#shield super agents | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rainintheevening · 5 days ago

Text

🍁🍁Comfy-vember 🍁🍁

Day 9: Scars

Grant Ward & Phil Coulson, Agents of SHIELD, Saving Grant Ward AU, aftermath of torture, non-sexulalized bathing/washing, the author does not recommend postponing medical care for a shower

---------

The first thing Grant demanded was a shower.

"It's been three weeks, okay? You don't want me in your medbay like this."

Simmons stood with her arms crossed over her chest, frowning down at him where he sat on the Quinjet, which had just touched down in the Playground's hanger. "Just because Trip splinted your leg and I gave you some anesthetic, doesn't mean it isn't serious. You need to get the bone set, and I'm worried about infection. Never mind your shoulder—heaven only knows what those x-rays are going to look like."

Phil stayed seated, feeling Grant's weight leaning into him, though it was less than it had been before. Before Garrett, before HYDRA, before he'd been on the run. There was no denying Grant was a mess—greasy hair grown too long and falling in his eyes, ragged jacket and jeans bearing mud and tree sap smears, a fading black eye, and that nasty red scar in front of one ear that ran down to his neck. But he was here! He was safe, he was home, he was back where he belonged. Phil's kid was home again, and the joy of that overwhelmed any grief or fear for now.

"Medbay is built for messes, man." Trip grinned down at his old buddy. "Think about how many people puke in there."

"I'm with Ward," Fitz put in, hovering over Jemma's shoulder. "He should- um- er–"

"Shower." Jemma's whisper was barely audible.

"–shower if he wa-would like to."

"Thank you, Fitz." Grant opened his eyes to smile at the younger agent. "I'm taking a shower," he said again to Simmons. "I'll get back to you in an hour. In the medbay."

Phil knew that tone, and smiled up at the agents clustered in front of them, now including May; Skye lingered warily in the cockpit. It hit him suddenly that they were all here. Grant, May, Fitzsimmons, Skye, Trip. The whole team, reunited.

But he shook off the warm surge of emotion. Grant had to be cared for. "You're not budging him, guys, sorry."

"And what if you fall and break something else?" Simmons argued. "Splitting your skull open in the shower isn't exactly unheard of, and you're not exactly stable."

Grant sighed, sitting straighter so he could turn his head to look at Phil. "Dad?"

That tired little murmur had Phil swallowing hard, nodding before he answered: "Of course. Don't worry," to Simmons. "I'll go with him."

Grant shifted his weight to stand, and Phil moved quickly, ducking under the good right arm, as he levered himself up on the good left leg.

"At least let us get you a stretcher or a wheelchair." Simmons's hands fluttered out in a helpless gesture.

Stiffly, Grant patted her arm with his free hand, made more awkward by the damaged shoulder. "Thank you for your concern, Jemma. But I'm walking in there."

"He's not unconscious," Trip shrugged, moving to Grant's other side, but Fitz had beat him to it.

"Alright, we've got you," Fitz said, his arm joining Coulson's around Grant's waist.

Grant's smile was soft, and he nudged his chin against the curly hair at his shoulder. "Thanks, Leo."

The pure love and hero worship in Fitz's answering look would have melted anyone's heart.

By the time they made it to the bottom of the ramp, though, Phil was wishing Grant had taken Jemma's offer. Even with the local anesthetic in his leg, and the age of his shoulder wound, he moved slow and painful, only the hiss of his breathing betraying what must have been agony. He'd lost enough weight that Phil could have comfortably carried him, but he doubted Grant would agree to that with such an entourage.

That thought was cemented when the second set of heavy doors slid open to the main hall, and instantly a wave of applause washed over them.

Dozens of agents of all ranks and duties lined both sides of the hall, clapping and cheering as Grant stood frozen. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw him go first white, then red under the dirt and sweat.

"They're all the ones you saved," came May's calm voice behind them. "At Rabbit's Run and Carlton Place and Foxhole. They know what you did for them."

Most of them were hostages released in the wake of Grant's silent but deadly run on the HYDRA ranks. He'd assassinated almost a hundred HYDRA agents and operatives in the US and Europe, all in the span of two months, and while carrying a bullet in his shoulder. Not even Natasha could match that, Phil thought, pride welling in his chest.

As they came down into the hall, Agent Morse stepped forward, a genuine smile tugging at her lips.

"Baby Bird." Grant nodded at her.

"Baby Hawk." She grinned. "Welcome back."

Phil wanted to chuckle at the normalcy of their friendly banter, but he could feel Grant's arm trembling around his neck, Grant using all his strength to stand tall in front of the crowd.

"I suppose I have you to blame for this circus."

"Nah, it was Mack's idea."

"Mack." Grant smiled faintly over toward the big man. "Now if you'll excuse me, Birdy, I need a shower."

"And then medical attention," Simmons piped up rather crossly.

"Yeah, that's obvious." Concern creased Bobbi's forehead as she took in his current state. "Well, I certainly won't stand in your way." She stepped back into the line of agents on the left.

"Showers are down two levels with the bunks," Phil said softly, as they stepped forward again. "We'll take the elevator. Straight ahead, then to the right."

Grant did not reply, he was exerting every effort to limp as strongly and steadily as possible down that hall. Some of the agents they passed stood to attention and saluted, some just nodded or tapped a fist over their heart.

What a contrast to the outrage and anger that had gripped the surviving SHIELD members after they saw the footage from the Treehouse massacre—Grant Ward following John Garrett as obediently as a leashed dog. Phil, had been one of his only defenders, along with Fitzsimmons. Even when Grant had betrayed Providence, Phil had clung to his belief that his kid was just playing the game, keeping his cover by giving information that may or may not result in deaths. It was a far better idea than the alternative.

And Phil's belief had been vindicated.

Just Phil, Grant, Fitz, and Trip stepped into the elevator, and the second the doors closed, Grant sagged heavily into Phil, almost falling.

"Steady, steady!" Fitz exclaimed, then froze as his frantic tug on Grant's injured arm elicited a deep groan from him.

"Just– gimme a minute," Grant squeezed out.

"It's okay, Fitz," Phil said, hooking his fingers under Grant's belt to support him better.

It was... different sticking with an injured member of his team this far. Usually by now he'd stepped back, taking the team leader's long view, taking stock and planning what to do next, while other more qualified people did their jobs. Especially now that he was Director Coulson, and not just another agent. But this was Grant, this was his son. Grant trusted him like no one else. And Phil was more than grateful to have this time with Grant, after so long.

"I wanna sleep for a week," Grant whispered, somewhere around Phil's collar.

"That can be arranged." Trip looked both concerned and amused. "Are you sure you're up to this, man?"

Grant did not lift his head from Phil's shoulder, even as the elevator halted, and Phil barely caught his whisper: "I just want to get him off me."

Phil stiffened, and Grant straightened hastily, shaking his head. "No, no! That's not what I– I just–" He made a frustrated sound. "I smell like HYDRA," he said at last.

"You smell like shit," Trip said dryly.

"Exactly."

Phil had been blocking it out best he could, but in the narrow space of the elevator, it was impossible not to notice the reek of sweat and blood and something rotten that clung to Grant. Phil did not blame him at all for wanting that shower.

It took them another ten minutes to reach the men's showers; a long narrow space, with benches along one wall facing a row of shower heads, half enclosed, half not.

Fitz was sent for a chair, while Trip helped Phil remove the splint from Grant's leg and cut the bottom of his pant leg off so it could be put back on over bare skin.

"Are you sure you don't want me to-?" Trip held up a hand against Grant's glare. "Nah, it's okay, man. I'll leave you two to it." He glanced at Phil. "Want me and Fitz to stand guard outside?"

"One of you at least, if you wouldn't mind." He was about to ask if Trip could fetch something clean for Grant to wear, when Fitz came in, carrying the chair, and a handful of clothes.

"Agent May brought these." He held out the clothing: Grant's old Seahawks sweatshirt, a SHIELD-issue t-shirt and underwear, and a pair of flannels Phil didn't recognize. "Agent MacKenzie, er, gave the trousers."

Phil smiled, noting how Fitz's transitions from a word he couldn't remember to one he did were getting smoother. "Tell them both thanks."

"Clearing out now, sir." Trip patted Fitz's shoulder in a way that served to steer him back toward the door. "Holler if you need anything."

The clank of the door shutting echoed in the sparsely outfitted room, and then there was silence, except for a pipe gurgling, and the harsh sound of Grant's breathing.

Phil knelt beside him, involuntarily reaching to push back the shaggy hair from his forehead. They'd laid him flat on the floor for stability while they moved the splint around, but Phil couldn't help thinking he looked nearly dead, stretched out like that.

Grant opened his eyes, squinted up at him.

"You ready?" Phil asked softly.

"Think the granola bars are kicking in." Grant sighed, sat up carefully. "Let's get this over with."

They started with peeling off Grant's jacket, and two button-down shirts. "Haven't worn a t-shirt since Anchorage," he muttered, letting his left arm fall back into his lap.

Phil nodded silently. He remembered the shock of Grant's body hitting his, in time with the crack of Garrett's gun. That bullet had ended up in Grant's shoulder, rather than Phil's brain.

He frowned at Grant's torso, counting three puckered spots of skin, obvious gunshot scars. "Where'd you get those?"

Grant had already started to shiver slightly, and sat forward instead of back against the cold cinderblock wall. He took a moment to reply. "Garrett. On the Bus. Trying to get Fitzsimmons."

Phil was kneeling in front of him where he sat on the bench, so he could look up into Grant's face. There was a distance in Grant's gaze he understood, but didn't like. "Jemma was sure you were dead. She said you got shot at least six times. Fitz was heartbroken."

A spark in the dark brown eyes, a twitch of the lips. "He's a good kid. Leo the lion, bravest of them all."

"But Garrett kept you alive."

A nod, and Grant looked away.

Phil took a deep breath, quelling the anger and sadness that welled in him, and reached slowly to cup Grant's cheek, press his fingers to sweat-sticky too-warm skin.

"I'm glad you're alive."

A glance at him, before Grant's eyes welled up, and he covered them with one hand. Phil's heart cracked a little; four hours since rescue and this was the first time he’d seen tears from from Grant.

Grant slid his hand over on top of Phil's, now hiding his face behind both of them, but he gripped Phil's fingers painfully tight. He said nothing, but a few deep breaths later, he let go, sat straighter, rubbed his eyes.

"Okay, let's move."

They had to cut the waistbands of his jeans and underwear above the injured leg to get those off anywhere close to comfortably, and then Phil turned on the water, giving it time to warm. Grant would need that; Phil hated hearing the little teeth chatters and quick breaths behind him as he collected the company-issue soap and shampoo from a shelf, along with washcloths and a clean towel. Koenig deserved a raise for keeping this place so well-stocked, Phil thought.

At last he helped Grant gently to his feet, and half-carried him into the now-steaming shower, lowering him to sit in the chair Fitz had brought.

A little gasp escaped Grant as the warm water hit him, before he relaxed, tilted his head back to let it wash over his face. Phil moved back to the curtained entrance, awkward and uncertain now. He'd set the soap and things within Grant's reach, but it wouldn't be easy for him to wash himself in his current state. He decided to wait for Grant to ask before he tried to help any further.

He had a sudden sharp recollection of being a child in the bathroom doorway, watching his mother help his father bathe, near the end when the cancer had robbed him of his strength. It was the same mixture of embarrassment, helplessness, and love that filled Phil now.

Sweat beaded on his brow, and he became aware of his heavy jacket and boots, and the water splashing on the cement floor. He left the coat, socks, and boots on the bench, along with his watch, rolling up his sleeves as he walked back to the shower stall.

That was when Phil finally saw the bullet scar clearly, stark on Grant's flushed skin. A dent the size of a quarter in his left shoulder, red and purple lines radiating outward in a strange sort of shatter pattern.

In the narrow space, Grant's back was only an arm's length away, but Phil hesitated to touch him, afraid to startle him. He'd carried that wound for two months– How had he ever survived? How had he kept going? Kept spying and shooting and moving.

"Coulson," Grant was saying. "Dad!"

He blinked, shook his head, cleared his throat. "Yes?"

Grant had his head down, turned, but not quite looking back at him. His hand holding the shampoo bottle was trembling. "Can you-?"

"Of course."

Water droplets pattered against his arms, darkened his sleeves as he worked a lather into Grant's hair, careful and awkward at first, before settling down to the job. He could feel Grant relaxing under his hands, and bit back a smile.

"Feeling better?" he murmured, as soapy grey water slid down the drain.

Grant's only reply was a grunt.

"Just don't fall asleep," Phil warned. "You can do that when they knock you out in the med bay."

"Won't need to knock me out," Grant mumbled.

No, they probably wouldn't, Phil thought. At this rate, he'd be carrying Grant down to the med bay.

"Anything else I can do?" he asked aloud, dropping his right hand to Grant's shoulder.

Grant said nothing, just held up a washcloth, and Phil silently took it.

He eased back a step, as Grant leaned forward, and was thinking of how gentle he'd have to be when he paused, staring at Grant's back.

The bullet hole wasn't the only scar there. There were other, older lines, cuts, burns that almost looked like finger prints, and... was that-?

"Grant. What is this?" He could barely hear his own whisper over the running water.

"What-?" Grant started, before he froze under Phil's touch.

Phil's stomach churned as he traced the raised flesh, the hollow-eyed skull and the eight curling tentacles. Bile rose in his throat, hot and scalding, but he swallowed it back. "Who did this to you?" He hated how his voice broke, how tears burned behind his eyes.

"Sorry, Garrett's already dead."

With a curse, Phil turned away, slammed a fist into the metal wall, but Grant's flinch yanked him back from the anger better than the pain in his knuckles did.

A deep breath, before he found a word. "Why?"

Grant seemed to shrink under his gaze, curling under the weight of that awful brand. But his words came as steadily as they would in any debriefing. "He said I was his. After I– I tried to escape. They tortured me, but he wouldn't let me die. And then he had me branded. To make sure everyone knew which master to send the mutt back to.

"Did you know?" He sat straighter, as if the bitter words gave him strength, glanced over his shoulder up at Phil. "Did he tell you he came to recruit me? In juvie? He got to the detention centre ten minutes after we left. He wanted me for HYDRA. But you beat him to it." A rusty laugh. "The way he harped on that, you would have thought you'd done it on purpose." He sighed, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "After- after I broke, after I shot Firenze... he said he won. He said he got me in the end."

The warmth on Phil's cheeks was not water; it stung in his eyes, burned in his throat. Words, where were they? What was he supposed to say?

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. We should have searched harder, we should have found you, I should have saved you. But when he opened his mouth, no sound came.

Blinking away tears, he looked down to where his hands rested on Grant's shoulders, water pattering over his fingers and dripping steadily down from his wrists... washing over those scars. On the right, the brand of HYDRA. On the left, the shattered mark earned from saving Coulson. He wished suddenly that the brand could have been on the left, could have been punched through by that bullet. Because which one had been Grant's choice?

"He didn't."

It came out in a croak, and Phil cleared his throat.

"He didn't get you in the end. You were willing to die to save me. The whole time he thought he had you, you were waiting to turn it back on him. He might have had your hands tied, but he didn't have you."

Grant sat quite still in front of him, head bowed, and suddenly Phil needed to see his face, to make sure Grant understood the truth. He ignored how water soaked his shirt as he stepped around to turn the shower off, and in the ringing hush, sank into a crouch in front of Grant.

Naked, dripping, hungry, exhausted, scarred, and in pain—this was Grant Ward at his most vulnerable. Phil only hoped he could get it right, could say and be whatever it was Grant needed most right now.

"Grant," he murmured.

A sniff, a shaky exhale, a hand rubbed across his face, but Grant did not look up.

Phil shifted to one knee, reaching up to cup the back of Grant's neck, rest their heads together. "You did what you had to do to survive."

Grant shook his head, drew back. When he looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed and wet. "You taught me a long time ago there was more to life than survival."

"I trust your judgement on the cost. You're a good man, Grant. Making the hard choices doesn't change that."

Tears brimmed over, and he turned his face away again.

"You stayed alive," Phil whispered. "And I'm grateful."

A shudder under Phil's hand, and then a sob broke out, Grant shaking his head hard. "But I didn't! I didn't try to survive! He wouldn't let me die."

How could his heart hurt anymore? Phil wondered. Not that he could really pretend surprise. Torture could push people in all kinds of directions. But he needed to keep Grant talking, dig out whatever was festering in his heart.

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"This scar," Grant gulped, lifted a shaking hand to the pink line running down from in front of his right ear to under his jaw. "That wasn't Garrett. That was me."

And now he was sobbing, slumping forward against Phil's chest. As gently as he could, Phil wrapped an arm over Grant's back, their positions making it awkward to offer more physical comfort.

He wished he had a towel to wrap around Grant's shoulders, knowing the chill would get to him sooner or later. Cool water was dripping down inside his collar, and the hard floor was hurting his knee, but Grant had a fistful of his shirt, and Phil would not have pulled away for the world. He pressed his cheek against wet hair, and closed his eyes.

"What happened, Grant? Talk to me. This is our debriefing. Just us. Talk to me."

"He told me they were dead," Grant choked out. "Fitzsimmons. But he kept me alive. Tortured me. No food. No water. Alone. In the dark. For weeks." A last sob shuddered through him, and he subsided to ragged breathing. He was collecting himself, trying to explain coherently. "Garrett wanted to break me. I tried to escape, but–" a deep shaky inhale "–they caught me. Beat me. When I woke up... he branded me. And I..." His voice caught, and he shook his head, shivered.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I'm so sorry."

That tearful whisper tore at Phil's heart, and a couple warm drops slipped down his own cheeks.

"For what?" Even though he knew the answer.

"I was supposed to die bravely. But I couldn't. I wanted it to end! I just wanted... it to stop, so I tried. I stole a knife, went for the carotid. When I woke up... Garrett said I wouldn't get away that easy.

"I gave in, Dad." Another round of sobs threatened, but he fought them back. "I wasn't trying to be a double agent, I just... wanted to eat every day. I wanted to wake up and not hurt. I don't even remember the Treehouse. Because he was right. I was no better than a dog."

"Grant Douglas Ward." His voice came out too loud, and he tried to soften it with a hand on Grant's cheek. "Look at me." He stared into bloodshot brown eyes, gripped Grant's face gently. "Sometimes heroes have to start by saving their own lives. And yours is worth it." A thumb stroked deliberately down the knife's old path. "So thank you. Thank you for surviving. I'm proud of you, son."

More tears, but quieter now, both of them worn and chilled.

Phil leaned in to press a warm kiss to Grant's forehead. "Come on," he murmured. "We better finish up and get you in some dry clothes."

"Okay."

As he stood though, Grant caught his hand, squeezed it. "I love you, Dad." His tiny tired smile was like the sun breaking through clouds.

It took a moment before Phil could answer.

"I love you, son."

He tried to move quickly, cleaning Grant's back, and helping him wash around the splint. The little gasps from Grant at any movement of his leg, told him the anesthetic had run his course, and his kid belonged in the med bay ten minutes ago.

But at the same time there seemed to be something lighter in Grant's eyes, in his air, and Phil was certain their conversation had been a good thing. What was that saying? The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable? Well, they'd gotten some of the misery out of the way.

Getting Grant dry and dressed was an arduous process, but at last he sat on the bench, clad in the borrowed flannels and Phil's jacket, preferable because of its zipper. Phil discarded his soaked button down, and took the t-shirt and sweater. May had forgotten socks, so he gave Grant his own, kneeling in front of him to gently ease on one and then the other, at least as far as it could go on the wounded leg.

As Phil hastily laced his boots, he glanced sideways at Grant's pale face, and closed eyes, the way he slumped back against the wall, still shivering.

"I'm carrying you." Not a question, a decision.

"You always carry me."

The words were barely audible, and he wondered if Grant had meant to say that aloud. But he clearly meant for Phil to hear him as he was set gently on the elevator floor, Fitz and Trip fussing around his leg. As Phil made to stand, Grant caught his sleeve, spoke soft but steady. "I'm glad I'm alive too."

Phil could only nod and smile.

Grant was asleep on his shoulder by the time the elevator stopped.

#um... sorry?#this took forever and got super angsty and i am so sleepy right now i hope it made sense #yes grant and bobbi know each other and yes they call each other that because bobbi took the mockingbird title from laura and grant has #always wanted to be as good a marksman as hawkeye so yeah. clint and laura are like older siblings to them #grant ward #phil coulson #antoine triplett #jemma simmons #leo fitz #melinda may #skye #bobbi morse #agents of shield #saving grant ward au #my writing #comfy vember 2024 #scars

20 notes · View notes

she-wolf09231982 · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 2-The Prodigal Soldier Returns

Summary: The day of the Super Solider Serum infusion arrives, and you may or may not emerge as the next gender bend Captain America. Either way, you survive Howard Stark’s experiment, and carry the torch supporting and defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic…and possibly intergalactic.

58 years later, Nick Fury and agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. discover Steve Rogers still alive and cryogenically preserved in ice. Rogers is returned immediately to New York for rehabilitation and recovery from his 66-year slumber under ice. When Steve is finally acclimated to his new 21st century life, he eventually bumps into you at the compound.

Author Note: Steve Rogers x Female!Avenger, Captain America x Female!Avenger, Y/N, L/N=Wolf, Reader!EnhancedAvenger, Avenger name She-Wolf, Avengers, Marvel movie references, Howard Stark, Maria Stark, Peggy Carter, Nick Fury, Agent Phil Coulson, S.H.I.E.L.D., story begins in 1953 ends in 2011, Military and Medical terminology, Pre/Post Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre Avengers

*Bold Italics represent character thoughts and flashbacks

~~~~~~~~

1953

The lab room suddenly became chaotic. Alarms started to sound off on the heart monitor connected to the Vita-Ray Chamber and red warning lights flashing. Your face began visibly wincing from pain in the window of the encasement you were locked into.

The serum made your blood pressure spike, edging you close to what could be a heart attack.

“Howard! Cut the infusion! Her heart rate is dangerously high!” Peggy called out over the commotion of white lab coats running around.

Howard Stark began to rush over to the main controls to shut down the serum transmission when he suddenly heard your voice through the container.

“NO! Keep going!” You pushed. You’ve worked too hard to stop now.

Peggy and Howard exchanged concerned glances.

“Stark, she’s only at 70% completion. If she’s already struggling now imagine what will happen to her at 100%.” Peggy cautioned.

Howard looked at the serum percentage meter indicating how much of the I.V. was imported into your blood stream. The meter continued to rise… 75%...80%...85%...

He glanced at your face in the viewing window of the chamber. Your eyes shut tight; jaw clenched doing your best to not black out.

…89%...90%...

“Stark??” Peggy yelled.

Your heart can take no more. Your heart rate reaches its limit causing you to go limp inside the box.

“Shut it down!!” Howard called out as he raced to the Vita-Ray Chamber door to force it open as fast as he could. Peggy joined him to assist.

You had flat lined. The sound of a steady drone from the heart monitor filled the room.

The extreme heat of the chamber had expanded the metal from within, making the door almost impossible to open.

One of the lab coats brought a crowbar to pry the latch. After a little bit of muscle and leverage, the door sprung open. Steam projected outward overflowing the room, blocking the view of you. Howard and Peggy began fanning the air so they could see you.

There you were, still vertically strapped in, head resting on your shoulder, eyes closed…still not breathing.

“…Howard.” Peggy said with breathy distress while looking at you.

Howard walked up to your lifeless form, placed two fingers to your carotid artery on your neck to locate a pulse. As soon as he pressed into your skin your eyes sprang wide open.

You gasp loud and harsh, frightening everyone in the room, causing Howard to fall backward into Peggy.

Exceptionally confused and panicked, your eyes darted side to side trying to get a grasp on what had just occurred. As the heart monitor machine came back to life beeping frantically, the lab started humming again, everyone calling out results and observations over eachother from their stations.

“Heart rate is detected and, on the rise…”

“Oxygen levels at 100%…”

“Blood pressure is getting high, Mr. Stark…”

“Her muscle mass increased by 70%!!”

“If we don’t calm her down, she may go into shock, Agent Carter…”

Peggy took the initiative.

“Everyone, simmer down!” She commanded the room. All the lab coats froze.

She walked over to you and in a soothing tone, spoke to you.

“Y/N, you’re going to be alright. The experiment was a success. You did it.” she said calmly.

She held your face firmly between her hands, so you focused on her. Your breath was short and fast as Peggy continued.

“Deep breaths, Wolf. In…” She inhaled with you.

“Out.” She exhaled with you.

You repeated this until you finally relaxed.

Howard approached you. “Y/N, how do you feel?”

You took a minute to assess yourself.

You noticed your white pajama set was suddenly quite snug. Some parts were even torn especially in the shoulder and thigh area. The hem of your pants that once hung closer to your feet were now shorter revealing your ankles and calves.

“I feel…taller?” You respond first. “And sweaty.”

Stark’s mouth curved into a triumphant grin. The serum worked. And it showed.

Your body was evidently more toned, developed muscles straining against the fabric of your white outfit. Pants now hanging at your calves instead of below your ankles, you’ve obviously grown at least 5 inches. You were a colossus compared to former your self.

Howard offered his hand to help you out after releasing the safety harnesses, but you stumble out like a newborn giraffe as both he and Peggy catch you before you hit the ground.

“Get a wheelchair over here now!” Stark called out.

He looked back at you. “This is the beginning of something big, Y/N. You are going to be part of some of the greatest stories in America’s history.”

You only nod at first since you are too weak to be excited about anything yet.

“Mr. Stark, I’d like to take a nap first if you don’t mind?” You finally responded.

The room chuckled in unison.

~~~~~~~~

2011

You spent the next 58 years battling local crimes in New York, and eventually deploying overseas mostly assisting medical squadrons or rebuilding critical structures for allies and joint forces in combat zones. You were utilized during conflicts such as The Vietnam War, Desert Storm, and The Global War on Terrorism. You were especially useful during Operation Iraqi Freedom clearing potentially hostile locations with Special Forces and patrolling with convoys to secure safe passage for American military to travel.

The Super Soldier Serum’s organic preservatives left you looking and feeling your best since the infusion in 1953. You didn’t look or feel a day over 25 in over five decades because of it. However, you were only able to withstand 90% of the serum’s deposit, therefore you weren’t at full potential of your superhuman capabilities, unfortunately. Nonetheless, you were still a success story in Howard Stark’s eyes.

Sadly, in December 1991 while you were tasked to a recovery detail in Eastern Europe, you returned to American soil to be met by an Agent Nick Fury with grave news. Howard Stark and his wife, Maria, were killed by a HYDRA assassin while you were away. This information absolutely ruined you. You didn’t take Howard’s death very well. You progressively became a shell of your former self, sinking into a depressive state. Since then, you became quite an introvert and kept a low-profile spending most of your time at the gym, in the library reading, or in your sleeping quarters.

Through it all, you still led a life of service to your country when called upon in memory of your surrogate father. Nick Fury assumed command of S.H.I.E.L.D. by this time and took you under his wing, making sure to commission you with new assignments to continue Stark’s legacy.

Even though you were one of Howard’s greatest accomplishments in decades, a resurfacing discovery by S.H.I.E.L.D had the entire compound particularly energetic today. You were leaving the gym and noticed all the lab coats buzzing back and forth whispering to eachother. You also hadn’t seen Fury in a few days, which was unusual because you would usually get a debrief from him of your assignments every night for the following day.

As that thought crossed your mind, he appeared before you.

“Y/N, just the woman I’m looking for. Come with me.” He ushered you down the hall.

You were utterly perplexed, but continued to follow him down the halls having no idea where he was taking you.

“Director Fury?” You began.

He continued walking at a brisk pace. “Hm?” was his response.

“Forgive me if I’m not up to speed on what’s happening here, but….”

You tread lightly about asking too many questions because Fury’s mind was obviously busy, and you weren’t sure if he was really listening to you. You pause as you arrive at a long observing window that peered into what looked to be a hospital room. He gestured towards the window.

“Have a look for yourself.” He invited.

You walk up to the glass and look through. In the hospital bed laid a man peacefully asleep.

Your heart stilled as you stared at this alluring stranger.

He had a thick head of blonde hair, disheveled strands laying softly across his forehead. A chiseled jawline, perfect nose, flawless skin, and the longest lashes any woman would be jealous of. And dear God, arms that look like they could crush concrete.

You stood there with your mouth agape staring at this brawny, angelic creature in front of you.

Fury tilted his head to the side observing your reaction. He was mildly entertained by your moment of shock that rendered you completely speechless.

“You know who this man is, Y/N.” He finally tells you.

You shake your head to snap out of your hypnosis. You look at Fury and raise an eyebrow at him. Clearly indicating you didn’t understand.

“Is that a question or a statement, sir?” You ask.

Fury chuckled as he continued.

“This, my friend, is the one and only Steve Rogers…TheCaptain America.” He explained.

You narrowed your eyes at him in disbelief.

“But sir…” You began.

“Yes, I know, but we discovered him conserved cryogenically under ice a few days ago.” He explained.

You look back through the window.

“Alive? But…how?” You manage to ask.

“Well, blood tests revealed that his blood contained excessive amounts of glucose as a result of his liver processing his glycogen storage, thus lowering the freezing temperature of blood-borne water and creating a 'cryoprotectant'. This process is similar to those of hibernating bears and wood frogs that metabolize glycogen in their liver to circulate ample amounts through their body to reduce the osmotic shrinkage of cells and prevents them from freezing. This, however, has never been seen before in humans.” Fury explained in a ‘matter of fact’ manner.

Your confusion must have reflected on your face because he reiterated by simply saying,

“Howard Stark’s preservative components in the serum allowed Rogers to survive freezing temperatures.”

You nod, “I see. You could’ve just led off with that, sir.”

~~~~~~~~

With Captain America resurrected, the atmosphere at the facility completely shifted. Agent Phil Coulson addressed the public to officially confirm Steve Rogers’ return. Which was an absolute honor for him since he was a huge fan of Captain America and everything he represents. All the lab coats walking around were all a flutter about Captain America’s presence in the building…especially the females which made you utterly nauseous.

You, on the other hand, thought everyone was being overdramatic. You were particularly curious about what would happen next, though. What did this mean for S.H.I.E.L.D.? For America? Where did this leave you? Questions stirred relentlessly in your head for days. Every thought of what could happen next now that Steve was back didn’t have a good outlook for you no matter which way you spun it. These intrusive thoughts keep your brain busy, causing you to lose sleep at night.

You became very irritable with the few people you came into contact with throughout the day, so you decided to spend more time training in the boxing gym hitting the heavy bag. Fury frequently gave you direct orders to hit the showers and sleep it off, which you begrudgingly comply with out of respect.

Fury knew you were less than pleased by Steve’s return, and he was correct in assuming so. Your mental and emotional balance was already thrown off by the passing of Howard and Maria. Now you felt your livelihood hung by a thread because of the sudden homecoming of the prodigal soldier. You felt resentment and anger with every passing thought. And as assignments grew scarce, there were less deployments to redirect your attention leaving you with little to no outlet for your concentrated emotions.

One sleepless night, you once again find yourself hooking deep punches into the midriff of a 100 lbs (45.359 kg) Everlast boxing bag. Your hands only ever wrapped in sports tape, your knuckles are constantly bruised and swollen by the excessive number of times you spend pummeling the cylinder sack.

Sweat beading on your forehead and soaking through your shirt, hissing out loud every time each hand makes contact, you’re so deep in the zone surrounded by fire and wrath that you didn’t notice Steve had entered the room. He stood there watching you intensely while holding his gym bag in one hand, as he held a towel in the other. You deliver one final blow to the bag, sending it across the room like a projectile into the brick wall opposite you. You stood there panting, staring at the pile of other destroyed boxing bags that you’ve launched with your fits of physical rage.

“Wow.” Steve said impressed with a half-smile.

You turn your attention to him, meeting his blue eyes from where you stood. Your eyebrows furrowed still trying to catch your breath. You realize it was only him, so you turned away without responding, (not before pursing your lips together in disdain while rolling your eyes). You pick up your hand towel and wipe your face, then retrieve a new heavy bag, lifting with one hand effortlessly hanging it, replacing the one you just demolished.

Steve coughed awkwardly, sensing the thick air in the room between the two of you.

You started to stretch in front of one of the mirrors that had a ballet barre, completely disregarding the man behind you.

“We haven’t formally met yet.” Steve stated.

You let out an audible exasperated sigh. You barely glance over your shoulder, almost acknowledging him, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. It’s good to finally meet you…”

His voice was smooth and resonating…Like honey. He spoke deep from the chest and his voice projected, yet he didn’t need to yell. His voice just traveled through the room to you like music and almost had you melting into a puddle.

“Get it together, idiot…” You told yourself.

You decided to remain cordial. Even though you’d rather not engage with him at all, it’s what Howard would’ve wanted.

“You know who I am?” You finally responded with your back still facing him.

“I know of you, yes. Word is you were my protégé after I disappeared.” He replied.

“Is that all that was said about me?” You asked.

“Of course not.” He assured confidently.

You turned around while dabbing your neck with your towel, then draped it around your nape holding each end with your hands. You looked at Steve and started to walk towards him. Steve was positively handsome, and although he appeared intimidating and confident, he still had little experience interacting with women…especially if he found them attractive. As the gap closed between the two of you, his heart proceeded to beat faster. Your supersonic hearing picked it up right away, and you relished the effect you had on him.

Steve tried to diffuse his ascending apprehension as you stood feet from him.

“Um,” he started to scratch the back of his head bashfully, “if you’re up to it, maybe you can show me around the compound sometime?” He suggested.

You raise your eyebrows and inquisitively squint at him. Your mouth involuntarily curled into a grin because he looks so stinkin’ cute standing there tensed up in suspense, holding his breath, waiting on your response.

“Sure, Cap.” You say curtly. Steve let out a sigh of relief.

“Wanna start tomorrow?” You ask him.

“Uh, sure.” He replied.

“Meet me here at 0800?”

“Ok!”

You nod at him, shoulder your backpack and breeze past him without another word, leaving him slightly stunned and bewildered.

He watched you leave until he couldn’t see you anymore.

“Phew…that was exhausting.” Steve said out loud to himself.

You chuckle to yourself because you were totally close enough to hear that.

You kind of felt bad messing with him, but you’re the one that has seniority here. Even though he’s older than you and is the original super soldier, he’s “the man out of time” having been asleep under ice for almost 70 years. The horrific things you’ve seen and experienced during those years have hardened your heart and you weren’t one to coddle anyone anymore. Not even America’s favorite poster boy from Brooklyn.

~~~~~~~~

At 0745, you walk into the gym and see Steve sitting on a stool in a corner of the boxing ring. You shoot a perplexed look at him and smirk.

“How long have you been here?” You call out to him.

He looked up.

“Long enough.” He said simply smiling back.

“Waiting to go a few rounds with me, Cap?” You ask almost too flirtatiously.

Steve scoffed then stood up.

“No ma’am, I would never hit a lady.” He responded.

“I’m no average lady, Rogers.” You replied sternly. You weren’t about to let him categorize or underestimate you.

Steve’s smile faded to a look of fascination and curiosity.

“Should we head out then?” You ask.

Steve nodded and exited the gym with you.

~~~~~~~~

“I never knew a place could have so many…levels.” Steve said as you walk off the elevator where the living quarters were.

Up until now, you were the only one residing in dorms. Now Steve shared this building with you but had his room in another wing. It had a common area, an impressive kitchen, dining and living room and a full gym on a separate floor.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. obviously spared no expense.” You stated.

Steve nodded in agreement. He continued to admire the surroundings.

“So? What do you think, Cap?” You finally ask.

Steve looked at you confused.

You gesture to everything around you.

“All of this. What do you think?”

Steve let out a puff of breath and looked around again in thought.

“Well…” He started “it’s going to take a lot getting used to.” He finished.

“Mmhm.” You hum.

He continued.

“But I’ll manage.” He added confidently.

“I sure hope so.” A voice rang out from across the living room area.

Director Fury stood at the doorway, then proceeded to walk towards you.

“Director.” You greeted as he approached. He nodded at you.

“I see you two are getting along just fine.” Fury said with an almost visible smirk.

You released a faint laugh.

“Y/N has been very hospitable.” Steve responded earnestly then looked at you with a soft smile.

You felt yourself blushing when your eyes met his.

“Snap out of it, you idiot.” You scold yourself.

“Good, because one day, you’ll need to work as a team.” Fury explained.

You snap your head at Fury with anger rising in your chest like lava.

“Director??” You ask almost with panic in your voice.

Nick Fury released an irritated sigh, rolling his eye before facing you.

“Y/N, we discussed this. Why do you insist on acting this is the first time you’re hearing this?”

“Because, sir, I never agreed to it.” You pointed out.

“Last time I checked, Wolf, my title is ‘Director.’ I don’t need your consent nor your approval.” Fury retorted in a very parental tone.

Steve just sat, arms folded across his chest while his eyes flitted between you and Fury like he was watching a tennis game.

“With all due respect, Director, I refuse.” You declared.

“Excuse me?” Fury dared you to repeat.

“I refuse.” You restated boldly.

Fury began to open his mouth to reprimand you until Steve cut in.

“Ok now this is escalating quickly.” Steve said while inserting himself between you and Fury.

“Director, perhaps allow Miss Wolf and I to build more rapport before talking about working in the field together? We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” He suggested.

Fury studied Steve, then looked at you.

“Fine. Understand this now, though, when you two are called upon, you will be responding…together.” Fury declared.

You only respond by crossing your arms. Fury turned on his heel and exited, leaving you there with this annoyingly reasonable and infuriatingly gorgeous super soldier.

~~~~~~~~

#marvel #captain america #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america x female reader #the avengers #marvel cinematic universe #howard stark #peggy carter #phil coulson #nick fury #chris evans #red white and blue #america's ass #stars and stripes #shewolf #the first avenger #agents of shield #super soldier

21 notes · View notes