tense, just annoyed, and the FBI agent's voice wasn't sardonic enough to hide all of the worry. "Is she all right?"
"We don't know yet," the stranger said simply. "Beresford headed out 40 minutes ago, as soon as he finished briefing me." Very dry again, he asked, "I assume a senior special agent will do, Coulson?"
Coulson lifted an eyebrow. "You could have warned us, McCormick. I hate surprises like this."
Steve ran a hand through his hair, relaxing a little more in the process and grasping for the patience to point out, "I don't actually need a minder." At least this one exuded an amused sarcasm as oddly comforting as his almost-right accent and the wicked liveliness in his eyes when he quibbled with Coulson.
Coulson's eyes were flicking back and forth, watching the area around them but not the agent who'd shown up. That let Steve relax a little more. "A lot has changed, Captain."
Steve wanted to say he knew that, but he'd already had enough surprises to realize he didn't know how much he didn't know. Not yet.
McCormick nodded, hands still stuffed in his pockets and deliberately nonthreatening, Steve suspected. "And a lot hasn't. I'll watch for the more modern problems, Coulson. I daresay Captain Rogers can watch for the standard and less standard ones." He grinned suddenly. "And we'll take turns admiring the art, how's that?"
Steve smiled back, pleasantly surprised by what he thought he'd heard in that. "You're an artist?"
"In what spare time I have." His mouth twisted ruefully and Steve suspected it wasn't nearly as much as the man would like. That sounded familiar too.
Coulson glanced between them, sighed in exasperation that didn't sound entirely genuine to Steve, and said, "Right. Captain, meet Matthew McCormick, special agent with the FBI and not to be trusted in a poker game. McCormick, I'm counting on the FBI--"
"--to keep him away from the politicians?" McCormick cocked his head curiously. "What are you so worried about, Coulson? If there was ever a man who can take care of himself, I'd have to say we're talking around him."
"Nice of you to notice that," Steve muttered, glancing around them again. No worrying changes in the stream of people going by. Good. But they were going to draw attention if they stood here like this too much longer.
"My apologies, sir." McCormick sounded like he meant it.
Coulson nodded reluctantly, but his apology was also sincere. "Point taken, Captain." He turned his glare back on the FBI agent. "However: You know who he is."
McCormick gave him a very old-fashioned look over his sunglasses. "Coulson. I've worked with your people before, and with you in specific; Beresford knew that. I have a higher security clearance than Beresford; you know that. And they damn well did have to give me a reason to give up a week's vacation I've been promised for the last half-year of hunting serial killers."
Coulson's shoulders came down a little, his version of relaxing. "They should have called me and gotten an okay before telling you. Does the Bureau ever admit anyone else has security protocols?"
McCormick looked at him. "Some of us, yes. I did send you an email of sympathy over that Stark press conference, remember. And forty minutes ago you were most of the way here already. "
That got a very faint smile. "Those of us who've worked with you always want tone of voice to know how many double edges are in the emails, you know. " Coulson dropped that and turned to Steve and said, "Partly, I'm worried that you aren't sufficiently familiar with this decade yet, Captain. The rest of it is the sheer symbolic value. It would be bad enough if you were kidnapped or injured in NYC. If you were kidnapped from the nation's capital, it would be...."
"Messy," Steve agreed, trying to wince at the image of what the '40s would have made of that. He had some idea already of how much worse it would be in the 21st century.
"A PR nightmare, yes. Pardon me, Captain. Public relations." McCormick kept that same mild tone as he asked, "What's the real threat assessment, Coulson?"
Coulson sounded amused as he said, "Oh, the usual. Idiots in black leather, idiots in mail armor, idiots in strange costumes who attack first, idiots with guns --"
"Day at the office," McCormick said, dry enough to compensate for the D.C. humidity. He nodded, however, all business for the moment. "All right. I do know some history," Coulson raised an eyebrow, but Steve had already guessed that was a severe understatement, "so I can make a few guesses at the first. As for the rest, I assure you the armor will get my full attention, as will the costumed maniacs, the guns, and any mad bombers...." He trailed off as if to ask, Anything else?
Coulson paused momentarily before saying, "Modern social mores have been something of a surprise."
"Under that phrasing, I can imagine they would be. There are weeks we roll our eyes at current culture and we're not trying to catch up to it." McCormick pushed his sunglasses down again to frown at Coulson over them before he turned back to Steve. "Now, sir, the more important question: Will I do for sight-seeing company?"
That, Steve hadn't expected. But McCormick had a good smile when he talked about art, he wasn't treating Steve as fragile or lost, and he was even assuming that yes, Captain America could, in fact, manage to take care of himself. Plus D.C. wasn't within the bounded world of SHIELD and Steve's memories. Even during his USO days, he'd never gotten a chance to sightsee through the capital.
Steve nodded decisively. "I'd like that. Have I interrupted your time off?"
"Officially? Yes." McCormick shrugged. "Realistically, no. I was due a few days off. Now I'll still be due a few days off later, and in the meantime, I get to spend time wandering D.C. with someone else who enjoys art and history."
Steve gave him a skeptical look, but enough people had been refusing to take him at his word lately. Whatever a 'senior special agent' was, McCormick might not find it easy to get those few days back, but museums ought to be a vacation for him too, so... why not? Coulson hadn't questioned the FBI agent's competence, just his presence. He nodded. "Right. Since we're here, start with the Corcoran?"
"The Corcoran it is." McCormick took his hands out of his pockets and nodded casually to Coulson. "I'll call when Captain Rogers is done with his vacation and we'll sort out travel itineraries then. Irregardless, go. Keep New York safe and let me worry about D.C. You still have my contact numbers?"
"I do." Coulson nodded, a faint smile finally curving his mouth. "Thanks, Matthew."
"Welcome, Phil. Go on." Matthew grinned suddenly. "Try not to leave the local boys in blue boggled this time, hmm?"
"One bag of flour and no one lets you live it down," Coulson murmured, while Steve blinked at the sudden shift to first names. But Coulson's shoulders had relaxed and the corner of his mouth had that little quirk that meant he was trying not to laugh. For that matter, McCormick's grin was warm, not edged.
Steve smiled at Coulson and said, "I didn't hear anything, either. Thank you." He had his own suspicions as to who had put in a word to get him out of SHIELD headquarters for a while.
"Enjoy your visit to D.C., Captain. We'll see you in a week." Coulson vanished into the crowd of suit-wearing men ridiculously quickly from Steve's point of view.
Steve looked back around to see McCormick smiling a little, hands still in his pockets. "Right, museum."
McCormick shrugged. "Unless there's something else you'd rather see? I doubt you got any leave once you went to war, Captain."
"We got the occasional two or three day leave when we were back from a raid, and if you know it's Captain Rogers, you also know it's Steve. I'm here for a week," Steve pointed out. "Let's start here."
That got a wider smile. "Here will do just fine. And I’m Matthew."
* | * | *
Steve sat on a stool, looking over Matthew's kitchen and smiling now and then. It was a comfortable room, half-full of items in the bright silver stainless steel that seemed to be the new 'in' color, if you could call a lack of finish a color. The rest of the items, however, must have been old favorites: blue willow serving plates, cream and tan dishes, a cherry wood holder full of deep green fabric napkins, and placemats in cream and a slightly darker green -- not washed as often, maybe. For that matter, the table was sturdy and played desk half the time; Matthew had cleared papers into a corner stack without apology and with an ease that spoke of long practice.
The afternoon wandering the museum had been fun, in part because Matthew was as prone to stop and sketch something as Steve was. They'd stayed in line of sight of each other, but Matthew definitely had no doubts Steve could defend himself -- or his opinions, for that matter. They'd traded comments on the art as they went, admiring and disparaging alike, half-sketching their arguments in the air or on pads as they went.
It had been fun and oddly comfortable. Not quite like falling in with the Commandoes again, but still reassuring. Matthew had a sly, sardonic turn of phrase that Dernier would have loved, a wicked sense of humor Morita would have instantly played off of, and eyes and attention sharp enough to make Dum-Dum or Bucky happy. So he wasn't one of Steve's guys, but he wasn't as far off as a lot of the SHIELD agents still felt.
The man was also comfortable enough in his kitchen that Steve only felt obliged to offer help once.
Steve could cook - it had been that or go hungry -- but he was just as happy to sit and study the art on the walls or finish one of his sketches if Matthew preferred to work by himself. God knew Gabe had hated help 'improving' rations, and he'd been good enough at it that unless he wanted a break, the Commandos just left him to it and handled the other chores.
The kitchen was starting to smell familiar, however -- basil, garlic, something salty, tomatoes -- and Steve realized in surprise that he was actually starting to feel relaxed instead of just pretending to make SHIELD's trick-cyclists happy. But it seemed rude to sit without at least asking if his host wanted help, so Steve finally pointed out, "I can be trusted with a kitchen knife, Matthew."
Matthew scraped the olives to one side of the cutting board and pulled basil out of the colander. He glanced over at Steve and answered, "I don't doubt that, but there's not much to this." He glanced at the pan. "Hmm. Oil's ready. If you insist on helping, scrape the left side of the cutting board in and stir it, would you? Let's not burn dinner and have to start over."
"Not the olives yet, huh?" Steve followed his instructions and sniffed at the fragrant steam rising up off it, sniffing. "Garlic, red pepper, and salt I recognize. What's the gray paste, anchovy?"
"Mmm-hmm. Pasta puttanesca." Matthew shot him a quick, wicked grin. "How much Italian did you have time to pick up?"
"Come on, Matthew, that one's basically the same in French, Italian, and Spanish." Steve rolled his eyes. "Why does everyone in this decade think they invented sex?"
Matthew snorted. "Because they don't want to admit their parents had it, of course. Some things never change. As usual, time in the military teaches the basics in any local language, hmm?" Matthew reached over, dumped in the small heap of chopped black olives, then opened a jar, measured out a couple large spoonfuls of capers, and dropped them in the skillet too. "You did say you like Italian food."
"I grew up in Brooklyn," Steve pointed out. "Pasta meals stretch."
Matthew nodded. "So they do. Noisy for a moment, hold on." He used a machine on the counter to reduce a large can of tomatoes to tomato juice and pulp.
Steve gave it a considering look. "Another timesaver?"
"Anything that speeds up kitchen prep is useful so far as I'm concerned. This is called a blender for the obvious reasons." Matthew poured the tomatoes into the skillet too and moved to stir the pasta. "Dinner in five, I'd say. So SHIELD is being a pain in the ass about letting you dip your toes in the modern waters, then?"
"Because it blends things, right." Steve considered that, then shrugged. "They think they have reason, I suppose. I've been spending a lot of time in the gym."
Matthew looked at him more thoughtfully. "Care to define 'a lot'?"
"Hours." Steve shrugged again. "I get antsy if I sit too long without something to do, and I need time to think between visits to their very nice, very helpful doctors." Bucky would have harassed him about never making a sniper and found him paper and pencil… Steve pushed that down and tried, again, not to miss Bucky. Might as well not miss his arm, though. Which some guys have to do, Rogers. Accept it and move on.
The doctors crack still applied, apparently; it got a snort of sympathy, anyway. Matthew said, "Yes, I've had a few of those visits myself. Several of them made me want to go beat something up, too. Have they actually found you a psychologist with a high enough security clearance and combat experience? And do you want wine or beer?"
Steve looked over, frowning when he realized Matthew was serious. "You've had to go to the head docs too? Why? Anything, honestly."
Matthew nodded. "I like the way wine tastes with pasta, although I have some lager that's good with this, too. As for my visits to the psychologists, it's standard Bureau procedure to send an agent to them when we have to shoot someone. Even more so, and for more meetings, if we shot and killed someone. I've had to kill more than a few in my time, so I spend more time than I like discussing my feelings about it with the psychologists." He added dryly, "Somehow, the doctors are rarely happy with an answer of, 'It was for the greater good, so I'm coping just fine.' "
"I've noticed that, too," Steve said. After a few seconds, he said, "Whichever you're drinking, then." Steve kept stirring the sauce while Matthew pulled glasses out of a cabinet and filled them. "The bread smells done."
Matthew nodded, handed him a glass full of a dark red wine, and pulled out a pan of garlic bread, setting it on a hot pad on the table. Steve looked at the amount of food he was cooking and asked curiously, "Planning on leftovers?"
"If there's anything left, surely. If not, that's fine, too." Steve watched in amusement as Matthew kept pulling food out, from the refrigerator this time. Apparently he'd put a salad together while Steve was unpacking. "But I got the impression that your metabolism runs a good bit faster than usual. I haven't seen you eat since you got here, so." He waved a hand at the table full of food as if it made sense to him.
Steve ignored the way his stomach was growling; the pasta sauce smelled almost right and the timer for the pasta was counting down numbers steadily. "What exactly do you do that you kill more than most? Does that tie into you knowing Coulson?"
Matthew shrugged and pulled out a couple bottles and put them on the table too. "One of the current FBI departments is the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime."
Steve shook his head. "Yeah, that's a government division all right. Some things never change."
"Says the man who got a ride in from Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?" They traded amused looks and moved around each other easily, draining and then combining pasta and sauce. The bowl went on the table, and they both started dishing out food. Steve piled his plate high, taking Matthew at his word about the leftovers.
Matthew took less pasta than Steve did, but as much as Dum-Dum would have, and more than a lot of the SHIELD agents did. Either he'd had a very long day or he carried a lot of muscle; maybe both. "Violent Crime Analysis does pretty much what the name suggests, anything from advising other agencies on how best to prosecute -- a lot of the small towns don't have experience with particularly violent crime -- to learning how to think like the violent, repeat offenders to catch them faster. That last is the part that makes the shrinks worry about us."
"That would worry me, too, if it was one of my guys." Steve didn't mention that sometimes it had been. "Can you? Think like them, I mean."
Matthew leaned back, considering it carefully. "Have you ever finished a book and, for a little while, found yourself thinking about how one of the characters might react to something?"
Steve nodded. "A lot, particularly when I was a kid. Like that, huh?"
"It can be. Or it can get more intense. Those of us who specialize in thinking like killers have to rotate out every eighteen months so that we don't turn into one of them. Not that they put it that way."
Matthew made a dent in his pasta while it was hot. Steve did the same, giving him a minute, then asked, "Do you mind the shop talk?"
"If I minded, I'd say so, or just change the topic. It's fine." Matthew passed the bread over to him. "Here. If the stories about your healing are true…?"
Steve shrugged. "I don't know the stories but I heal pretty fast."
Matthew nodded. "Eat, then. That's got to take fuel and you can't have been out of the ice too long or Phil wouldn't still be worrying."
Steve didn't answer that one; SHIELD didn't want him discussing how recently they'd found him, or where they'd found him for that matter. Not even to FBI agents with a high security clearance. "Violent repeat offenders, you said. Can't the local police handle them?"
"Mmm." Matthew accepted the change in topic, refilling their glasses before waggling his hand in a 'sometimes' motion that Steve had no trouble interpreting. "It definitely depends on what it is and how good the locals are. One of my specialties is serial killers; what they used to call stranger killers?"
"Some specialty." Steve nodded, however, leaning back to consider the question. He took some garlic bread with him as he did. "I know what you mean, yeah. There were always a few deaths we wondered about, but Brooklyn was crowded and there were war refugees. The police would blame it on the new immigrants. Bucky and I always thought it was too convenient that newcomers could know the area well enough to get away so cleanly."
"Yes. That's never a good sign. There's a quote since your plane went down. 'Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action.' It applies to serial killing, most of the time."
Steve snagged the salad over and refilled his bowl. He'd sniffed curiously at both salad dressings before trying the blue cheese. This time, he added the Greek vinaigrette. "Most of the time?" He glanced up. "What, other maniacs take the news as a pattern to follow?"
"Copycat killers, yes," Matthew said. "Did you run into that during the war?"
Steve said grimly, "Copycats. You get it enough to have a name for it. No, we saw… there were times when locals tried to make deaths look like Nazi or HYDRA raids to cover up grudge killings."
"Ah. That." Steve looked up from the last of his pasta and realized Matthew was studying him like Bucky or Dum-Dum trying to figure out what Steve hadn't mentioned this time. "Steve… from your point of view, how long ago was the war?"
"How long ago they pulled me out of the ice is classified," he said quietly.
Matthew refilled both their glasses. "I didn't ask that, nor where; how quickly you recovered physically is absolutely none of my business. What I am asking is, from your point of view, how long have you been out of combat?"
The wine in front of him smelled like raspberries and dark cherries, chocolate and coffee and wood smoke under that; the kitchen smelled like peppery pasta sauce and garlic. The seat under him was solid, unsplintered, comfortable. Steve could hear kids calling back and forth outside, cars on the streets, the hum of something electric turning on for a moment.
Under all that, though, he was still listening for broken branches, for sudden silences, for wind and rain, gunfire and mortar rounds. He was still sniffing for unwashed soldiers and cigarette smoke, the reek of cordite or blood or rot. And he kept waiting for the cold to pour back over him.
Steve's grip tightened and the glass in his hand broke, liquid splashing down, crystal shattering farther on wood, the smell of the wine suddenly overpowering. It was the wrong color and scent for blood, at least, and he looked up from the dark red stuff to see Matthew watching him intently and sitting very still. "It's 2012, Captain Rogers. You're in Virginia, and I'm a friend of Phil Coulson's."
Steve swallowed the lump of unsorted emotions down again and managed to say, "Yes. I know."
Matthew only nodded and said, "I'll clean that up. My apologies for setting off whatever memory that was." He gestured Steve back down with the army hand signal to stay put that apparently hadn't changed in seventy years. He also came back with paper towels and a paper bag for the glass. "How's your hand?"
Steve tugged the last few pieces out and let the blood clot behind it. "It's all right." He moved plates and glasses out of the way as his host cleaned it up. "I can't even claim that was the wine. Not anymore."
Matthew passed him a damp towel. "Here, you soaked your shirt. Does hard liquor work any better, then? I've enough to spare if you'd like."
"I haven't tried an entire bottle. Half of one doesn't do enough." Steve sponged off the worst of it before he answered, "It's been seven weeks, six days. From my point of view."
"And we won't bother with hours or minutes?" Matthew considered him and said quietly, "If you've been spending hours in the gym, the museum wandering today can't have been enough exercise. Especially not after the trip down and the museum wanderings. Let's change the topic and give dinner a while to settle, then we'll see about letting you run some of that off."
On the one hand, he was twitchy from hours in a train and then an afternoon of wtalking and sketching instead of running. But on the other hand-- "You went to the trouble of feeding me all this."
"It's not the food you need to run off," Matthew said, gathering up the plates and starting to dump leftovers into containers.
Steve stood up to help. His appetite had vanished, after all. Matthew reached over, dropping a hand onto his shoulder; Steve managed not to shy away from it and ended up freezing in place for the second it took him to realize the gesture was friendly.
Matthew glanced sidelong at him, motionless other than that. Steve relaxed finally. "I'm here, Matthew." Matthew nodded, but he kept watching Steve. His hand stayed put, too. Warm and solid and there, the strongest connection Steve had felt in weeks. Steve finally said, "No one touches anymore."
"I know. Contact between friends changed after your war, for some reason. Too busy, too much 'progress,' maybe." Matthew still hadn't moved. "Eight weeks more or less, after months of combat with your team?"
"Yeah." The word huffed out of him and drawing air again took an effort.
Matthew sighed and tugged at his shoulder. Steve stumbled forward, knocking him back against the counter. The impact had to have bruised; the pasta bowl in the sink rattled with the impact. Matthew just wrapped his arms around Steve and said quietly, "This is definitely one of the times when SHIELD is full of idiots." One hand rubbed at Steve's back, solid and soothing; the other cradled the back of his neck, solidly over that vulnerable spot at the nape.
It didn't feel threatening.
Matthew said quietly, "Touch is one of the basic human needs, Steve. Lack of it leaves children failing to thrive, sends the elderly to their graves too soon. And you, with those artist's hands that have been doing just as well with your shield as charcoals or pens, are direly deficient in it."
Steve laughed despite himself and didn't even try to move away. "They all call me 'Captain Rogers' or 'Captain America' or just Cap. I'm not even cleared to spar with anyone yet. The psychologists are worried I'll have a flashback."
Matthew settled himself more comfortably against the counter, still rubbing Steve's back. The thumb on his nape was stroking back and forth in the same rhythm, firm enough not to tickle the short hairs there. "You went from the war bonds tours and propaganda films to the front and straight into commando raids, Steve. Did you get much leave?"
"A couple days here and there." He couldn't figure out what to do with his arms and finally put his hands on the counter behind Matthew. "They claimed we got five days once, but three days of that was tied up looking good for the news reels."
Matthew nodded. "Then they might have a point on the flashbacks. You can touch me, you know." He sounded almost amused as he added, "Seeing as I'm already taking liberties."
The accent was all wrong but the eyes and the humor reminded him of Bucky. Steve laughed, ignoring the sob waiting behind it, and went ahead and wrapped his arms around Matthew properly. Even put his head down on the man's shoulder, wishing it was Bucky and trying not to think how much Bucky would have teased him about this.
Matthew just kept rubbing his back. Steve wasn't sure how long it had been when Matthew finally asked, "I assume they’ve had the doctors poking and prodding at you?"
"Oh yeah. We might've had some words about how much blood they couldn't have." Steve shrugged, careful not to shake off Matthew's hug. "They might have a better chance now of recreating Howard's machines and Dr. Erskine's formula, but I don't think they'd have any better idea what to do with a super-soldier now than they did then."
"Politicians surely haven't improved," Matthew agreed. "No, that's not what I was wondering - although if you're concerned about that? Phil Coulson has an extraordinary knack for sorting the wheat from the chaff in paperwork and stories. What I'm wondering just now is whether you've ever had a massage?"
Steve smiled, trying not to laugh. "We back to the touch-starved?"
Matthew's words managed to be almost gentle despite the matter-of-fact tone. "You've shown no sign of wanting to let go."
"…I'm on leave." Steve smiled a little when Matthew laughed.
"So you are. Come along then."
* | * | *
Matthew walked up the stairs with him, glanced at the guest room door, frowned for a brief moment, and then waved Steve on. "This way."
Steve watched him thoughtfully but went along. "Afraid I'll bolt?"
"Good God, no." Matthew shook his head. "Dare say if you decide you don't like something I'm doing, you'll say so or get up and leave." His grin slanted like Bucky's for a moment, and Steve smiled despite himself. "The explanation's much simpler. I've got massage oil in my medicine cabinet, and the spare bed's all right for a couple friends of mine who're about your height -- but my bed's bigger." He shrugged and grinned wickedly. "Priorities."
Steve started laughing. "Hey, I didn't ask about that."
Matthew grinned at him. "I never said you did. But let's be honest; what man buys a better bed for the guest room than his own? And you'll want room to stretch properly during this. So." He opened the door and waved Steve in. "Shed your shoes and shirt at least and sprawl out, would you?"
Steve stopped in the doorway to stare, ignoring the art and furniture for the moment. "I don't think I've ever seen a bed that big."
Matthew came back out of his bathroom with plastic bottles. "California kings came out in the 1970s, I think. A little more narrow than a regular king, but my feet don't hang off the end." He paused for a moment, then asked wryly, "Ah. Beds have been another one of the ongoing surprises?"
Steve shrugged and sat down on the bed to unlace his boots, surprised when it gave under him - but it only compressed a little. Then it was even more comfortable than the couch was. "Ma raised me by herself, and the Depression was going on when I got out of the orphanage. Even when it started getting better, well, Bucky and I still had trouble getting jobs. I worked for the WPA when I wasn't sick; he hauled boxes on the piers, worked in any garage that'd give him a couple hours, and went into the army after Pearl Harbor. Buck sent home what he could but… I couldn't see the point in spending that on a bed. Medicine when I had to, or warmer clothes, sure. Luxuries? No."
Matthew nodded, unsurprised. "I can surely see the sense in that. And then you were in the army." He handed over the bottles. "Check the scents, see if they'll bother you."
"Some reason they would?" Steve asked, but he sniffed cautiously at them.
"Scent is one of the strongest triggers for memory, Steve. No sense setting off more landmines."
"Those are fine. That one smells like some stuff Dernier found and Dum-Dum broke." Steve glanced up. "And you're used to shellshock. Do I want to know why?"
"Because I've had plenty of my own." Matthew shrugged. "There's a reason they send us to the doctors, too, Steve."
"Because you hunt stranger killers." Steve nodded and stood up long enough to tuck his boots under a nearby chair that actually looked like it could take his weight and might be comfortable. There was also a reading lamp and an end table covered in books. "You like to read?"
"I get cases all over the country. That's where I pile up the books that look interesting so that I can toss a couple in my bag when I head for the airport." Matthew stripped his own shoes off, rolled up his sleeves, and emptied his pockets into a bowl on the dresser. "So. Use the one that smells like Dernier and Dugan or not?"
After a second, Steve said, "Not. Thanks. Not when I've already gotten lost once tonight." Steve pulled his shirt over his head, folded it neatly, and put it on the chair over his shoes. He glanced up. "You said, 'at least.' How much more?"
Matthew shrugged. "As much as you're comfortable with, and absolutely no more than your comfortable with. The point of this is to make you feel better. Adding to your stress is not the point."
Steve eyed him. "Uh-huh. The oil won't do your shirt a lot of good."
Matthew considered him thoughtfully, then nodded and peeled it off. It left him in a white singlet - t-shirt they were calling them now, Steve thought. "So it won't." He grinned for a second. "And fair's fair, yes."
Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:
Rebel Ralston was a Howling Commando from Kentucky in the comic books. He also originated the Commandos' howl.
'One bag of flour' of course refers to 'A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Thor's Hammer.'
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action. -- It's an Ian Fleming quote, actually, from the novel Goldfinger.
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