|Si has already started to (deteriorate) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-06-27 02:38:00
|Entry tags:||!marvel comics, *narrative, steve rogers|
He'd been called away unexpectedly. After getting Tony to the hospital in Philadelphia in the quinjet Bucky had commandeered, Steve had intended to go back to the City, the help with the Stark Tower cleanup efforts, to see Peggy, to make sure things were in order as much as they could be on a recent battlefield, gridded streets or no. He wanted to see how everyone was doing, patching up from the fight on the turnpike. He needed to check-in with Selina and Jason and Bruce. He wanted to reach out to Dr. Banner, to find out all about what had happened at the Tower from Peggy, Natasha, and other first responders. Pepper, Sharon, Barton, Teddy and Billy, Thor,—Wanda, who'd been quiet. Flash, Peter. Bucky. The list went on, but none of them got checked off.
In Philadelphia, Steve, whether because he was still seen as a symbol to be respected or because they knew he'd been present—or both—, had been asked to brief not only leaders in Washington as to the situation and what he knew, but the President himself. It was an honor, of course, and Captain America was paraded around the capitol as an especially festive object of patriotism.
It was almost surreal to be there again. This time, there were no helicarriers crashing into the Potomac, but the captain wasn't blind to the subtle similarities of Now and Then. No, perhaps there was no multi-million dollar, airborne armada, but the threat lurked. HYDRA had come out in force on that turnpike and at Stark Tower, but when all was said and done—when they had been beaten, lost more than they won—, they receded back into the shadows, black and slippery. Steve didn't know what had happened to the agents Peter had captured during the fight, but if they'd been gathered again by the National Guard, he could only guess, from his personal knowledge of HYDRA's deep, penetrating infection of all institutions with power, they were prisoners no longer. He could only guess they were back, breaking off into sleeper cells and awaiting higher instruction—because, while they had come as an army, when the swift hammer of Justice came down, they scattered like roaches. They wore masks, helmets, and lacking exposure, they could always run; they could hide in plain sight.
Steve wasn't the type of man to see an enemy in every face. He wanted to believe the best of people. But, those days in DC felt long, the knowledge that every hand he shook could be one meant for his throat, for Tony's, for Bucky's. And when he finally got back to his place in Brooklyn, it felt like years had gone by.
Of course, they hadn't. There was no ice to thaw from this time.
But, instead of going to bed, as much as he wanted to, Steve sat down with his sketchbook and he wrote. It was time to check some things from that list.