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Entry tags:
Avengers - Savior
Title: Savior
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1500 words
Spoilers: Set after Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
Synopsis: Some things never change, and some are signs that change is ready to begin.
Author's Notes: For the "caught in a robbery" square at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
He favored the store because he knew its owners, or had a very long time ago. Naomi and Phillip had been no more than seven when he left for the war, the paint still fresh on the door to their parents' attempt at a slice of the American dream, a shingle with their name emblazoned upon it hanging from the window.
The paint had long since cracked and flaked and he was certain that was only the most recent coat, but the feel of the place, the idea behind it, was still there. Sure, the bread might be an extra day or so old and the shelves beside it might hold brands he didn't fully recognize in a jumbled mess of colors and flavors, but the shop as a whole was still the same small family business that he knew and had grown up with and, if the choice was between that or some huge chain where the money went into the pockets of faceless corporations? Well, there really wasn't a choice at all.
He had heard the bell above the door ring as it admitted another patron, but had been crouched down to try to find some ridiculously specific type of snack that Clint swore by that may or may not exist and so he had not seen who entered. He heard the raised voices that followed though, both gruff demands for cash and fearful protests that they really didn't have any to spare. He also heard a voice, whispered and familiar, mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Don't be a hero."
That never stood well with him. The world needed heroes but, more importantly, the world needed a severe reduction in bullies. Always had and, unfortunately, always would. So he unfolded himself slowly, stood straight and tall and proud at his not inconsiderable enhanced height, saw a boy no more than eighteen with a gun in his hand waving it wildly in Naomi's direction, and said, "I don't think you want to do that, son."
He heard more than felt the shot. The echo of the bullet as it left the chamber, the explosion of force behind it, the muted impact as it dug through fabric and flesh. He took an involuntary step backwards, momentum converted from object to person as they were now one in the same. He saw the boy's eyes open wide in a shock that likely mirrored his own. The weapon wavered and he swung his arm outward and upward and listened as it clattered to the floor, listened as another bullet tore free, either from the impact or from what he now saw to be a companion at the boy's side.
"Dude, I think you just shot Captain America," the second boy, a squirrel of a thing with a mop of hair dyed a bright indigo beneath his stocking cap, breathed out, his own weapon now falling to his side.
"Worse than that," a voice, the one he swore had pleaded with him to not be a hero, pointed out. "You just shot Steve Rogers. That's not going to end well for you."
The weapon came up again and Steve couldn't help it, it was instinct really. He stepped forward and shifted to the left, arm out to both block the shot and push that voice to the side. That impact he felt, the range now just shy of point blank, and he fell to his knees, bone against cracked linoleum, balance well and truly gone if only for a moment, sight not much more than a flash of white against a whirlwind of colors that he didn't fully understand.
He knew he could push through it, had pushed through far worse before, but there were hands on him, and push was an apt word because they were pushing him fully to the ground with an exasperated, "Damn it, Rogers!"
There was liquid against his back, and he wasn't sure if he wanted it to be the dishwashing soap from the shelf or his own blood as the loss of merchandise for a struggling family was almost as much of a crime as the shot itself. "I'm already healing," he insisted, because he was. Skin was trying to knit back together, blood already congealing as vessels became whole again. The bullet was lodged against his collarbone and each and every movement would be a grind of pain, but he could do it, if needed.
"That's the problem, idiot," the voice complained. "The bullet's still in there and it'll be a lot easier to get it out now versus when your body decides to keep it."
There was a hint of a glimpse of what he was sure was metal, and he could not help the momentary wave of panic. Naomi screaming was not exactly helping him retain any vestiges of calm. He knew this man though, he knew him to his very core. There was a flash of silver and steel, of a blade sharp as a scalpel darting towards his skin while something determinedly not flesh held him down. The cut was deep and quick and alloy found alloy to pluck and pry with a strength and friction no one else could have managed. It was sharp and painful and wonderfully brief, and followed by the press of dish towels from the clearance bin pressed tightly against the bubble of blood that followed.
He'd have to remember to pay for those. It wasn't fair for the Zimmerman's to lose them just to try to speed up a process that was near autonomic by now.
He'd also have to remember to speak, to shout, to demand that the person he knew far too well for far too long to get back there even though he knew it was a lost cause the moment he heard the wail of a siren in the background. The boys had made a foolish mistake, probably desperate and bored. They had ran, and his savior ran with them. Each feared justice for different reasons, and Steve was damn near ready enough to beg to bring them back and explain why they were wrong and why they deserved another chance. Their lives were ink on a page, a misplaced line seemingly an irreparable disaster when it could, in truth, be a starting point for another design.
Naomi was there now, hem of her dress moist and red. There was another red soon enough, brilliant hair easing her back while muttering soothing tones in a language Steve himself had never mastered. "At least someone hit the panic button this time." Those words were said with both a dryness and a language he knew far too well.
Steve looked to the phone at his side. The phone that had been in the pocket of his jacket. The phone with the bloody fingerprint that wasn't his pressed against the glass.
He understood more of the words now, but not their meanings as they smeared together wrong and unfinished. They spoke of a man, of a weapon, of a protector. They asked for descriptions, for injuries, for costs. He closed his eyes and felt the words melt away with his consciousness because he really had lost a lot of blood, even for him, and there was no reason to push, not now, not when he was safe and saved and protected.
The last thing he heard was Natasha's demand of, "Was it him? Did you find him?"
He wasn't sure if he spoke clearly, if his words were wholly formed, so he shook his head or at least tried to when he answered, "No, he found me."
Later, when he lay propped up on too many pillows and surrounded by the detritus of far too much junk food that Barton insisted was good for him because the preservatives alone should help him live forever, the news played quietly on a screen in the background. He only half listened, really, or did right up until a sound bite caught his attention.
Zimmerman's General Store.
Mr. Phillip Zimmerman had apparently arrived that morning to a different sort of advertisement hanging from the front window. Two youths were bound and gagged with signed confessions pinned to their shirts and neatly bagged weapons at their feet, the knotted indigo hair of one shining bright against the rising sun. Next to them, scrawled on a piece of cardboard in a writing Steve recognized far too well, were the words "For the stupid punk that doesn't know when to back down."
"He's still out there then?" Natasha guessed.
"Yeah," Steve agreed, helping himself to another plastic wrapped pastry. "But I think he's almost ready to come home."
Natasha nodded, expression unreadable, and together they watched the world try to figure out the difference between a vigilante and a savior while he wasn't sure the man himself knew what he wanted to be called.
There was time to sort that out later though. That was the one thing this life had taught him: there was always time.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1500 words
Spoilers: Set after Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
Synopsis: Some things never change, and some are signs that change is ready to begin.
Author's Notes: For the "caught in a robbery" square at
hc_bingo.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available on AO3.
He favored the store because he knew its owners, or had a very long time ago. Naomi and Phillip had been no more than seven when he left for the war, the paint still fresh on the door to their parents' attempt at a slice of the American dream, a shingle with their name emblazoned upon it hanging from the window.
The paint had long since cracked and flaked and he was certain that was only the most recent coat, but the feel of the place, the idea behind it, was still there. Sure, the bread might be an extra day or so old and the shelves beside it might hold brands he didn't fully recognize in a jumbled mess of colors and flavors, but the shop as a whole was still the same small family business that he knew and had grown up with and, if the choice was between that or some huge chain where the money went into the pockets of faceless corporations? Well, there really wasn't a choice at all.
He had heard the bell above the door ring as it admitted another patron, but had been crouched down to try to find some ridiculously specific type of snack that Clint swore by that may or may not exist and so he had not seen who entered. He heard the raised voices that followed though, both gruff demands for cash and fearful protests that they really didn't have any to spare. He also heard a voice, whispered and familiar, mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Don't be a hero."
That never stood well with him. The world needed heroes but, more importantly, the world needed a severe reduction in bullies. Always had and, unfortunately, always would. So he unfolded himself slowly, stood straight and tall and proud at his not inconsiderable enhanced height, saw a boy no more than eighteen with a gun in his hand waving it wildly in Naomi's direction, and said, "I don't think you want to do that, son."
He heard more than felt the shot. The echo of the bullet as it left the chamber, the explosion of force behind it, the muted impact as it dug through fabric and flesh. He took an involuntary step backwards, momentum converted from object to person as they were now one in the same. He saw the boy's eyes open wide in a shock that likely mirrored his own. The weapon wavered and he swung his arm outward and upward and listened as it clattered to the floor, listened as another bullet tore free, either from the impact or from what he now saw to be a companion at the boy's side.
"Dude, I think you just shot Captain America," the second boy, a squirrel of a thing with a mop of hair dyed a bright indigo beneath his stocking cap, breathed out, his own weapon now falling to his side.
"Worse than that," a voice, the one he swore had pleaded with him to not be a hero, pointed out. "You just shot Steve Rogers. That's not going to end well for you."
The weapon came up again and Steve couldn't help it, it was instinct really. He stepped forward and shifted to the left, arm out to both block the shot and push that voice to the side. That impact he felt, the range now just shy of point blank, and he fell to his knees, bone against cracked linoleum, balance well and truly gone if only for a moment, sight not much more than a flash of white against a whirlwind of colors that he didn't fully understand.
He knew he could push through it, had pushed through far worse before, but there were hands on him, and push was an apt word because they were pushing him fully to the ground with an exasperated, "Damn it, Rogers!"
There was liquid against his back, and he wasn't sure if he wanted it to be the dishwashing soap from the shelf or his own blood as the loss of merchandise for a struggling family was almost as much of a crime as the shot itself. "I'm already healing," he insisted, because he was. Skin was trying to knit back together, blood already congealing as vessels became whole again. The bullet was lodged against his collarbone and each and every movement would be a grind of pain, but he could do it, if needed.
"That's the problem, idiot," the voice complained. "The bullet's still in there and it'll be a lot easier to get it out now versus when your body decides to keep it."
There was a hint of a glimpse of what he was sure was metal, and he could not help the momentary wave of panic. Naomi screaming was not exactly helping him retain any vestiges of calm. He knew this man though, he knew him to his very core. There was a flash of silver and steel, of a blade sharp as a scalpel darting towards his skin while something determinedly not flesh held him down. The cut was deep and quick and alloy found alloy to pluck and pry with a strength and friction no one else could have managed. It was sharp and painful and wonderfully brief, and followed by the press of dish towels from the clearance bin pressed tightly against the bubble of blood that followed.
He'd have to remember to pay for those. It wasn't fair for the Zimmerman's to lose them just to try to speed up a process that was near autonomic by now.
He'd also have to remember to speak, to shout, to demand that the person he knew far too well for far too long to get back there even though he knew it was a lost cause the moment he heard the wail of a siren in the background. The boys had made a foolish mistake, probably desperate and bored. They had ran, and his savior ran with them. Each feared justice for different reasons, and Steve was damn near ready enough to beg to bring them back and explain why they were wrong and why they deserved another chance. Their lives were ink on a page, a misplaced line seemingly an irreparable disaster when it could, in truth, be a starting point for another design.
Naomi was there now, hem of her dress moist and red. There was another red soon enough, brilliant hair easing her back while muttering soothing tones in a language Steve himself had never mastered. "At least someone hit the panic button this time." Those words were said with both a dryness and a language he knew far too well.
Steve looked to the phone at his side. The phone that had been in the pocket of his jacket. The phone with the bloody fingerprint that wasn't his pressed against the glass.
He understood more of the words now, but not their meanings as they smeared together wrong and unfinished. They spoke of a man, of a weapon, of a protector. They asked for descriptions, for injuries, for costs. He closed his eyes and felt the words melt away with his consciousness because he really had lost a lot of blood, even for him, and there was no reason to push, not now, not when he was safe and saved and protected.
The last thing he heard was Natasha's demand of, "Was it him? Did you find him?"
He wasn't sure if he spoke clearly, if his words were wholly formed, so he shook his head or at least tried to when he answered, "No, he found me."
Later, when he lay propped up on too many pillows and surrounded by the detritus of far too much junk food that Barton insisted was good for him because the preservatives alone should help him live forever, the news played quietly on a screen in the background. He only half listened, really, or did right up until a sound bite caught his attention.
Zimmerman's General Store.
Mr. Phillip Zimmerman had apparently arrived that morning to a different sort of advertisement hanging from the front window. Two youths were bound and gagged with signed confessions pinned to their shirts and neatly bagged weapons at their feet, the knotted indigo hair of one shining bright against the rising sun. Next to them, scrawled on a piece of cardboard in a writing Steve recognized far too well, were the words "For the stupid punk that doesn't know when to back down."
"He's still out there then?" Natasha guessed.
"Yeah," Steve agreed, helping himself to another plastic wrapped pastry. "But I think he's almost ready to come home."
Natasha nodded, expression unreadable, and together they watched the world try to figure out the difference between a vigilante and a savior while he wasn't sure the man himself knew what he wanted to be called.
There was time to sort that out later though. That was the one thing this life had taught him: there was always time.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.