Aut cum scuto aut in scuto.

Steve is in and out of the Nexus these days, often attending classes or working in his own world, but when he does come here, it's usually to take time for himself. Which means he spends most of his time wiling away the hours working on art projects. He's got quite a collection of supplies at his property now; the Clubhouse is almost more of a chaotic studio at this point.

It's through purchasing sculpting materials for experimentation that he ran into skekGra, and while he found him a little...intense...the conversation with respect to sculpture and puppetry was rewarding. As a consequence, he invited both the skeksis and his other half to visit for snacks and casual crafting.

He has no idea what to feed them, but there's always a good stock of junk food around, and when they arrive there are drinks on the bar, and Steve is tapping and bending armature wire into place to make what looks like a mermaid's tail.

There's no such thing as a happy ending, because nothing's ever really ended. Not yet. In fact, most of the fights Steve Rogers has ever thrown himself into were to stave off an ending, for himself or someone else; most recently, for the Universe itself. That's a lot to ask from a kid from Brooklyn. It's probably all to the best that he's retired now. Semi-retired.

Forcibly semi-retired.

His physical therapist is going to chew him out for missing their session today, but he's been away from the Nexus for long enough. First, the broken PINpoint, then the Decimation, the battle with Thanos...and since then it's been a series of surgeries and attempts to put his delicate little body in some semblance of working order, while his brain adjusts to sensations he hasn't felt in over seventy years.

He unlocks the door to the clubhouse quietly, taps the keycode into the alarm system, and looks around. There's nothing broken, shockingly. No sign of break-ins, no thick layer of dust. Someone's been looking after the place. That makes his heart leap a little with mixed anxiety and relief.

He's going to have to answer a lot of questions, and he's not looking forward to that, but someone's been here. Someone remembers, and still cares. That's a really, really nice thought.

There's not much work to do, but he can't just sit idle with his thoughts or he'll go nuts, so he clicks on the lights and starts up the jukebox. Half the contents are 80s hits and the other half are from the 40s, and Steve has a definite preference for the latter. Vera Lynn's sweet alto starts up as he begins sorting through cabinets, taking inventory of the supplies in preparation to re-stock.

When someone comes in, he's crouched to look at a lower shelf, which makes him look even smaller than he is now. This is no longer the musclebound clean-cut Captain America. This is Steven G. Rogers, who is 5'4" in his shoes, who has an asthma inhaler in his pocket and a blue neoprene shoulder-brace over his button-down shirt. Who has reading glasses perched on his nose because he's not getting any younger. Who gave all of his serum-enhanced strength and the persona that came with it as a sacrifice to win the Soul Stone.

“The thing is, just because the odds were 50-50, that doesn’t make it fair,” Steve says into the heavy silence of the room. “Believe me, I feel that the same way anyone else does.”

The support group is sparsely attended today. There’s a lot of sickness going around in the tail-end of winter, and not enough doctors, and leaving home is a risk. But Steve is one of the few that can’t catch or carry the flu, or chicken pox, or scarlet fever, or anything. He remembers winters laid up in the tenement bedroom, the scent of his own fever sweat making him want to throw up, or scream, or peel off his skin and run away from it, as he choked on his own lungs. He can’t get sick. He heals from most injuries. Starvation and thirst could still kill him, but chances are he’ll be the last man standing no matter what.

So this is where he’s standing.

( Fighting may not be worth much now, but that doesn’t mean he gets to lay down on the job. )

It's not hard for Steve to dote on Loki at the best of times, but given the additional excuse of incoming babies, his skills rise to new heights. Partly it's necessity; to protect his friends from god-induced damages he needs to make sure he's between them and his spouse as often as possible, but also...

There's something right about it, funny and wholesome, to be making trips for ice cream and flowers and honey candy to please the expectant parent. Steve doesn't sleep much, anyway. He's happy to go out late at night or early in the morning for food runs.

There's some inherent stress in Loki being even more mercurial than usual, though. Steve finds himself on edge at times, but there's no doubt in his mind it will all be worth it. For children. For a family.

God's righteous man, Ultron had mocked to his face a few years back. Pretending you could live without a war. Steve had to acknowledge he wasn't wrong. The vision Wanda pulled out of his head, it wasn't wrong either. He is half strung-out, bone-weary, combat fatigue personified. Half of him wants to go home.

The other half? Will never be able to stop fighting, because that means having to face what's left.

Visiting the Nexus has only driven that point home, in some ways. No matter how much people encourage him to expand his horizons, take time to relax and recover, to be Steve Rogers, he's restless and adrift there, friendly with everyone but not, in the end, all that close to any. But there is one idea that's caught at him relentlessly since his arrival there, and that's the inescapable visual of kids fighting wars.

Most of them probably don't see it that way. Friendly neighborhood Spider-Men, just doing what they can, what they innocently assume any good person would do. Every time he thinks about that, it hurts. And he has plenty to do in his own world, collecting the proliferating alien weaponry across the planet, breaking up and hunting down remnants of HYDRA, and ducking the law. But here there's an opportunity for something more, something gentler, something that's not fighting and might, in the long term, keep people from ending up in the psychological catch-22 he's gotten himself into.

There's no Nexus real estate office, but there are people who have a clear idea of what land and buildings can be claimed and what can be done with them. Steve has somehow, through funds scraped together, favors called in, and contacts made, become the proud owner of what was once some kind of diner or restaurant. The building is a decent size, two floors, with a lot of the appliances and furnishings still inside it and still working. Including a jukebox, which is what he's looking at right now, outside the front of the building. He's got most of it taken apart and spread neatly on blankets on the grass, and he's methodically cleaning it bit by bit.

The long term plan is a safe house he can set up for the costumed-hero types here that have nowhere else to go if something goes wrong. The kids, specifically. He won't be able to be here all the time, himself, but he can put it together and give what he can. Fill it up with food and medical supplies, maybe put in some bunks, some security--

Well, the plans are still evolving, but it's something.

Something about the attention he's getting from Loki seems to agree with Steve. Usually his asthma becomes nightmarish as fall turns into winter, the cold air inflaming delicate lungs. His back, too, suffers the cold and damp, but this year it's not so bad. He's half inclined to wonder if Loki's using magic to help him and just neglecting to mention it, but if that's the case, Steve is disinclined to mention it, too. He knows when his loved ones are trying to preserve his dignity, for one thing. For another, he might jinx himself out of his current good luck.

( Cut for excessive fluff. )

((continued from here))

After a confusing, worrisome evening spent together, Steve seems to feel he and Loki have hit some kind of new level in their friendship. He's less wry and cagey, a little more overly solicitous and warm; still, in the cold light of day he's a lot more awkward about both physical and emotional intimacy, and if Loki reverts to his usual teasing banter, Steve will fall into the same comfort zone.

He thinks about him often when he's not there, though. Hoping he's found a safer, kinder way to fight his demons. Fearing he hasn't, and feeling helpless to do anything more about that than he already has. At least now, Loki won't have to initiate all their contacts. He'll get occasional texts and calls from Steve, asking if he wants something at a store, if he's seen x or y movie, whether he's all right.

The others are a little bemused about Steve's increasingly less subtle interest in their otherworldly acquaintance. Some of them are openly skeptical, afraid he could be being played, but since no one has anything against Loki, it remains a topic of quiet, civil debate.

It's early in the evening this time when Steve texts Loki. Just a brief note, and he doesn't entirely expect a response: They're trying to convince me to get a tattoo of a bald eagle with a tear running down its face. It's a conspiracy, they're all in on it.

I doubt it would last long with my healing factor even if I did.

How's your evening going?

While Steve refuses to allow acquaintanceship with Loki and Thor to influence his own (albeit confused) religious beliefs, he's done some mythological readings in the past several months. You have to take everything with a grain of salt; he knows that full well. Even stories with a grain of truth get distorted beyond ludicrous after a few decades (he's seen it happen with his own history), let alone centuries. He knows enough not to ask them obnoxious questions about mistletoe or eight-legged horses; he has to figure if there's something he needs to know along those lines, Thor will bring it up eventually.

Or Loki might, if it suits him. He's a little like a cat, that way. Aloof, sleek and sharp, too clever, and he knows much, much too much for his own good...but Steve thinks that like a cat, he might be friendly if left alone and allowed to approach on his own terms. Steve has been known to oversimplify things, though.

At any rate, his readings have yielded a number of stories across cultures of heroes--in the old-style Greek sense--and warriors. Berserkers and mad fighters with geasa or battle trances that compel them to kill friend and foe alike, unless stopped or diverted. Horror stories. Not what Dr. Erskine was going for with his serum, mercifully, but certainly tireless bloodlust is an item that could appear on the checklist for 'characteristics of a super soldier'.

He wonders. Because he doesn't need much sleep, himself, especially when they're on a roll breaking up Hydra bases, hunting down the fleeing agents. Everything is crystal clear, then, and he never feels calmer than when there are things exploding all around him. What's that say about him?

Thor is the only one he will ask this question to; that's because Steve can't ask with words, only with violence. Thor is easily a match for him; they both know this, and if Steve has to hurl himself against the force of nature that is his teammate and friend until the last of his adrenaline thins out and fails him, Thor can handle it without taking offense or injury. There are no words for how grateful Steve is for that supernatural safety net.

He's antsy after this last fight, even after they land back at the base and the rest of the team starts to scatter for hot showers, sugary snacks, stupid movies or a well-deserved night's rest. One way or another, Steve is headed straight for the gym, several floors below the living quarters, but he gives Thor a silent, intent look on his way. It's not a demand or an order; it's not a plea. His thoughts aren't organized enough for that. Whatever this is between them is less about who is dominant or submissive than it is about raw energy and the desperate need for an outlet for it.