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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.
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.
