#not bashing

when the ideas centrifuge stopped spinning, two ideas had solidified: first, that the characters on this show have experienced debilitating, disabling injuries & other conditions, and either been magically fine, or dead. the second is that every person on this show needs friends who aren't part of their work shift.

i think both of these points have been explored really well in fic, and i look forward to reading more if it! they're both the sort of things that probably need to be dealt with in transformative works, and unreasonable for me to expect a lot of from the show, but i still would like to see more of it in canon. even if it's a smidge.

to the first point, idk if i want to focus on that for this. it feels a little too on the nose, on a day when the disabilities are disabling. but. specifically, in the show, i think it would be more satisfying if there were even little details. buck in the background plugging in a heating pad while he sits down on a couch in the station loft or squeezing some voltaren gel onto his left shoulder or answering the door at his house with electrode pads on his leg because he's using a tens unit. eddie grimacing as he rotates the wrist that was shot when he was in afghanistan after he loads the gurney into the rig. karen mentioning to hen that she picked up some scar cream or scheduled her for a massage. maddie kissing chim's forehead, or chim mentioning that he's running to the store after shift to pick up maddie's favorite tea or some ricolas.

doing an entire storyline about the conses of their injuries' quences on a show that's about people's jobs is tricky, especially on a popcorn procedural like 9-1-1. (i am staring into the camera like jim halpert.) but i also think that the show's tendency to forget these catastrophic, life-changing elements and over-correcting with death is also pretty goofy.

and—why is bobby's addiction the only part of the show i can remember that deals with chronic pain? (the operative part there being i can remember, because, well. swiss cheese brain. there could very well be something i'm not remembering.)

i could see buck commiserating with a patient on a call about the more unconventional ways they've tried to deal with pain. maybe the patient got tiger balm in their eye or something, idk. but buck says, well, my ex left a vibrator behind, and would you believe how well that thing works when my knee's throwing a fit. or ravi mentions a friend's recipe for special mint brownies that really help with not just appetite but nausea as well. (i mean, this wouldn't fly in the flyover states, but. you get it.)

just. yeah, there are big, life-changing days, when you get a diagnosis, when you have a procedure, when there's big change. but there's also the mundanity of it all, the living with a chronic condition. i think incorporating an awareness of that would solve at least some of the problems that this show has with stakes that are either too low or too high. i enjoyed a lot of the callbacks in the most recent episode! but i also felt an absence where hen and buck could have talked about being sidelined and not knowing if they'd get to keep their jobs, if their lives as they knew them were over, not just chef buck taking over in the kitchen. (on whose recommendation? hen's doctor, a nutritionist, or because one of them read a popular diet book?)

and this is why i am so grateful for fan works. i love it when people explore this sort of thing in fic. the show does not have the time to be a show about chronic pain and/or illness, i know, so hashing it out in transformative works is where i expect to deal with it most. but it would be nice to have some little details in the show.

i think it would be cool to have aus in fic where bobby survives, then retires, maybe takes an extended leave to spend time with his mom and charlie, etc. (...don't be surprised if you see me reblog this with five facts about that, after i take a nap lol)

— —

the second point: these people need friends. BADLY.

again, i know the show isn't going to dedicate a lot of time to developing connections that are irrelevant to the plot. it barely develops the main characters, for crying out loud. but i think it would be richer if they'd throw in some little details here and there about people who aren't coworkers or romantic partners/members of their nuclear families.

i loved how, earlier in season 9, maddie mentioned her book club. does she actually like the people in her book club? i'm not sure. but it was a little oh! moment of excitement for me, even a little mention of strangers who expand her world a little bit. even little mentions of unseen people jazz up the stories!

and. i can't imagine that buck doesn't have friends, that he doesn't make connections with people when he's out and about. that guy has at least one friend who works at a museum, and another who works at the zoo. there's no way he doesn't have a friend he didn't meet while out on a hike, bonus points if that person is a park ranger. even if those are more casual acquaintances he meets up with sometimes for coffee, and not super deep connections, i cannot believe his only friends are the people he works with.

long story short: the henren "we're too old for this" amateur detectives plot in season 5/6 (it's a blur), where karen mentions feeling socially challenged by her coworkers, should be a more frequent occurrence. heck—it's been years since karen's brothers (?) were even mentioned! what about a throwaway line about the wilsons meeting up with karen's family, and meeting mara for the first time??

and i've probably yapped too much already, but i can't stop thinking about what this might mean for athena, especially as she ages.

this is something that's on my mind a lot, personally, as an aging & disabled aroace who probably won't have a conventional partner of any sort in this lifetime. as all the well-meaning older people in my life have told me since i was a kid (customer service smile), if you think it's bad now, just wait until you get old. which horrifies me, because it's not good, and it never has been good.

chances are, this show will have athena meet a nice man at some point in the future, likely a widower, and they'll pick up the pieces together. i'm not mad at that, exactly, but i think a lot of the problems on this show would have resolved themselves if athena wasn't so isolated in the first place.

i'd worked on a 5 facts about athena focusing on getting out and meeting people and making friends and basically forming a platonic polycule a few years down the road, but wasn't sure if that was something others would want to read/make sense, or if it was just me hashing out my own feelings about aging and community through a character it wasn't really a good fit for. maybe someday that will see the light of day; today is not that day.

but like. decoupling the idea of "growing old together" from "has to be a romantic relationship" "has to be the love of your life" is something that gnaws at me, and there's something about athena and a few other similarly-aged adults who get along well enough intentionally building community that will grow with them that pokes at me. where were her friends when bobby died?? does she still go to church? does she still talk to her claws buddies? does she go to the library sometimes? does the first responders group shown in s2 still exist?

idk. the isolation and siloing off into nuclear family units with no external friends/connections on this show drives me up the wall. like sure, athena's independent, she's a lone wolf, but you can't tell me that hen is her only friend. i come from a long line of awkward neurodivergent folks who loathe the concept of "other people", and we all have/had more than one friend at a time. idk. it's weird.

I had mildly negative experiences with him at MinnCon 2017 and MinnCon 2018 (mostly some off-color comments and being ignored in favor of my louder, meaner "friend" who claimed to be afraid of him because she watched Karla), but what left me with the deep, lasting cringe (and not the fun kind) was what happened at VanCon 2019.

If you watch his panel at VanCon 2019, you'll hear a soft voice (me!) say into the microphone, "Hi, Misha", more than once and get talked over because even when there's a pause and it seems like he's done talking to the previous person, he just kept FUCKING TALKING! I almost walked away, and you know what? I should've.

Sure, I ended up asking the dumbest question in the universe ("do you know how to z-snap?") because it was being encouraged by my "friends", but seriously? I KNOW that asshat heard me.

So I was 20 when I first read Rebecca. I was anxious, people-pleasing, "victim to my own inferiority complex." Suffice to say I strongly identified with the Narrator. A few chapters in and we were one. I shared her humour, her love of the countryside, her morbid curiosity and goofy catastrophizing imagnation. The one thing I had to indulge a bit were her feelings for Maxim (inconvenient ngl) but for the time being, her story didn't strike me as being about Maxim so much as the struggle of acclimating to her new social status while feeling lesser-than. Her love life, like her gender, was just one of those superficial differences our kinship transcended. (Spoiler: neither of those things was superficial.)

Like I said, we were one. Her thoughts were my thoughts.

Then a certain Chapter 20 reveal happened and suddenly I couldn't follow her for an inch.

Don't get me wrong, I still liked her and I didn't judge. Her feelings made sense, and her decisions made sense ... they weren't mine, though. She was relieved and in love. I was disturbed. She'd finally found the agency and confidence to take the plot into her hands. I could only see a terrifying moral dilemma with no clear path. I still liked her, still do, but I'd never be her again.

It was such a huge Gestalt switch it made me look back on the rest of the book with a fresh mind and admit I hadn't known the Narrator (and maybe Daphne du Maurier herself) as well as I'd thought. I'd latched onto the parts I related to and ignored the ones I didn't.

Because Maxim really is the Narrator's whole world, for better or worse. Everything she wants, she wants as a means, to reach him and make him love her and assuage her jealousy. When she learns that she is loved, that her jealousy was unwarranted, everything is right with the world (at least, so she tells herself). She thrives on his newfound dependence. This isn't just any coming-of-age story of a person finding their worth. It's the story of a girl growing into a wife, finding her worth in a husband for whom she's willing to give anything up, from her moral conscience to the socialite role she's spent the past 300-odd pages striving to fill. Again, the point isn't that I'm judging. (Although yeah, maybe I am.) It's simply that I couldn't see myself in that story anymore, nor in the character who'd so easily absorbed me.

That was the "horror": realizing this isn't my story. The Narrator isn't me, she's someone else entirely. It's someone else's story. And isn't that a bit like growing up?

"I would never be a child again. It would not be I, I, I any longer."

In case of emergency, Tony had once told her. After Afghanistan. Reluctantly. Like maybe he was already regretting his decision to start this conversation. At the time, Pepper hadn’t known what to do with that. At the time, she’d been sure that she would never resort to this.

Now though.

Now Tony’s in surgery for the second time in as many days. Now the doctors don’t know if he’s going to make it. Now—

Pepper has spent the past four scared out of her mind, her usually impeccable make-up beyond saving, barely keeping it together enough to type out a few necessary messages. It’s been four hours — four weeks, four years — and Pepper is so damn tired of being scared. 

Pressing the call button is easier than she thought it would be.

"Miss Potts," an achingly familiar voice greets her. Even over the phone, she can hear the sneer in his voice. "I’ve been expecting your call."

*

"Steve Rogers."

Steve blinks up at the man sitting on the opposite end of the table (plastic, too light to do much damage). There’s no hurry — he’s been here for three weeks already, while the prosecution, the defense and the international community as a whole scrambled to catch up, and he’s gonna stay here for at least another two weeks, plus whatever sentence he’ll get stuck with, so really, Steve’s got nothing but time — and allows himself to slowly take the stranger in. This is by far not the first visitor Steve has received — lawyers, politicians, psychologists, a couple of doctors and even a few technicians with lie-detectors, Steve has seen them all. He’s been in and out of this grey, depressingly uninspiring visitation room ever since the Austrian special forces caught up with him on his way through Vienna.

He hadn’t fought them then. (He didn’t need to.)

The man has short, dark blonde hair and wears a fitted suit that Steve can tell has cost more that the ones of all his other visitors’ combined. It’s not the first sign that this man is different from the other people Steve’s been interrogated by — that would’ve been the way the stranger had entered the room in slow, measured steps, the kind Steve associates with Natasha when she wants to put on a show — but it is by far the most obvious one. 

Another one is the lack of paper.

Every single visitor Steve has received so far has brought a bunch of files along. Some are forms he’d needed to sign — they’re very careful in everything they do, want, need to keep this trial entirely above board, to ensure that there’ll be no doubt, no cries of foul play in the aftermath, just like Natasha told him they would — some are incident reports, some are evaluations of Steve himself. Some are nothing more than blank pieces of paper, to note down Steve’s responses as though they aren’t all well-aware of the three separate security cameras that run at all times.

This man is different. He hasn’t brought anything with him, not even a pen or a bottle of water. Just leans back in the uncomfortable plastic chair (bolted to the floor, just in case Steve gets free after all), looking as comfortable as you please. It’s fake — Steve has spent more time in these chairs than any of his visitors, he knows that these things aren’t designed for comfort, so it must be fake — but there’s no sign of it in the man’s body language that Steve can discern.

The notion sits uncomfortably under Steve’s skin. Makes his fingers itch with the urge to thrum them against the table. Steve isn’t Natasha who reads motives in every word, isn’t Clint who sees plans and future actions in every muscle twitch, but he knows people. He understands people. It’s been a long time since Steve’s met someone this hard to read off the battlefield.

But then, they aren’t exactly in neutral territory, are they?

The man places his hands in front of him on the table, fingers loosely entwined in a mockery of Steve’s own position but without the reinforced hand-cuffs. It’s a power play, plain and simple, and Steve hates it a little that even after the past weeks, he’s still not entirely immune to them. No one is, Natasha’s voice whispers soothingly in the back of his mind. That’s what makes these techniques so effective, Steve. We like to imagine us above such petty manipulation, but the truth is, we aren’t. That’s what makes us human. 

The stranger shifts, the clunky, silver rings on his right hand clinking loudly against each other in the silence of the room. Steve’s glance flickers reflexively towards the skin-colored bands around the man’s wrists before he quickly averts his eyes. He’s still not used to those bands everyone seems to be wearing these days, like it will somehow change the names inked into their skin. If you can’t see them, they can’t touch you, and all that. Yet another deception, another lie that people tell themselves instead of facing their destiny head on. After all, what point is there to hide from the names that you can’t escape?

The warden of this place even offered him make-up to hide names — since the bands aren’t allowed for security reasons, but everyone apparently has the right to keep their names hidden. Like they’re something to be ashamed of. It rankles Steve more than he’d like to admit. He’s refused to make-up, of course. Hasn’t bothered to hide the names in the forties. Hasn’t seen the need to anymore now either. Not after Siberia.

Of course, every time his thoughts run down this particular path, the sight of Natasha’s wrists — covered in burn scars — flash through his mind. The self-deprecated smile, the simple "The Red Room doesn’t believe in soulmates." It sends a shudder of dread through Steve even now, the thought of being so close to knowing who they are — your soulmate, your greatest enemy — yet having that knowledge taken from you before you are old enough to understand its value.

Steve forcefully pushes those contemplations aside. Refuses to glance towards his own, bare wrists and the names in black ink that read as much as a condemnation as an absolution. He refuses to hide them. Refuses to hide the truth. Refuses to cover from the disgust he’s seen in some of the warden’s eyes.

But now isn’t the time. Steve has to focus on his newest visitor — who gives off uneasy vibes that make Steve grit his teeth without knowing why he feels that way. Strangely, it reminds him of Tony and the realization sends a complicated rush of fondnesspainregretdeterminationacceptancefinality through him.

"Steve Rogers," the man repeats. He’s made no move to introduce himself so far — another power play, no doubt — and Steve hasn’t bothered to ask. The information is of no value to him right now. This man is of no interest. He’s just another face Steve has to go through, another move he’ll have to play.

As though the man can read Steve’s thoughts on his face, he smiles. Or rather, his lips are pulled into a mockery of a smile, wide and full of teeth, but his eyes— his eyes remain flat, like the blunt side of a blade. It’s a caricature of friendliness and Steve tenses involuntarily at the sight of it.

"I have three questions for you," the man states after a moment. "Once I’m through with them, you will never see me again. I do not believe that either of us will mourn this loss." The man speaks slowly, carefully enunciated. His tone coats the words with a harsh, mocking film that is oddly — uncomfortably — familiar.

Steve keeps his face expressionless, resigned to yet another round of 'No, I have not seen Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff or Bucky Barnes since the fight at the airport in Leipzig. We split up and no, I have no idea where they might have gone.’ It’s a blatant lie and everyone knows it, but it’s not like anyone can prove that. All Steve has to do is stick to the story. And he doesn’t care who this guy is or what kind of buttons he’s undoubtedly going to push — he has that kind of look about him that reminds Steve unsettlingly of Tony— and of someone else — Steve is going to do what he always does: Protect his team. [Protect Bucky.]

"First question." The man straightens in his seat, sharp, grey eyes suddenly fixated on Steve with an almost unsettling intensity. "Why are you here?"

Steve doesn’t blink — he’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and certainly not from a stare-down, thank you very much — but he has to admit, the question catches him off-guard. It’s such a nonsensical thing to ask. Without meaning to sound arrogant, Steve is pretty sure there’s no one in the US or Europe who doesn’t know why Captain America is currently sitting in detention awaiting trial. It’s not the kind of news reporters pass up on, as he’s learned the hard way. 

Damn, he realizes a moment later, his newest interrogator might actually pose a challenge.

At least it’s a question Steve can answer. They’d already established years ago that stoic silence isn’t really Steve’s strong suit — and besides that’s not what he’s going for here anyways. He’s cooperating. He’s apologetic. It’s important that he keeps it that way.

Still, Steve takes a moment to really think about it. To evaluate the question and all its hidden and not so hidden implications. Honesty, after all, is always preferable to a lie. And it is just as adaptable as any untruth can be.

"Careless," is what he settles on. "I got careless. When things first escalated, with Bucky, with the team, everything spiraled out of control so quickly and I just— panicked. But then the dust settled. Things calmed down a bit. For the first time, I had time to think again. Clearly. Time to realize how much went wrong, how much of it was my fault, how much we could have handled better…" Steve trails off, Tony’s [pushing, always pushing] "Did you know?" echoing uncomfortably in his ear. He shakes it off. There’s no point in lamenting over things that can’t be changed.

"I wasn’t really sure what to do at that point. I’m not exactly used to being on the run, and I guess it wasn’t a surprise when I got caught sooner rather then later. At that point, I just— so many people got hurt on accident and just because I didn’t mean to hurt them, doesn’t mean they didn’t still get hurt. I’m tired of hurting people, whether I mean to or not. I’m tired of fighting." There’s exhaustion in Steve’s voice that he doesn’t have to fake. It’s been a long couple of months. A hard couple of months. He shrugs. "So I didn’t."

The interrogator who’s been watching him closely this entire time doesn’t look impressed. Maybe he’s expected a pretty, rosy answer full of hope and righteous certainty. Or maybe he’s expected Steve to spit insults in his face. Either way, he doesn’t care. Steve is all out of fucks to give about people who can’t accept that the reality is never as clear-cut and certain as you’d like it to be.

"Hmmm." The man taps his middle finger against the table once, twice, the clack of his ring against the plastic still as uncomfortable as the first time around.

"And given that you are- tired of fighting," the man repeats, stressing the words like they they are a particularly bad joke that offends and amuses in equal parts, "what exactly is going to happen to you now?"

"Does that count as your second question?" Steve snipes despite himself, though his attitude earns him nothing more than an unimpressed look at a raised eyebrow.

The truth is, Steve doesn’t like to think too much about the immediate future. Eventually, it will all work out, he knows that. Eventually, the rest of his team will be hidden away so deep even Tony won’t be able to find them. Eventually—

But until then, the future is an uncertain blotch of colors Steve isn’t trying very hard to identify. He knows the judge will find him guilty no matter how much he’ll manage to sway people in his favor and he knows he’ll be made an example of. For now, it’s a necessary sacrifice someone has to make — and Steve wouldn’t have allowed anyone to make it in his stead. 

With a sigh and a half-aborted head shake, Steve refocuses on his visitor. "I’m going to stand trial and let the people decide my fate," he answers, voice firm. "It’s people I believe in, so it’s only fair that I allow them to judge my actions and decide on an appropriate response."

"And I’m sure your faith is much appreciated." The interrogator’s dry comment rankles, but it isn’t unexpected. Steve resolves to ignore it.

"Last question:" the man continues. "What’s my name?"

This time Steve blinks. Then the question’s full implications register and Steve feels a shudder of horror at the realization that the last person who asked him something similar — "You don’t even know who I am, do you? But I know who you are, Mister Rogers." — was Zemo. And Steve should have guessed, should have expected this, shouldn’t he? Wasn’t this precisely why he’d refused to let Bucky take his place, despite how Natasha had insisted that Bucky had a much greater chance to turn any trial in his favor? Because it wasn’t safe. Because their enemies were everywhere and it was foolish of Steve to time and time again expect to be able to recognize them at first glance. [Not all of them came with a warning label.]

Steve takes in the fairly attractive but otherwise unassuming features of the man on the other side of the table with renewed focus. There’s something tickling the edge of Steve’s memory in that cooly amused glint in the man’s cold eyes, in those thin lips that twist far too easily into a vicious smirk.

Personal, Steve thinks, knows. This is personal.

But for all that his mind races over missions and accumulated enemies, he can’t recall where he has seen this man before. Can’t tell how he is tied to the Avengers. And for all his usual people skills, Steve also can’t discern motives in the way that comes natural to Natasha. He doesn’t know what this guy’s objective is any more than he foresaw Zemo’s final, devastating strike.

"I might be able to answer that one if you’d bothered to introduce yourself," Steve snarks — and yes, perhaps the past weeks have gnawed away more of his self-control than he’d like to admit. [Perhaps he’s spent too much time with Tony, even though he knew where it would lead.]

His visitor tilts his head, the gesture startlingly, achingly familiar. "I might be disappointed, but that would presume that I had any sort of expectation of you in the first place. As it is, I can only conclude that you are exactly as unimpressive as I expected you to be." The man’s face is bland, void of any inflection.

"You put a lot of stock in soulmates, do you not, Steve Rogers?"

The sudden change of topic is jarring, throws Steve for a loop and leaves him struggling to regain his footing. There’s no denying the sinking feeling in his stomach though. Involving soulmates in a discussion of this sort rarely leads to anything good. Steve thinks of the mad grief in Zemo’s eyes, the numb horror as Bucky traced the blank metal on his left arm. Thinks of waking up to a too-changed, too-familiar world and a soulmate lost to him in ways that are worse than even death.

"Yes," he answers all the same, unable — unwilling — to deny this particular truth. It’s who Steve is, such an important, central part of him, and if the rest of the world can’t handle it, well. Too bad for them. "I’m one of the few lucky ones who got the chance to find out what my names mean. How could I turn my back on that?"

"How indeed?" his visitor murmurs, appears amused against all odds. "So tell me, Steve Rogers, do you feel particularly lucky then?" The man asks and for the first time glances down at Steve’s wrists, where the names of his soulmate and his greatest enemy a written in bold, black letters.

Margaret Carter.

Anthony Stark.

A single piece of destiny, written not into stone but human skin, and all the more damning for it.

Meeting Peggy had been a revelation. Steve had met many inspiring, capable women, especially in this new century, but none of them had ever measured up the the shadow Peggy had inadvertently cast. Peggy who had seen him even before Steve became Captain America. Peggy who had never faltered, not even when she lost him, not even when that sliver of happiness they’d carved out for themselves didn’t last.

Meeting Tony Stark had been a challenge. It had been easy at first. Finding fault in everything Steve could learn about the man on the so-called Internet, confirming what he had known in his heart since Peggy had first introduced herself to him, that she was his soulmate, that she could never be anything else. And maybe he’d been unfair to Stark, had been bitter that he lived when she didn’t, that Steve had already lost his chance with his soulmate and had only yet another fight to look forward to.

Then Stark sacrificed himself — became Tony — and for the first time Steve doubted. He’d tried not to, God knows he did, but he couldn’t help it. Tony had been willing to sacrifice himself to save New York, had no way of knowing whether he’d come back from that trip through the wormhole. How could this man be Steve’s greatest enemy when he was so clearly willing to do the right thing?

It had taken Ultron for Steve to realize the true meaning of the saying the way to hell is paved with good intentions. For Steve to understand that Tony didn’t have to be evil to become an enemy, that sometimes being convinced to do good was just as dangerous as wanting to destroy.

Steve still didn’t know if the Accords — if Siberia — had been it or if his true fight with Tony was still laying ahead. Part of him — the part that remembered the sound of the armor’s chest plate caving in under the pressure of his shield — didn’t want to know. 

Do you feel particularly lucky then?

No, Steve can’t help but think, despite knowing how ungrateful it sounds. He and Peggy had something precious — more than most ever achieve even with their soulmate — and with Tony Steve at least knew what to expect from the start.

It doesn’t bring back Peggy, his Peggy, though and it doesn’t make the memory of Tony’s last words to him — "You don’t deserve that shield!" — any easier to bear.

The silence in the small visiting room lingers, but Steve can’t bring himself to break it. He can’t bring himself to answer, to admit the truth. And really, it’s no one’s business but his own.

"That’s what I thought." The interrogator smiles, a genuine one this time, all twitching lips and crinkles around his eyes. He radiates satisfaction in a way that has Steve raise his hackles, has him tense in preparation for a fight, even though he knows rationally that any battle that awaits him now won’t be the physical kind.

"You know, I do appreciate your transparency on the topic." The man nods towards Steve’s bare wrists. "There’s few people nowadays as willing to show their names as you are. Seems like everyone is afraid of what their names might reveal about them, sometimes." He purses his lips. "I suppose it’s only fair that I return the favor."

Steve watches silently as the man peels off the band on his right wrist. He half expects a familiar name, half expects another tragedy he’s being blamed for — within reason or otherwise — to be laid at his feet. But the name on the stranger’s wrist reads Alisha Fennell, a name Steve has never heard of. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved by that or not.

("Do you even know the names of the citizens who died in Lagos?" Tony had thrown the question into the room with a casual cruelty that brought tears to Wanda’s eyes and had Steve clench his fists. The worst part being, of course, that he didn’t.)

"I researched the name a couple of years ago," the man continues lightly, as though telling an entertaining story that has no bearing on his own life. "Curiosity, I suppose. I didn’t find much, beyond a birth and death certificate. Ms Fennell died in a car accident when she was four."

Steve winces in sympathy. Doesn’t matter how it happens or if you knew them, losing a soulmate is never easy. Steve’s seen people go mad because of it, unable to handle the knowledge of what they’ve lost. It doesn’t escape his notice though that this man doesn’t look bothered by the fact. He’s still wearing a light smile — and Steve is starting to realize that 'wearing' is indeed the correct description because he certainly doesn’t mean it.

Maybe the man can read the dawning understanding on Steve’s face because his smile widens. And it looks genuine, so damn real, so why does it make Steve’s skin crawl?

"I’m a high-functioning sociopath, Steve Rogers," the man states, calm as you please. "The psychiatrists are still arguing about whether I was born this way or whether my limited emotional capacity is the result of the trauma of losing my soulmate so early. As I was never tested as a child, we’ll never know." Once again, the man doesn’t look bothered, is simply stating facts.

And as much as that disturbs Steve, there’s something else that he doesn’t understand. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Why?" The interrogator laughs and if Steve didn’t know better he would have called it a joyful one. "Because there’s something I want from you, Steve Rogers. And I assure you, I will get what I want. But to ensure that, I need you to understand something terribly simple that a lot of people just can’t wrap their heads around." The man pauses for a moment, and thanks to his still deceptively light tone it takes Steve a moment to parse out the threat underlying those words. "I’m a constructivist."

Steve stares at him, not sure what to do with that information.

The man looks back at him.

Long seconds pass as both parties refuse to avert their gaze.

Finally, the man raises his eyebrows. "You do know what being a constructivist means, don’t you?" There’s no missing the judgement in his voice.

Steve rolls his eyes. He can’t help it. Yes, he missed several decades of crucial social development, but he’s also spent the past two years on this side of the millennium. Not to forget, he’s lived with the Avengers for a large part of that time, all of whom have strong opinions on soulmates.

"Constructivists believe that the names merely signify potential and that either name can become either your soulmate or your greatest enemy, depending on the choices all persons involved make," Steve recites. "They’re in direct opposition to determinists, who essentially believe that fate has already decided their paths for them from the moment they were born and that their destiny is inevitable."

"A crude summary, but sufficient, I suppose." The man shrugs. "Personally, I’m leaning towards a more radical interpretation that rejects the binary either-or understanding society tends to gravitate towards. But I don’t think there’s any point in discussing the finer points of soulmate ideology with someone so convinced he knows everything that he left one of his own names behind to die."

The words are like a bucket of cold water, only more painful. They freeze Steve in place, remind him viciously of where exactly he is and that he still hasn’t discerned the objective of his strangest visitor to date.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Steve asks lowly.

"Oh, don’t give me that, Steve Rogers. It’s unbecoming to issue threats you can’t back up with actions and coming from a man in chains, it’s nothing less than pathetic." 

The acerbic words cut as they are intended to, but Steve refuses to be distracted. "What do you mean?" he repeats.

The man smirks. "Only that you forgot the cardinal rule of soulmates, Steve Rogers: You never know which name is tied to which fate."

At that, Steve can’t help but snort. "Really? That’s your play? You realize that To- Stark fought over ideals and personal differences and attempted to kill each other less than two months ago, right?"

"Really that’s your play?" The man repeats right back at him, down to Steve’s incredulous tone of voice. "You realize that it was your certainty that Stark could be nothing but an enemy that laid the groundwork for all the conflicts that followed, don’t you? That you were so convinced darling Margaret Carter could be nothing but your soulmate that you blinded yourself to all other possibilities. Because God forbid if there was more to the woman than a pretty face and being Captain America’s love interest."

The words, callous and unconcerned ignite Steve’s rage like few other things have ever managed. 

"You do not get to speak of her like that!" Steve snarls, straining against the reinforced cuffs.

"Of the pretty face that got to be Captain America’s sweetheart?" the man sing-songs mockingly. "Or of the woman who became one of SHIELD’s founders, a primordial force behind the recruitment of scientists from- shall we call it the losing side of the war? The woman who, if not actively supported, then passively allowed for HYDRA to infect SHIELD and grow stronger in its shadow? The woman who, by the end of her inspiring career, couldn’t tell the difference between SHIELD and HYDRA missions anymore?" Each piercing word is delivered with the cold calculation of a patient sniper — and not a single one misses its mark.

Steve’s rage evaporates as quickly as it comes under the shock at the veiled accusations, the implications of what this stranger is saying. No. That isn’t possible. This man, whoever the fuck he is, he has no idea what he is talking about. He has never even met Peggy, is simply trying to twist Steve’s connection to her to his advantage and Steve refuses to let him.

No.

It’s not possible.

[It can’t be true.]

Steve refuses to even consider it. 

When he finally has regained enough control of his raging emotions to keep from completely losing it — he can’t blow this, no matter what the guy is saying, too much hinges on him, to many rely on him still — and he looks up again from where he’s been glaring at his bound hands, his visitor is wearing an indulging grin. As though he’s dealing with a especially dim-witted, but still adorable child. A flash of white, hot rage runs through Steve’s bloodstream, and for a single moment he wants to break the restraints. Wants to throw the table across the room and into this fucker’s face.

Then sanity returns — sounding surprisingly like Natasha at her most insistent — and Steve forces himself to calm down. He’s not going to play into this guy’s hands any more than he already has. As long as he doesn’t hang himself with the rope, it doesn’t matter how much they give him. He just has to hold on until this farce of a trial is over and done with.

"I answered your three questions," Steve grits out. "We’re done here."

"Tut, tut, Steve Rogers." The man shakes his head. "I said I had three questions for you, I never said that I cared one iota about your answers. They simply confirmed what I already knew: That you have absolutely no clue what’s going on."

There’s a peculiar pleasant smile on the man’s lips. It only increases Steve’s wariness. His visitor folds his hands and leans forward. It’s startling how genuinely helpful he looks when he continues. "So why don’t I help you out — out of the goodness of my heart, of course — and tell you the correct answers to my questions," his smile gains a bloodthirsty edge as he adds, "Not that PR cleared bullshit you came up with for the jury."

Yes, Steve has a very bad feeling about this.

"Let’s beginn with the first one, shall we?" As if to illustrate, the man lifts a single finger. "'Why are you here?' You may continue to work on that little performance about being tired of fighting, but you and I both know that isn’t why you here, even if you can’t afford to admit it. You, Steve Rogers, are here because when you beat Iron Man half to death in a Siberian bunker and left him behind, you miscalculated. You didn’t foresee Zemo’s final move. You didn’t expect for the entire fight, including its catalyst, to be all over the internet within twenty-four hours. You didn’t expect to have half the world up in arms and calling for your blood."

Steve winces as the memories unbidden rise to the forefront of his mind. Natasha’s — Sam’s — expression when they first saw the video. T’Challa’s polite but tense stance. The headlines, the online forum discussions, the rage, the fear. 

The man’s parody of a smile grows. "No, you didn’t expect that. You realized how volatile the current situation was and someone — my bet is on a certain missing spider — pointed out that the best way to deescalate the situation would be to give the people the scapegoat they so desperately want. To give them a chance to punish, a chance to get it out of their system. To get caught and tried and judged. To appear apologetic and plead guilty — do everything to minimize the people’s ire. Knowing full well that, sooner or later, another threat would arrive on the horizon and the people would be willing to forget your past transgressions quickly enough when the time came. What’s a year or two in prison, as long as it keeps the attention off your friends, Stark from capitalizing on the current public sympathy and you looking all the better when the drama finally blows over?"

It’s like the words contain so much coldness that Steve can feel it slowly sinking into his bones, causing his fingers and toes to tingle uncomfortably. This isn’t— It’s not that the guy is wrong, precisely, but he also isn’t right. Steve isn’t here to— to weaken Tony’s position or make himself look better. He’s here because someone had to take the blame, and it sure wasn’t going to be anyone else. And sure, if a big enough threat arises, Steve has no doubt that he’ll be pulled back to the front, but it’s not like he’s counting on that or hoping for it. Despite what some people seem to believe, Steve doesn’t live for fights and he’d be perfectly happy if another world-ending catastrophe never came. Past experience simply tells him that isn’t likely to happen any time soon.

"The funny thing is," the man continues, not giving Steve time to voice his protests, "you’re absolutely right. No matter how your trial turns out, this is the most likely outcome. Sooner or later, the public will need a hero. And it’s not like you betrayed them, did you? It’s not like it’s personal. The only one you betrayed was Stark." 

"But what if it wasn’t?" A humorous expression slides over the man’s face and settles easily on his prominent cheekbones. The mask paper-thin, and all the more convincing for it. "Which brings us to question number two, 'What is going to happen to you?'." Two corresponding fingers are raised, the rings clinking softly against each other.

"Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we? You were rediscovered by a shady governmental organization in 2012 and promptly saved the world from an alien invasion. Oh wait, no, that was Iron Man. You were just there, beating some alien’s head in, I’m sure."

Steve wants to roll his eyes at the man’s pettiness — he also wants to ask what connection the man has to Tony — but he’s too busy trying to figure out where this conversation is leading.

"Well, no matter. Luckily for you, you got sole credit for taking down HYDRA a year later by dumping all of SHIELD’s intel on the internet, killing hundreds of operatives, ruining decades of undercover work and generally causing about the greatest data leak disaster in recent history. 68 per cent of the agents whose cover you blew were SHIELD, not HYDRA, but who’s counting?"

"Hush!" The man commands when Steve opens his mouth to protest. "I’m talking now. Where was I? Oh, yes. Next comes my favorite: Ultron. First you sanction a mission in a foreign country simply to get your hands on a questionable piece of alien technology. Then everything goes to hell, Stark builds a killer robot which the Avengers destroy and in the aftermath, not only do Stark and Banner leave the team but you take on a former HYDRA agent with a talent for mind manipulation." The visitor shakes his head in exaggerated disbelief.

"All of which leads us to a few months ago, when you and your little team interrupted an ongoing undercover mission, got a bunch of people killed, proceeded to kick up a fuss over oversight of any kind, protected a known terrorist and assassin over civilians, resisted arrest multiple times and finally teamed up with said assassin to beat down and almost kill Iron Man."

"I suppose that’s one possible interpretation of what’s happened," Steve mutters drily, refuses to get angry over the blatant rewriting of history this guy is pulling off. Who does he think he is?

"On the contrary, we haven’t gotten to the interpretation part yet, those are simply the facts. Honestly, it boggles my mind how you got painted with the hero brush in all these events, but I suppose being Captain America must come with a few perks beyond the ability to deep-freeze." Here, the man throws an unfriendly smirk his way.

"But what do you think happens when people look at these exact actions without the Captain America blinders on, hm?" There’s a glint in the man’s eyes now, of a shark smelling blood in the water. Of a predator circling its prey. "What happens when they realize that you never took down HYDRA — Maximoff and that incident with Rumlow prove as much — but destroyed most of SHIELD and quite a few important inter-agency operations while you were at it? When they realize that, first chance you got, you put your trust in a HYDRA agent? When they realize that your best buddy since childhood has been happily slaughtering people in HYDRA’s name?"

"That wasn’t Bucky’s fault!" Steve bursts out, unable to keep quiet in the face of these blatant lies any longer. "He was brainwashed!"

"A convenient excuse without any proof, considering that you didn’t allow for your friend to be checked over by professionals," the man dismisses easily. "One might almost think you learned that justification from Loki. Or was it your HYDRA buddies?"

"What?!" Steve stares, utterly flabbergasted by the question.

The interrogator rolls his eyes. "Come now, Steve Rogers, it’s not that big of a leap. After all, if you aren’t a hero, then you must be a villain, don’t you agree? Now how do you think the people you have so much faith in are going to react to that? They weren’t happy when you betrayed Iron Man, but what is going to happen when they realize that you betrayed them? That you are the traitor they didn’t know they should have been looking for? That it’s personal? What happens when they start to question darling Peggy’s role in HYDRA’s survival? She is after all your soulmate, is she not? Do you believe they will forgive you the same sins as easily once they see you as the snake lying underneath the rose bushes instead of the misguided hero attempting to save the day?"

"That’s complete bullshit," Steve hisses, unable to keep the fury out of his voice. "I’m not HYDRA, I’ve never been HYDRA! You can’t twist the facts around to your liking! No one is going to believe that!"

"But that’s the beauty of it, don’t you see?" The man doesn’t even look the slightest bit ruffled or wary. No, he looks delighted. Steve hasn’t wanted to punch someone that bad in a long time. "I don’t have to twist the facts at all, they speak for themselves. I simply offer an alternative explanation. After all, you are either incompetent and short-sighted or you are malevolent and a danger to society. What version do you think the public will prefer?"

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of Steve’s stomach because the worst part is that he can sort of see it. Not everyone is going to believe it, of course not, but the truth is that right now, his reputation is in tatters, his credibility as low as it’s ever been, the Winter Soldier is a known HYDRA operative and Wanda— Wanda’s case is complicated and a lot of it has never seen the eye of the public. A lot of it could be misconstructed all too easily, if the wrong pieces became known first.

This—

[They haven’t prepared for this.]

"I think you are the short-sighted one," Steve snaps coldly. "Your diabolical plan is to, what? Bury me with false accusations, get me locked up, throw away the key and risk watching the world burn instead of allowing me back out in case I’m needed? You’re going to put your petty desire for revenge over the fate of the world, and for what? Because me and Tony had a difference in opinion? That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here. Because it’s personal. To you."

For the first time since the man has started his monologue, there is no trace of amusement, real or fake, on his face, which satisfies Steve far more than it probably should. He leans towards Steve with a blank expression.

"You mistake me for someone who cares, Steve Rogers." Like his face, the words are void of any emotion. "I care neither for the world, nor for its people. If they burn, then so be it. It’s an acceptable price for the satisfaction of watching you fall. Besides," he leans back in his chair again, the previous intensity gone just like that, "You may yet overestimate your own importance."

Steve’s own expression could be carved out of stone. "What is this about?" he finally asks, even though he knows the likelihood of an honest response is abysmal. Still, he has to know. This is so obviously personal and yet if this man was close to Tony, Steve would remember him. What is he missing?

"And just like that we are back to question one." The man sighs. "We already covered this one, do keep up, please."

"I’m not asking why I am here. I’m asking why you are here," Steve corrects, voice sharp and challenging. 

His visitor narrows his eyes, but to Steve’s surprise he answers without pause. "I am here because I’m a possessive bastard, Steve Rogers." His voice has deepened too. This time — the first time, perhaps — his displeasure is real. Steve would bet all his remaining possessions on it. "Now I don’t care that you stabbed Stark in the back. Serves the idiot right for trusting you in the first place. The attempt to kill him— that almost crossed a line. But I’d be lying if I said that’s why I’m here. And since you’re such an advocate for the steadfast truth, well. I’m afraid it’s quite simple. All this… was inevitable. I would have come after you at the first opportunity you handed me, whether this entire Civil War happened or not."

The man rests his elbows flat on the table and leans close enough that Steve can make out every blue and grey pigment in his eyes.

"Your name," his visitor spits out as though the mere thought disgusts him, "Steve Rogers, is carried by someone who belongs to me." He strokes alone finger over the band covering his left wrist. The gesture is surprisingly gentle, at clear odds with the cold rage his very being seems to vibrate with.

[He doesn’t take the band off, but then he doesn’t need to.]

I’m a high functioning sociopath, the stranger had stated. And right now, in this moment, Steve sees it. Not in the guy’s claims to not care about the fate of the world — selfishness is not a trait reserved for the broken and disturbed — but in this seemingly innocuous, if possessive statement. Because there’s nothing sane in the man’s gleaming eyes.

"Did you know," the man murmurs, barely audible and all the more deadly for it, and Steve finds himself straining to lean closer, to catch every word, almost against his will, "the first time I met Anthony Stark I broke his soft, little heart." A self-satisfied smile hushes over the man’s lips, there and gone again.

"Anthony Stark," his visitor repeats with relish, "a genius, a brilliantly mad inventor, a survivor, a challenge. We all create our own worst enemies, Steve Rogers. And Stark— he is worthy of being mine."

Then the insanity, the obsessive need so shamelessly displayed on the stranger’s features, disappears like a switch that’s been flicked off. What remains is the same cool, distant mask that first greeted Steve when the man entered.

"And yet… that is not why I am here. I must confess I have lied to you." There’s not an ounce of regret in the man’s voice. Not that Steve expected any.

"You see, Steve Rogers, it is really quite simple." The warm smile is a mockery of friendliness, of portrayed comradery. It reminds Steve a little of Bucky’s expressions, still caught half-frozen in a hell he can’t hope to comprehend and that’s a comparison he can’t afford to contemplate right now. "I am here because I am a constructivist. I am here because I have three questions for you. And before this farce of a trial starts, I want to ensure that you know the answers to every single one of them."

The man’s gaze flickers to the cheap clock on the wall briefly, then refocuses back on Steve. When he continues, his voice is smooth and business-like. He has never looked more like one of the sharks Tony liked to swim with when the mood struck him.

[And that thought shouldn’t hurt, should it, except the sound of shield crushing armor still rings as loud and true in Steve’s head as it did that first time.]

"You are here because you miscalculated," the man says matter-of-fact. He clinks his rings against each other, the metallic clack sending an uncomfortable shiver down Steve’s spine. "You won’t ever be a free man again, not legally at least. And I am the one who’s going to make sure of that. So when you watch your legacy crumble to dirt around you, when you watch the world turn on you for being the enemy they hate the most, when Captain America becomes synonymous in people’s mind with Captain HYDRA, I want you to know that it was me who did that."

The man stands slowly, unhurried. Places both palms flat on the table. Steve meets his stare head on — of course he does — but it doesn’t feel like fight he can win. Hasn’t for a while now.

"I’m not Anthony Stark," his visitor continues. "I’m not Margaret Carter. I’m a constructivist. I don’t need fate to tell me what to do, I don’t need to be a name on your wrist to ensure that you will never forget me. Will never forget what I’ve done to you. So when everything good you have ever accomplished becomes meaningless in the eyes of the world, you’re going to think back to this moment and you’re going to ask yourself if maybe you would have seen me coming, if only you hadn’t been so convinced that you already knew the face of your greatest enemy because of a handy tattoo that no one really knows the meaning of."

The man takes a step back. "My name is Tiberius Stone," he says without any further fanfare. And maybe there’s something on Steve’s face at hearing that particular name, because Stone’s lips twist. "I’d give you my card, but they wouldn’t let you keep it — and besides it’s not like you’ll need my name in writing to remember it." It’s not like you’re ever going to forget.

And with that last barb thrown casually over his shoulder, Tiberius Stone strides out of the room.

Steve watches him go in silence. There’s nothing else he can do.

[Tiberius Stone. Of course.]

*

The moment the door to the visitation room closes behind Tiberius, the expression of callous amusement slides of his face like an oily substance that no longer sticks. The mask discarded the second it is no longer useful, like most things in Tiberius’ life.

Internally, he is calm. Internally, he is seething.

But loss of control is unacceptable, and so, above all else, Tiberius remains steady. It’s what he does best, after all. Every emotion a calculated push into the right direction. Every word designed to hit precisely where it was meant to. A show, a performance, carefully put together for the exact needs of his chosen audience.

[It’s not about HYDRA. No one safe for Steve Rogers himself knows for sure where his loyalty lies, but Tiberius is inclined to believe him. But the truth doesn’t matter. People love an underdog, a true hero, and Tiberius is unwilling to let the world realize they forgive this man. So he will rewrite history and he will ensure that his interpretation is heard, is believed, in these times of outrage and shaken faith. He will sink Steve Rogers with true — if incomplete — records and alternative explanations until the man is in so deep that no one will dare to touch upon releasing him again.

It’s not about justice because Tiberius has no use for pretentious words without meaning. It’s potential, plain and simple. The chance to accomplish something no one else has ever managed: To destroy Captain America. To destroy Steve Rogers.]

[It’s not about Anthony Stark. It’s not about a too-young boy with too-warm eyes that don’t melt the ice in Tiberius’ chest, only ever irritate him because he has no use for soft and gentle and kind, and so he hurts and tears and shatters because he can. 

It’s not about a man with a wicked tongue and a sharp smile, who snaps and prods and keeps bothering Tiberius, but never quite ignites the rage without cause or reason that lingers in his blood, always ready and waiting to burn. It’s about growing up with one name already lost, only one left, an anchor, a soulmate, an enemy, the endless potential of all that could be if only Tiberius took the time to make it happen.]

[It’s about sewing doubt in the most vulnerable places, — "You were so convinced darling Margaret Carter could be nothing but your soulmate that you blinded yourself to all other possibilities." — "If you aren’t a hero, then you must be a villain, don’t you agree?" — "I don’t need to be a name on your wrist to ensure that you will never forget me."]

It’s about setting the world on fire because you can.

Tiberius pulls out his phone and calls the second number he has on speed dial. It rings twice before someone picks up.

"It’s done."

*

Several hundred miles away, a strawberry-blonde woman with red-rimmed eyes snaps her phone shut in a bland hospital room. She glances to the newspaper in her lap, announcing in a generic headline the beginning of Captain America’s trial in two days.

"FRIDAY, send out the emails."

"With pleasure, Miss Pepper."

[Tomorrow, those headlines will be a lot less generic.]

Tony still hasn’t woken up.

But for the first time in two weeks, Pepper smiles.

*

[Like everyone else, Tony Stark has two names on his wrists. Neither of his names turns out the way he expects them to.]

The end

*

In case anyone is wondering: Yes. Tiberius is essentially the villain monologuing his evil master plan (only that the hero can’t stop him at this point in time). And yes, Pepper essentially used Tiberius to get back at Steve for almost killing Tony. And yes, we still don’t know whether Tony or Peggy are Steve’s soulmate.

What can I say? I’m a cruel person :)

Any thoughts? Reactions? Are you dissatisfied with the direction I went? Were you surprised about the identity of Steve’s visitor or did you expect it to be him? I hope you aren’t too disappointed by the lack of clear resolution (and happy ending for that matter), but tbh one of the things that’s always bothered me the most about soulmate-enemy-AUs is how black and white they make the world seem... which just doesn’t work for me, at all *shrug*

Tagging everyone who expressed interest in this idea, but since you didn’t know exactly what you signed up for, I won’t be offended if it’s not your cup of tea. Just no hate please!