A Quinjet brought Steve to the Avengers Tower in NYC and he took a moment to look around. Towering structures, honking horns, wailing sirens, blinking brake lights- all so familiar and yet so strange. With a deep breath, he choked on the fumes of a diesel engine and old brakes. So unlike the warm bread and fresh coffee aromas of Paris. "Welcome home," he muttered.
Sighing, he turned to go inside. Instead of taking the elevator, he trudged down the stairs with the purposeful steps of a regret-laden man.
"Welcome home, Captain Rogers," Jarvis's robotic voice greeted. "Company is waiting for you in the bar."
"Thanks, Jarvis, but could you let them know I might be awhile?" His words were emotionless and weary.
"Of course, sir."
Closing his eyes, Steve rested against the wall of the stairwell. Everything had gone so wrong. He'd lost Peggy, then Antoinette, then found Peggy, just to lose her again. His friends were dead. His closest friend's son was Steve's personal thorn in the flesh, and even his home- New York- had become unrecognizable.
For the first time, Steve wished he had died when the jet crashed. He wished SHIELD had never found him in the ice, never thawed him from his cryo-coma, never uprooted him from the forties, never tarnished the heroism of his sacrifice by bringing him back to life.
People could call him an Avenger, a fighter, an enforcer of justice, protector of the earth, defender of the innocent and helpless, The Captain, a hero- but it meant nothing if his actions were undeserving of praise.
In Paris, chasing Antoinette and her captor, he felt like the villain. He'd let her believe that he was willingly giving her to them. How could he do that? How could he have caused so much damage and chaos? How could he have endangered so many people?
He sat on the top stair of the flight and hid his face in his roughened hands. He'd screwed everything up. It was only luck that Antoinette was even alive after being stabbed in the ribs. And all because he'd wanted to keep her friendship. Was he just doomed to live alone? Would everyone he cared about hate him- or die- and his life just never end?
What if that was a side effect of the serum? That he couldn't die? He hated the idea of living forever, but surely an enemy could kill him in battle. Surely a proper shot could end this ceaseless torture.
He couldn't let himself dwell on possibilities. Standing, he lifted his bag to his shoulder and gripped his shield. The gaudily painted weapon had been a nuisance to keep hidden, and it had been the wedge between himself and Antoinette. As he descended the last few stairs to his apartment inside the tower, he shook his head and cursed his own weighty failures.
Half-heartedly, he kicked the door closed and began to unpack. Dust covered many surfaces, but it seemed as if Pepper or Jarvis had come through to clean a few times. The window shades were drawn together, blocking out the city and its haphazard lifestyle, and also causing the sunlight in the room to be greatly diminished. The jet lag and darkness got the better of Steve's tormented mind and he fell asleep.
Halloween was a raucous nightmare, Thanksgiving was a guilt-ridden day followed by a stressful weekend, the first snowfall was a dismal affair. He found no joy in the holidays or the happiness of those around him. For the sake of the team, he put on a happy demeanor that didn't reach past his false smile and fake laugh.
When he was certain no one could see him, he would sit alone and contemplate the concerns that had plagued him. Steve had but to close his eyes in the briefest blink to see again the anguish on Antoinette's face when she learned the truth. And she despised him. Her hate for him and who he really was had been incomprehensible.
Sometime in November, he understood. Antoinette was the embodiment of purity. She was not simply pure in appearance or personality, but pure in her loves and her interests. She was purely confused, purely excited, purely angry; purity shone through her smiles and laughs, the way she would stand toe to toe with him and just stare- stare with eyes of purest blue. Above all, she had a pure passion for ballet and dance. When her pure friendship with Steve was ripped in two, she hated him with a pure hatred.
She was not just pure, but ardent, adamant, unwavering. She hated him and always would, he'd decided. There was no solution, nor would there ever be.
For Steve, the week leading to Christmas was as absent of cheer and merriment as the holiday had been for Ebenezer Scrooge. The only difference was that Steve's depression was not caused by hatred and bitterness. He spent countless nights sitting around a coffee table with his team, sipping spiked eggnog, listening to meaningless chatter, and often excusing himself early. Why rain on the sunshine of others?
At last, during the Stark Christmas Eve Bash, Steve thought he might stay the usual length of time. The party was just as loud and drunk as all of Tony's other parties and events, but instead of heavy rock music, soft Christmas carols played on the speakers. Humming to some crooner's classic, he watched the faces of the guests around him.
Many of the women had blonde hair and blue eyes, but none were petite and gracefully clumsy like Antoinette. He had long since stopped seeing glimpses of her around corners and in empty rooms, but his eyes still searched for her in crowds. If only she was there with him, perched on a barstool beside him, her back straight and shoulders back, head high, with her chin tipped up. He could imagine her laughing at something a drunk partier had done, then eagerly retelling him the scene. For a moment, he was happy with this brief mirage, some trick of the dim lights that his brain had brought to life.
Antoinette's outline vanished when Natasha sat beside him and set her glass on the counter. Unlike her assassin partner, she was still sober. Good, Steve thought. He wasn't sure he could deal with tipsy or drunk people right then.
"It's still her, isn't it?" she asked outright.
He sighed his answer and emptied his glass. Pivoting to face her, he barely registered that she was wearing a color other than black, white, or red. If he hadn't been so absorbed in his own wretched despair, he would have mentioned how the gold of her dress complimented her hair.
"Either let it go and move on," she advised, "or fix it. Your choice."
"Nat, it's not that simple."
"It is. You're no good to the team in this state. And don't think we haven't noticed."
He groaned and set his forehead forcefully against the heel of his palm. "Has Tony been making a fuss?"
"No, but it won't be long until he will."
He sighed again and reached for his freshly filled glass. "Just...don't let him say anything to Fury. Please."
She stood and backed away. "Fury knows too. He keeps tabs remember?"
Steve nodded, just as miserable as before. "Yeah, I know."
"And Steve?" She waited until he was looking at her to finish. "Enjoy yourself. It's Christmas after all."
"I'll try. Merry Christmas, Nat."
"Merry Christmas," she replied with a tip of her head.
Later on, as he passed Pepper and Tony talking quietly in a corner, he heard Tony whisper something about Paris and included Steve's name. A few hazy sentences later, Tony distinctly complained that he wasn't allowed to tease or beat sense into Steve. "He's pining!" Pepper scolded. "You need to respect that. It's been months, yes, but he'll see sense soon. Just let him be, poor soul." Tony spoke again before Pepper nodded, "I'll round up the girls for an intervention tomorrow. I agree, it's gone on too long now."
Turning away, Steve left as quickly as he could.
Christmas morning, Steve was cornered at the kitchen counter by Pepper, Jane, and Natasha. He should have known this was coming after what he'd caught while eavesdropping the previous night, but he hadn't expected a barrage of womanly advice that flooded him for the next hour. When the deluge drained to a few last words from Pepper, Jane excused herself and Natasha encouraged Steve to his feet.
"Fix it," Pepper commanded. "Behaving like this, you'll get us all killed. We can't trust you anymore and we can't stand seeing you so miserable."
"What she needs is an overblown, sincere, mildly romantic gesture," Natasha added. "Simple enough. And we'll be helping you. This ends today."
After another two hours, sixteen pieces of paper, two pens, and lots of cursing, Steve had written a two page letter, pouring into crude words the most heartfelt apology he'd ever given. Natasha had found Antoinette's address and neatly written it on an envelope for him while Pepper kept him focused on his task.
At last, the letter was finished and he read it aloud for them both. It was shamefully honest and he felt chagrined that they should hear his thoughts in such a way, but if they thought it would work, he would trust them. Besides, what better help could he get than Pepper and Natasha?
It took only another ten minutes to hunt down the appropriate stamps and mail the letter. It was finished. What was done was done and he couldn't get it back.
At the counter in the bar, a bottle of beer for each of them, Steve stared down the women. "If this works, I owe you both an endless favor. If it doesn't, don't ever run an intervention for me again. Are we clear?"
The women smiled and nodded before clinking their bottles to his. "We're clear," Pepper assured him.