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My Shoes Keep Walking Back To You; 05/24-afternoon-(Steve, Sharon, James)
Topic Started: Sep 10 2014, 08:01 PM (566 Views)
Sharon Carter
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He Who Hesitates Is Toast
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[Cont'd from Lumen Accipe et Imperti]

James was quiet next to her but Sharon could feel her son watching her with those serious blue eyes of his, hand tight in hers. The eyes and the look he'd inherited from his father. How many times had she caught Steve looking at her exactly that same way, with eyes that same color?

Trying to gauge her mood. Figure out what was going on in her head. If he could ask or say or do whatever it was he had on his mind. For such a little boy, there was probably a lot.

He'd done it as a baby, even. And a toddler, and now as a sturdy almost-five year old who didn't have any business even having a look like that to use on her. It was there all the same, she could feel it, and the blonde woman turned her head. Smiled down at him with reassurance and love and a million things, giving his hand that felt so small in hers a squeeze.

Her little boy smiled back at her, bright and happy, and that still made something in her chest turn over. The same as it had the first time. The same way it did every time.

"Did you get all the bad guys, Mom?" he asked curiously, and eagerly, and her smile widened as they walked down the hall the last few feet to their room. She'd left Steve in the one across the hall. To get rid of that beard (or at least she hoped to god he was), to give him a second to breathe, whether he thought he needed it not. To give herself one, because there wasn't any damned doubt that she did.

And she wanted a few minutes with her son - their son - before she dropped him off with JJ and tried to come up with a way to tell his father about him. If she could manage it, a way that wouldn't end up sounding like it came straight out of a bad romance novel or one've those idiotic Lifetime Movies.

"One of them. One of the big ones," she added, since he'd want to know that. All the details. "We blew up a lot of Iron Man armors."

Those blue eyes went a little wider as she stopped to open the door. "Cooool!" James pronounced it on an impressed breath of air. "I could've helped," he informed her next, as matter-of-factly as if he was telling her he could've helped with the dishes. "I wouldn't have been afraid of Iron Man armors. I wasn't afraid of the Sentinels when they were trying to beat up the helicarrier."

"I know you weren't." He never was. Never had been. Never afraid of anything. Not even five years old and he'd been ready to run out and take on all the bad things in the world by the time he could walk. He got that from Steve, too. She was sure of it.

"No matter what Hope says," he added with a frowning afterthought that had her hiding a smile as Sharon stepped inside the room and James came with her. "I saw one've the Avengers," her son told her, moving right on to the next topic of interst now that that was cleared up as she let his hand go and pulled off her belt and sidearms, storing them in one've the locked cabinets just for that purpose. "She was William's mom."

Turning back to smile at him as she started taking of the shield generator on her wrist, she nodded to him. "Tigra. Her name's Greer Nelson. She's on Simon's team."

Now it was her turn to be nodded at as James wandered over to the dresser, reaching for the shield generator and buckling it onto his own wrist. Even at the smallest adjustmet, it was a little big, but he made do. "I know. She seems nice."

Pausing to watch her son play with that plasma shield, the familiar red and white striped pattern flashing on, then off, then on again, something else twisted in her chest. Drew it tight. However she did this, broke this news, made the introductions when it was time, she had to do it the right way. Not let pride or all the history between her and Steve, or anything else get in the way. For James' sake, and for Steve's sake. It wasn't something she could include in that briefing folder she'd spent most of the night working on.

John's idea of keeping her occupied, she was sure and she couldn't even take much exception to it. It had still been a good idea. Steve had missed so much and it would be eaiser for him - for both of them - if it was all laid out. Broken down. Nothing forgotten. But this...this was too big for that folder. In some ways, it felt too big for her. It had felt too damned big for her since last night.

James was only five. So little still to have to deal with these huge, adult problems. Especially when his mother had problems with that of her own sometimes. Especially when it came to Steve Rogers.

Watching James, lost in thought, Sharon didn't realize how quiet everything had gone until her son stopped. Turned his head and looked at her with an expression that wasn't any of his normal ones. There was some worry there, in those little blue eyes and on that normally smiling face. Trepidation that had her already moving toward him.

"Mom?" he asked after a few seconds of looking like he was trying to decide whether to or not. Hesitantly, and that wasn't like him, either. "Do you think he'll like me?"

Oh god.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, so she was closer to eye level, Sharon reached for her little boy that seemed so much older so much of the time that she sometimes forgot how really little he still was. "Of course he will, James," she assured him, pulling him into a tight hug and feeling his arms slip around her neck. Hug her back just as tight. "Of course he'll like you, baby," she half whispered half crooned, tucking his head in against hers.

"He really will?" he asked quietly, so hopefully it almost broke her heart, head on her shoulder as she stroked his back.

"He really will," Sharon answered without hesitation or doubt. When it was this, and Steve, there wasn't any, whatever their history was or whatever happened between them after this.

"Okay." Just like that, and despite still feeling like raising him was the hardest missions she'd ever agreed to - one with no backup, no real plan, and no extraction protocol - most of the time, James believed her so completely it scared the hell out of her sometimes. She tried hard to deserve that. "Can I take the nightlight with me to Aunt Bacon's room?" he asked, pulling back and all the worry gone from his face now.

"Only if you promise not to break the wall with it this time," Sharon told him, hands on his shoulders and looking him in the eye firmly, one brow lifted.

Her almost-five year old sighed a very, very wearily adult sigh. Which he had not gotten from her, no matter what John said. "It was only that once. On accident."

Sure. That's what she remembered telling her parents about that BB gun Aunt Peggy gave her, too.
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Steve Rogers
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Mirrors were an odd thing. Necessary, at least for some tasks, but Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever really gotten used to looking into one and meeting the gaze of someone other than the concave-chested kid from the lower east side, all neck and knees and elbows, who he’d grown up with. That feeling was only heightened now, after years of the white walls and no chance of a reflection; it was a little hard to convince himself it wasn’t some large, bearded stranger, standing behind a glass frame and faultlessly mimicking every move he happened to make.

Of course, that was probably one of those things that was to be expected, he told himself, carefully trapping the possibility in a part of his mind where it could stay and not cause any major trouble as he bent down over the sink and doused his face in water. Shaving foam next, and then once that was done, Steven Rogers straightened up, reached for the razor they’d given him and looked toward the mirror. One breath, he allowed himself, before calmly and methodically setting about shaving that stranger who looked back at him.

He tried not to think while he worked, at least as much as it was possible not to think. Working with his hands helped; he’d always felt better when there was something to do, a task to be completed. Still, right now, that wasn’t quite enough; thoughts, questions slipped through, presenting themselves forward in ways he couldn’t ignore.

Thoughts about the world, for starters. It had changed, there was no doubting that. Enough to be almost unrecognizable? Maybe, and you would have thought, or he would have thought, that he should have been better equipped to deal with that. But not like this. This wasn’t sixty years, the faces he knew aged or gone, new ones in new places. This was five. Only five, and his friends and teammates in the heart of it, and the world wasn’t only strange and different, it was hurting. It seemed like it must be hurting.

Thoughts about the world, and interspersed with them in equal, if not greater frequency - he could admit it - thoughts about Sharon. What she was doing. What she’d meant by what she’d said, and by every little trick and twist of her expressions when she’d still been there with him. Why she might have practically bundled him into this room, what it meant that she’d left him to choose when to cross the hall and come to find her. What there was that had been lurking there under her words, and what she’d said about filling him in on what had happened here, because there was more than that she had to say. He knew her well enough to sense that. There was more, and if he still knew her at all (like he thought he did), then it was something personal. Something about her. Who she was now. What her life was.

The shaving was done; Steve rinsed his face off, then checked the other man’s reflection in the mirror one more time to make sure he’d missed nothing (there was that bruise, still light enough, but visible on his jaw), before turning back into the bedroom area. Clothes. He’d need clothes; this didn’t seem like a conversation that could be possibly bhe had in a towel.

The magically-rendered uniform was still there where he’d peeled it off, draped over the edge of the bed, but he only looked at it for a second before turning his head to the rest of the room. When he’d come in, or Sharon had put him in, he was sure he’d seen… yes, there. Over on top of the dresser, a small stack of folded clothes. Plain white t-shirt, nondescript gray, standard-issue pants. That would do.

He dressed quickly, but took the time to fold his towel and put it back neatly over the rack in the bathroom before he left the room; that felt more appropriate too. Taking his time. Being calm. Being centered. Not that it mattered in the end; the door to the one room slid closed behind him almost silently, and there was another, nearly identical one in front of him across the hallway. Nearly identical in appearance, that was. Behind it…

…but it was a door. He’d seen countless doors in his life. Off mission and on mission. How many times had he hesitated in front of one? This wasn’t the one in the rooms with the white walls, though something about it did feel as much like a boundary that had to be crossed. This was a door that led to Sharon. And to answers.

Put that way, how could he hesitate? Steve stepped forward, knocking briefly on the door, then being slightly surprised to find it opening as quickly as it did. “Sorry- hi,” he said, feeling awkward about taking a step into the room, but doing it anyway when he saw her. Sharon.

He saw her first; the little boy beside her didn’t register till a moment later. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a put-upon, knowing expression. “Hi,” Steve repeated even more slowly, looking between them. Mother and child, because it was obvious ‘the’ little boy, in fact. Her little boy. Sharon had a little boy of her own. No wonder he’d sensed there had been something she’d needed to tell him about her own life now. No wonder she’d punched him. “I guess there are probably a lot of things I should be apologizing for,” he continued, lifting his eyes back to hers, and hesitating where he was, just inside the door.

How to start, though. That was already giving him a little more trouble.
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Sharon Carter
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Only once. By accident.

Sharon quirked a knowing blonde brow at her equally blonde son. Right. She'd heard something like that before, hadn't she? From herself, when she was just a little older than James was now.

It was how she'd explained the two holes in the living room window, courtesy of that BB gun that Aunt Peggy had given her for her birthday and that had looked like a real, spy pistol to her excited, barely first grade eyes, to her parents once upon a time. The look on her own face? Agent 13 was fairly sure, if she looked in a mirror right now, it would be the same one her mother had been wearing then.

Everything came full circle, she guessed. Including collateral property damage.

"You sure about that?" she asked him and James held that completely innocent look as he nodded seriously then sighed again.

"Mo-oom," he protested, then apparently decided he needed some extra ammunition by way of insisting, "Aunt Bacon won't mind." Well, he had her there, since he was probably right about that. She wasn't sure JJ would mind if he detonated the whole room, if it made him happy.

"Aunt Bacon spoils you," the former SHIELD agent informed her son, getting a minorly beleaguered expression from her son, layered over a knowing one.

"It makes her happy," James told her simply, fairly effectively winning the battle. Probably just in time, too, since someone was knocking on the door, and that was probably the Aunt Bacon in question, wondering where they hell they were.

"I was just-" Sharon started turning toward the door as it swung open and another voice - a voice that definitely wasn't Jessica Jones' - said, “Sorry- hi,” in a politely self-conscious way that was almost painfully familiar as Steve stepped into the room.

Steve, wearing a plain t-shirt and grey pants. The beard was gone, thank god, and it was Steve's face. Exactly the way she'd remembered it for five years. The way she always saw him in her mind's eye, in every memory she had, in the dreams he sometimes visited.

His eyes went to her first and Sharon knew she should say something. Do something. Then he saw James and it was too late, but it had been from the second he'd walked into the room, hadn't it?

James turned toward him, blue eyes going wide as his father slowly repeated, “Hi,” looking from James to her and back.

"Steve-" Sharon started, standing up and hand going to James' shoulder, pulling him instinctively in next to her. Steve. Here in the middle of the damned room. Right now. Blowing all her plans completely out of the water and making any other words she might've managed to say choke off in her throat.

“I guess there are probably a lot of things I should be apologizing for,” he continued, lifting his eyes back to hers, hesitation there as he stopped just inside the door. What the hell did he mean by that? Then again, who knew with Steve. And dammit. Where the hell were her contingency plans? There was a time she'd been good at planning. At having a backup plan for nearly everything. Where the hell was that when she needed it.

Of course, she'd never managed to have those with Steve, had she? With him, she'd always ended up flying by the seat of her pants. No safety net.

"Mom?" James stage whispered from next to her, still wide-eyed and those eyes glued to his father and Sharon gave him a light squeeze, hoping that'd be enough for right now.

"I-" she began again, stopped and tried to get rid of the flustered, self-conscious feeling that was going to drive her insane if she didn't. Let out a slow breath and started again, "It's fine, Steve. Come in," Sharon added as she motioned him into the room with her free hand, feeling completely out of her depth. It wasn't a feeling she liked, "I can explain."

Or, god, she hoped she could. It wasn't any different, really, than a mission debriefing. A very, very personal mission debriefing with the two people she cared about most in the world. No pressure there. Doing this with both of them in the room had never been part of any plan, but it was too late now to do anything else.

"Mom?" James whispered more insistently, but not any more quietly, following it up with a tug on the side of her uniform. "Is that him?" he asked, turning those wide blue, slightly awed blue eyes up to her.

"Yes," she told him with a fond, slightly wry smile, knowing he'd just keep asking until she answered. He had that look. And he got that - that insistent stubbornness - from the man a few feet away, too. "That's him, sweetie."

Definitely not the introduction to his father she'd planned for, or hoped for, but it was a starting place.
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Steve Rogers
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That… was a little boy. One who looked just as surprised at seeing someone walk into the room the next best thing to unannounced as Steve was to see him there with Sharon. But it was. A little boy. Sharon’s little boy.

He should say Hi again, shouldn’t he?

“Steve-“ she started, already drawing her son back toward her, probably to comfort him. Well, he couldn’t blame her for that in the slightest. What had he even been thinking, not even waiting to let her open the door, as though he couldn’t have guessed that she might have had other things going on in her life? Fifty other things, because her life had gone on all through this. But no, he’d just walked straight on in without waiting. He should apologize for that.

She had a son. He should probably be apologizing for a lot of things, actually. Starting with how he’d greeted her back on the Mall, but - why did she look more confused by that now? Taking a sucker punch wasn’t exactly a substitute for a real apology for that sort of thing, or it hadn’t been the last time he’d checked. And, well, then again, it was Sharon, and he’d never entirely managed to figure out how she thought.

That had always been- well, never mind. He should probably get started on trying not to think too much on those things that had always been, sooner, not later. She had a son.

A son who was looking up at her with widened eyes, clearly sticking close by her, in the shelter of the arm she’d wrapped around him. “Mom?” he asked her. Terrified? Curious? Concerned? Though he tried, Steve wasn’t sure what he was seeing there, except for the part in the back of his mind that was still an art student, which was mentally tracing the lines of the little boy’s features, tracking every little resemblance to Sharon that it spotted. Her son. He’d have known that in any circumstances.

And Sharon herself… well, she was a little easier to read, but he’d had a lot of time to learn that. Flustered, on edge, maybe a little annoyed at herself for those things. “I-“ she began again, and stopped. Okay, maybe more than a little, but she let her breath out purposefully, then waved him in, “It’s fine, Steve. Come in.” He nodded, and stepped in, half on autopilot. It seemed like the least he could do, under the circumstances.

“I can explain.”

Steve stopped where he was, frowning lightly. Why? How could she ever think he’d expect her to explain something like this? When she’d thought he was dead. “You don’t need to,” he assured her, as quickly as he could. “I’d never-“ expect you not to move on, and build a life. I wanted that to be something you got. Why couldn’t he get those words to form out loud? They wouldn’t though, and so there was only a pause, before he found his voice again, “…I promise.”

“Mom?” James whispered more insistently, though it was a whisper more in intent than in result. “Is that him?" he asked, and that look he was wearing suddenly seemed like maybe it was a little easier to read now. He’d seen kids looking like that at him - or at least around him - for quite a lot of years now. Usually only with the uniform, but she would have told her son about him, wouldn’t she? The same way Peg had once told her nephew’s little daughter about him. Captain America had to make for a good story.

“Yes,” Sharon told her son, wearing a softer, fond look as she looked down at him, even if it was tinged with a certain amount of wry humor. It- was a really good look for her. “That’s him, sweetie.”

So she had told him. What exactly she’d told him about, Steve didn’t know, but he supposed that maybe it wasn’t really important.

He should really get on with a start toward making amends, in any case. “Hi,” he started again, greeting the little boy (Sharon’s little boy) with a little half-awkward wave and crouching down slightly so that it wasn’t quite so much like towering over him, “I’m Steve.” It felt a little better than being ‘Him’, anyway. “Your mother and I have known each other for a long time,” Steve continued, since it felt like he owed the boy an explanation as well as an apology, after entering like he had, meeting the boy’s widened eyes with complete sincerity, “I’m sorry I barged in on the two of you.”

For the rest he had to apologize for to Sharon right now too. But maybe that ought to wait for a better moment.
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Sharon Carter
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Steve's presence seemed to fill the room before he was completely in the room.

The beard was gone. So was the uniform. His face was exactly the same. The same face from her memories. The one she'd seen smiling, angry, grieving. Hesitant and confused, the way he looked now.

It was Steve and, for just a second or two, Sharon couldn't seem to breathe. Something in her chest drew tight as she pulled James in next to her, hand squeezing his shoulder. Hoping that'd buy her some time, but that was nothing but wishful thinking.

Had he even aged a day?

No, of course he hadn't. It was something she should've expected. Maybe this was all something she should've expected. You didn't plan when it came to Steve Rogers, you adjusted. She'd been his SHIELD liason, among other things, for years. How the hell had she managed to forget that, even after five years?

Call it a busy five years, an insane twelve hours. Plans changed. She adjusted. Maybe not fast enough to suit her, but she got there. The way she always got there, by sheer force of will. Waved Steve into the room and, still feeling more out of her depth than she could ever remember in her life. Including five years of sacrificing or adjusting nearly every belief, ever principle, every personal code, sometimes every shred of self-respect, she'd ever had just to survive.

Right now, for the first time in years, Sharon Carter remembered exactly what it felt like to be that naive little fluff head who'd only thought she knew what she was doing.

She wasn't, though. Not anymore. She wasn't that girl and this was her son, and her son's father, and she owed both of them an explanation, but most especially she owed that to Steve. One she hoped to god she could give him in a way he could understand.

He frowned, the way that he always had when he was trying to puzzle something out. That light creasing in his brow that made him sometimes not look much older than James. “You don’t need to,” he assured her, and her own brows drew together. No, for once, she was willing to admit that she did. “I’d never-“, just that, and nothing after it to tell her exactly what he'd never. She could fill in the blanks with a million things, but she couldn't get a sense of what might be going through his head, “…I promise.”

What the-? Was he trying to throw her off balance even more? No, that didn't make sense. Steve didn't play those games and sure as hell not about something like this. Not at a time like this. She'd seen that look on his face in DC, knew how off balance he had to be feeling himself.

"No, Steve," Sharon answered, frown still on her face as she searched his. "I think I do. I know I do." Was it too much, though? God, she didn't even know exactly what he'd been through these last five years. Straight from a cell in Kentucky to DC (and if Clint Barton thought she was going to forget that, he'd be dead wrong) to this, in the space of hours...

Even Steve had his limits. Everyone else might not think so, but she knew him. Knew the man with the uniform and without it. That wasn't something she thought had changed, even after five years.

James interrupted her again, more insistently now, and she knew that tone. The stubbornly insistent one that she absolutely knew he got from the man a few feet away that said he'd keep asking until he got an answer. Instead of the irritation she would've turned on anyone else, her little boy only got a softer smile and a wryly fond look. And an answer to his question.

It was a starting place and she gave James' shoulders another gentle squeeze before turning her attention back to Steve. Trusting him to go carefully, for both their sakes. His and James'. Almost holding her breath all the same.

“Hi,” he started again, with a wave and a look that was just as awkward as she'd expected as he crouched down to what was almost eye level with his son, “I’m Steve.” The frown that had smoothed away made a reappearance and she noticed there was a matching one on James' face. “Your mother and I have known each other for a long time,” Steve continued, and her son's frown deepened as he looked up at her, then back at his father in clear confusion.

"I know," James confirmed with a nod, but sounding unsure and pressing closer to her because of that. As unsure as Sharon was starting to feel herself. Surprise, she'd expected that. Confusion, too. Anger, she'd been prepared for, though she had enough faith in Steve to think he'd keep that to himself in front of their son. Awkwardness, and that might be what this was but for once she honestly didn't know. It wasn't adding up.

It definitely wasn't the way she'd expected Steve to react to a son he hadn't known he had.

“I’m sorry I barged in on the two of you.” Steve finished and now James was just looking at him, obviously trying to figure out what to make of that from a father he'd never seen before. Sharon, though, she was watching Steve in a different way. A considering way. Could he really not see it?

No, she decided, he couldn't. How, she didn't know. Steve had always been one've the most perceptive men she'd ever known. Sometimes to the point she wanted to scream at him (and occasionally had) because he drove her crazy, but now...

Now he was looking at a carbon copy of himself in miniature and he didn't know he was looking at his son.

"You really don't know, do you?" Sharon asked the question quietly, gently, hand lifting to rest on James' blonde head of hair. Stroke over those soft strands idly as that sank in. "Oh god, Steve..." It was a day for words to fail her, at least the ones she wanted, and Sharon sighed, fingers pressing to her eyes as she briefly dropped her head.

"Mom?" her son said again, still not quite a whisper, but a little quieter and she dropped her hand, looked down at him. Alright, she needed to get him to Jessica. He didn't need to be here while they sorted this out. While she was thinking that, he was giving her one of those looks. One that was too old for him, solemn and sincere. "It's okay," he assured her, then slipped away from her side before she could stop him.

"James-," she tried to call him back, already knowing it was too late. He'd crossed the few steps to Steve by the time it was out with that same solemn, determined look. Stopped right in front of him and held out his hand like he was forty five instead of four and a half.

"I'm James," he told his father, and she could hear the little boy nerves underneath the completely earnest delivery as he took matters into his own hands. It made her both proud of him and terrified her half to death. "You're my dad."
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Steve Rogers
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She thought she did? She knew she did?

What could Sharon possibly think of him, to think that she owed him an explanation for having lived her life for five years, thinking he was dead?

Her son though. He interjected, putting a question in one word that there couldn’t be any way to resist, could there? And then… another question. Was that ‘him’. And there was no way he couldn’t notice Sharon turning her attention, and the onus of that answer on to him, as if… she were leaving the choice up to him?

Well, he couldn’t deny Sharon’s son the chance to meet the legend Peg had probably told her about when she was that same age. Whatever he was feeling right now. So- he’d introduce himself. Again. And explain something at least about how long he’d known Sharon, and-

“I know,” said the little boy, nodding in a way that couldn’t help but touch your heart. Except… why did it feel like a suggestion that he’d left something unfinished with the words he’d said so far?

He was sorry, Steve added. For barging in on the little boy, and his mother. Sharon. Sharon and her boy. And for the awkward situation this had to cause for her - maybe that explained why the boy was looking uncomfortable. Had he picked up on her discomfort? Another thing to apologize for, as soon as he saw an opportunity, but-

-why was she looking at him like that?

“You really don't know, do you?" Sharon asked the question quietly, gently, brushing her son’s head in a tender gesture that brought back the realization of just how much he’d lost in five years. “Oh god, Steve…”

What though? What… was he possibly missing? Something that made her put her hand to her face, like she didn’t have the resources to deal with this, but that could have meant twenty different things. What was he supposed to know, except what he’d acc- what he was working on accepting - about her life now?

“Mom?” her son said again, still not quite a whisper, but a little quieter, looking up at her with an expression Steve couldn’t read, and wasn’t sure Sharon could either. "It's okay," he assured her, ducking out of the circle of her arm, and… moving toward him?

“James-“ Sharon called after him, the word bouncing like a bullet ricocheting at close range and lodging deep into the gut. James. She’d-

…she’d…

…she’d never have named her son that name. Not unless…

…unless…

…there was a tiny hand in front of him, being extended from the tiny boy, like the first offer of diplomacy. Sharon’s boy. Sharon, who’d named her son… “I’m James,” he said, behind that hand, wearing an expression that suddenly felt far more familiar than Steve had been prepared for. But there was only one reason that Sharon would ever give Bucky’s name to her son.

“You’re my dad.”

Steve reached out slowly, extending his hand to clasp the small one that had been solemnly offered to him with an extra degree of his normal care. It was a reaction he wasn’t completely sure was driven by his brain, because that felt like a blank, but the little boy- James. James looked like he was having to work not to waver saying that.

“Oh,” he said though. “Oh.” It was the sum total of all the words that seemed to be presenting themselves in his head right now. Except one. “Wow.”

Solemnly - carefully - the tiny hand that belong to his son (his son) extricated itself from his clasp, and the little boy stepped forward again, throwing small arms around his neck. He was trembling very slightly still too. Only just beyond something that was noticeable, but still that realization was something that panned away some of the debris of Steve's confusion to reveal a new, surprisingly strange - unexpected - feeling that was at once protective and - already - approaching tender.

In the face of that, he couldn’t hesitate. He folded his arms around the little boy - his son? - hugging him gently, but with his eyes still open. Looking across the few yards and infinite gulf that seemed to be lying between this and Sharon. Maybe - yes. Explanation. That… seemed like it might actually be a good thing after all.
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Sharon Carter
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He didn't know. How could he not know?

How could Steve Rogers look at her son, their son, and not see it? Not see the almost carbon copy of himself in miniature standing there with that look on his face? The resemblance wasn't her imagination. It wasn't wishful thinking. Right here, right now, looking between them, it was even sharper, clearer. That likeness.

But he didn't know, the confusion on Steve's face made that perfectly clear, more than anything he'd said. He didn't know and god. This couldn't happen this way. Steve and James both deserved better from her than trying to blindly navigate her way through this with her little boy in the room. In the middle of all of these big, adult issues that he should never have on his shoulders.

James needed to go to JJ, while she and Steve sorted this out. He-

Was out of her grasp, just that fast. Telling her it was okay in that very adult, very Steve way that he had and standing in front of his father before she'd even finished trying to call him back. Holding his little hand out and introducing himself; subtle, almost imperceptible, notes of fear and nerves and worry in his voice as Sharon's heart lodged firmly into her throat.

Saw the shock on Steve's face and felt a sharp pang of regret for one more thing when he was already struggling to cope, (and still couldn't stop herself from wondering, at least briefly, what the hell he thought she'd done if he didn't realize James was his? Run off with someone else right after his funeral and start popping out kids? But that was a question for any other time but now, even Sharon knew that), and silently begged him to be careful. To please, please be careful with their baby, no matter how blind sided he was right now. James was still so little, and all he'd ever heard was what a remarkable, heroic man his father was. How much that father would have loved him if he'd only had the chance to know him.

It would be so easy to hurt that little boy right now without ever meaning to.

“Oh,” Steve said, taking that small hand in his own larger one. “Oh.” The former Agent 13 might've said something - needed to say something - if her tongue hadn't felt like it was tied in knots and she wasn't practically afraid to move, in case that tipped what felt like delicately balanced scales toward 'disaster'. There weren't manuals or procedures or tactics for this and she frankly didn't know what the hell she was doing. And she didn't like it one damned bit. “Wow.”

Wow. Leave it to Steve Rogers to sum it up that way. She'd missed that, Sharon realized. That succinct way that Steve tended to see the world and most things in it. Boil it down to something a lot less convoluted than her head always tried to make it most of the time. Sometimes infuriating, often frustrating, but she'd missed it.

She'd missed him, and that loss - what they'd had, what they could've had - had been an ache she'd carried for five years. An ache that bloomed, rose to her chest as she watched her son carefully extract his hand from his fathers. Throw those small arms around his neck instead. Anxious, even if no one else would've been able to tell. Sharon could tell. In the end, just a little boy that wanted his father to like him.

A little boy, who just wanted his father.

That knot lodged in her throat finally loosened as Steve wrapped their son up in in his arms, hugged him carefully, eyes turning her way questioningly. That explanation was looking a lot more necessary to him now, wasn't it? And it was. Sharon let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, uncurled the fingers curled into her palms as she looked back into the blue eyes of the father of her son. The man she'd loved even when she'd thought he'd left her for dead. The man she still loved and always would.

Her legs felt like they were made of wet noodles and she sure as hell didn't like that, either. God, she needed to sit down for this. To find the right words, the ones that wouldn't complicate this any more than it already was or had to be.

"Steve..." Sharon started, trailing off when she realized she wasn't as glued to the spot as much as she'd thought anymore. Propelled herself forward, across that small, separating distance that wasn't as large in the end as it seemed. Came to him, this time, for all the times he'd been the one to come to her when she'd refused to budge. Knelt down beside the two of them, father and son, laying a hand on James' back. Rubbed it gently.

To reassure herself as much as him.

Lifted a hand toward Steve, or started to. Got halfway and then hesitated awkwardly with her hand hovering there. Not knowing what to do with herself in that way that only Steve Rogers had ever made her feel.

"I was trying-" and there went her words again, staying just out of her reach, and so she tried again, features creased slightly in consternation. Dammit, she could do better than this. "By the time I knew, I was almost three months gone," she began, glad at least to hear her voice was mostly steady. Birth control failure, their failure at birth control, she didn't know and didn't care. Things had already been going to hell by then. It hadn't exactly been a priority.

"I was trying to get a message to you, set up a safe place to meet," A note left at one of the prearranged drops. A series of safe places they could meet, away from prying eyes and usually not for long. They'd gotten good at that. "So I could tell you," Sharon added, shaking her head sending a few stray strands of blonde hair falling forward. "Things exploded in New York and I never got the chance. And then-" Eyes dropping briefly, she frowned down at the carpet, one second, two; swallowed around that lump in her throat again and tightened her jaw. Damn Carol and Hank. Damn them. "You were gone," she finished, lifting her eyes back to his and still stroking James' back. He'd heard this story before, probably a hundred times or more, "and it was too late."

And she'd regretted that in a way she regretted almost nothing. Now, though, now she had to wonder if maybe it was better that he hadn't known. Wondered if that might not've been an unintentional mercy. She knew Steve and she at least suspected what that might've done to him. Locked in a cell, knowing he had a child out there growing up without him.
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Steve Rogers
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You’re my Dad.

A son had told him that. His son. He had a son. The thoughts had to come separately, deliberately set into small chunks, so that Steve could keep a handle on them, and not let them fly out of control.

He had a son called James, who must have been older than he’d first assumed. A son who looked like his mother (and maybe like him. Maybe he could see that too), who’d stepped up and shaken his hand, as bravely as he’d ever seen anyone put themselves forward. A son who took that hand back again, while all the words Steve himself could find were inarticulate monosyllables, and stepped in, hugging him tightly.

A son, who was so small, and so scared, beneath that courage. His son.

Steve hugged the little boy in turn. Carefully. Not too hard. How hard was too hard? And… what was he supposed to say? To the b- to Ja- to his son? What was he supposed to say to Sharon? There had to be something, he was certain of that. A question, even. A hundred different questions, and yet none of them would spring together to come to his tongue when he looked across the few short yards of endless gulf toward her, and found her looking back at him.

“Steve…” she began, then abruptly did the last thing he expected - which meant that it should have been the first thing he expected, because that had always been Sharon - and moved toward him and their son, closing that space in a few quick steps. She knelt down.

Jerking movements, or was that just the way his brain seemed to be squeezing the moment into a series of still frames? Extended her hand to James. Rubbed his back. Then lifted her other hand. A little. Then- no, it had stopped, hanging in the air like something had put that slideshow on an unintentional freeze-frame.

Without needing to think - a good thing, because he wasn’t sure that his brain was really doing any of that right now - Steve shifted his position, reaching over with one hand while tightening his other arm around James. Finding Sharon’s hand where it had stopped, and wrapping his fingers around hers. Whatever it had been - whatever she’d had to go through, whatever this was now, beyond a little boy they’d made together- they would find a way. Not separately.

“I was trying-“ she said, but cut herself off, or ran out of words, before she could explain what it was she’d been trying. To warn him? To tell him from when he’d barged in here? To tell him… god, then? When they’d been living that life, snatching brief snatches of time together, while ranged on opposite sides of an argument that had been spinning further out of control around them? “By the time I knew, I was almost three months gone," she began confirming that even before the size of what that had to have meant had managed to sink through the confusion reigning in his head.

Not knowing quite what to do - or even what to think - Steve squeezed her hand. Watching her face, her expression, for any extra signs or clues he might be able to find there to start his thoughts again. She’d been pregnant. When-

“I was trying to get a message to you, set up a safe place to meet.” The way they'd been communicating, in those last few months. Dead drops. Safe houses. Feelings that had been too newly recovered, and too precious, to let even those arguments that had gone around and around in circles get in the way of, whatever sides they’d chosen. ”So I could tell you," Sharon added, shaking her head sending a few stray strands of blonde hair falling forward. "Things exploded in New York and I never got the chance. And then-“

She dropped her eyes, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to do the same, even as the memories he’d been turning over in his head came back to play behind his eyes. That night. Demons in the streets. John- or whatever part of that night’s madness had taken control of him - coming across him in that basement. A fight that was still only half clear. Carol… Hank… arguing… and then blackness, and then that room with the white walls.

And for Sharon… five years. Another five years alone, and right after he’d finally convinced her that he hadn’t left her in the cold. This time she wouldn’t have thought he’d done it by choice, but how did that make it any better?

“You were gone," she finished, lifting her eyes back to his, her other hand hand still running up and down their son’s back. James. Who seemed quietly calm, strangely enough. Calmer than he’d been before. How much did he know of this? All of it? “and it was too late.”

Too late. He’d been gone. She’d thought him dead, but he’d been gone. In that room with the white walls. And then another one. Four walls, that he’d never found a way to get out of. He’d stopped seriously trying, he didn’t know how long before. Stopped doing anything but waiting, and trying to keep himself prepared for a chance that hadn’t yet come. Until… today.

And that was five years. Five years, where she’d been alone. Raising their son, without a father.

“Sharon…” Steve started, but his voice faltered at the crowd of the thoughts that were crowding back into his brain, and the enormity of everything he hadn’t been there to help her face. “If I’d known-“

He wouldn’t have stopped trying. He wouldn’t have accepted just sitting there, doing his press-ups and waiting for an opportunity to come. He would never, ever, ever, have willingly chosen to wait, knowing he had a child who needed him. He wouldn’t have allowed his son to have to grow up without a father. The way…

Small hands shifted by his neck, as James squirmed and shifted around, and Steve turned his head to see the little blue-eyed boy looking at him solemnly. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, and nodded too, intent on giving assurance.

And he was- what? Four? Nearly five? Steve shook his head softly, through a bemused expression that might have been a smile, or might just have been wonder, and shifted his own hand up from the little boy’s to gently stroke his hair. Four years old, and he wanted to take the weight of his father's loss on his own shoulders to absolve.

“No, son,” he said softly, watching the serious expression on the boy’s face. Son. He’d used that term for more people than he could even think to count over the years. And now… in a few minutes, all of it was different. A son. His son. “No, it’s not okay,” Steve told him, just as seriously. It was something that never should have happened. Never. And there was no way to go back and make it right, so he’d choose to look ahead. And turn his eyes back to Sharon, and squeeze her hand again. “But we’re going to make it better from now on.”

He couldn’t doubt that. Whatever else they did, or they would be to each other, they’d make sure of that for this boy. Together.
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Sharon Carter
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Her legs got her across that few feet. Maybe not as smoothly as she'd have liked, but they did the job. Held up when she needed them to until she could kneel down beside her son and her son's father.

Steve, alive and whole and with their little boy in his arms. A million things running through his eyes, across his face, but there and real. As real as her palm against James' back. There as much to reassure herself as him. As real as the feel of Steve's own, strong hand wrapping over her other one. The one she'd been reaching toward him with before she'd stopped mid-motion, not knowing if she could or should when it all still felt...precarious. Uncertain. Not knowing what to do with herself and not liking that, either.

He'd always been able to do that to her, the only man who ever could.

Slender fingers curled around his and Sharon looked over to meet his eyes, started on that explanation she owed him. Tried to, but words failed her again. Or maybe she failed the words. No, not there. That wasn't her starting place. James, he was her starting place. That belated realization that hadn't even occurred to her for almost three months before it finally clicked. There'd been other things on her mind, taking her attention.

Registration and heroes fighting one another in the streets. Friend against friend. Everything going straight to hell.

Hand tightening on hers, Sharon could see it on his face, in his eyes. The memories. Dead drops for messages. Clandestine meetings. Stolen pieces of time here and there. Sometimes weeks apart, but both of them determined to hold onto what they had. What they'd just gotten back. Even if they'd chosen different sides. Her own fingers squeezed back, returned that pressure and reassurance as much as she could.

It was a message that hadn't gotten to him. A meeting that would never happen. The one she'd been trying to set up, to tell him she was pregnant. New York had gone literally to hell and that chance was gone. Gone, along with Steve and the future they could've had and it was too late. It was one of the few real regrets in her life, not being able to tell him. That future, that life, that might've been.

Now that she knew the truth, now that Steve was here in front of her with that look on his face, she wasn't sure it wasn't better that he hadn't known after all.

“Sharon…” Steve started, but his voice faltered and her fingers tightened on his again. God, she wished she could make this easier for him. For James. For all of them. “If I’d known-“

If he'd known, he'd have never rested. He'd have been determined to get away, and he'd have kept trying. Until he got himself killed. Because even Steve Rogers couldn't always find a way. But it was the way he was and he couldn't have lived with the idea of a child, his child, being left to grow up without a father. The way he'd had to grow up.

"I know," she told him, because she did know. If she'd had any idea,even the slightest hope, he was still alive, she'd have damned well gone through anyone and anything that got in her way of getting to him. And god help whatever tried to stop her. "Even I couldn't manage to blame you for this," Sharon added, corners of her mouth lifting a little wryly. She'd been good at finding ways when it came to him, but there were limits to even her ability.

Taking off out of a cell straight to DC, that they might still need to talk about that later.

James had been quiet til now, her hand still stroking his back gently. Just listening to a story he'd heard probably a hundred times or more. Still there with his arms around Steve's neck, but now he shifted around, looked his father right in they eyes with that look that was always too old for him. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said, and nodded too, determined to reassure his father the same way he'd tried to reassure her last night. The way he always tried to reassure everyone.

Steve's first real taste of what an exceptional little boy they'd managed to make together. That expression and shake of his head said it all, didn't it? And, as he reached up to stroke James' cap of blonde hair, Sharon laced her fingers with his, smiled at this picture - father and son - she never thought she'd see and ignored the burning behind her eyes.

“No, son,” he said softly, gently, the way that Steve was always gentle. The way she'd always known he'd be gentle with James, if he'd had the chance. “No, it’s not okay,” Steve told him, just as seriously, looking to her then, and squeezing her hand one more time. “But we’re going to make it better from now on.”

Whatever he'd gone through these last five years, he was still the man she'd known. Still Steven Rogers, who was Captain America but would always be Steve to her. No doubt there, just certainty and conviction, as she tightened her fingers on his again. Kept them tight as she met his eyes.

"Together," she agreed and knew that would be true. No matter what else happened, James would have them both. From this point on. "You've always been part of his life, Steve," Sharon continued, because she wanted him to know that. To understand that she'd tried to give their son that, "since the day he was born. He's always known who his father was. Who you were."

Not just what, but who. Not just the uniform but the man, this blonde little boy that was theirs and who was smiling in a way that told her he was happy, and excited, and that most've those nerves he'd had before were fading away fast.

"Aunt Bacon was right," James announced cheerfully, "this day's even better!" Then, he turned back to his father and informed him, "Mom showed me your shield. Want to see mine?" And, without waiting for an answer, he pulled his arm around to present the still slightly too big plasma shield generator on his wrist and turned it on. And Sharon sighed in good natured resignation and made herself comfortable.

Like father, like son.
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Steve Rogers
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“If I’d known-“

He found he couldn’t finish that sentence, and felt twice the failure for it. Even not knowing, how could he have accepted what he had? Accepted waiting. Accepted not doing every single thing he could to have gotten out of there. But he had, Steve was forced to admit, and all that time that he had, he’d had a son, who’d had to grow up without a father. If he’d known…

The look on Sharon’s face eased those thoughts somehow, though what it was about it that made that happen, Steve couldn’t have said. ”I know," she told him, because she did know. She’d always - almost always - seemed to know him better than anyone. Better than he knew himself, some of the time. Maybe a lot of the time, actually. She didn’t really seem surprised at all, did she? “Even I couldn't manage to blame you for this," Sharon added, corners of her mouth lifting a little wryly.

It should have been a moment of shared understanding, and wry amusement. But though he tried his best to match that half-smile, it was an expression that Steve found he couldn’t share. Face still grave, he squeezed her fingers instead, hoping that would be enough for now. It was ironic, really. He’d spent so long trying to figure out why she’d blamed him the last time, trying to understand how she could hold against him what he’d had no way of knowing, until he’d finally learned to just accept that as the way she felt. Now, when it was something he could have changed - it had been within his control to change… she chose not to?

Another lesson in why it was always better to accept Sharon, and who she was, instead of trying to understand her. He’d missed those. Maybe this wasn’t the time to think about that. Or- well, it was moot, anyway. She might not blame him this time, but he’d keep that for himself to do. He’d accepted, instead of acting, and he’d lost this time with his family.

With his son, who was moving now, rearranging himself in the hug, apparently with an intention of letting himself into a position where he could look up and meet their eyes. So he… could try to reassure him that it was ‘okay’?

His son - Sharon’s son - was trying to reassure him. A tangle of emotions fought for a place in Steve’s thoughts for a moment, but though bemusement, with an assist from wonder had the immediate advantage, but by the time he’d found the will to act, it was a different, more protective feeling that had won out. Sharon’s hand twisted in his, lacing their fingers together, and he reached up to gently smooth his son’s hair, shaking his head softly. No. No, his son shouldn’t have to feel the need to protect and look after him. He shouldn’t need to grow up that way, and this young, or to feel the need to excuse the wrongs (even the unintentional ones) that had happened in his life.

It wasn’t okay. He knew that, just like he knew Sharon knew it, whoever she chose to blame. They couldn’t change that now- but they could make it better from now on. They would make it better, however they had to do that.

Slim fingers tightened on his, and the pair of blue eyes he’d seen in his thoughts every single day of the last five years turned back to meet his. “Together,” she agreed. Only that, but that was all that was needed, wasn’t it? For the rest, they’d figure it out in time, and they’d had a lot of practice doing that. Together.

“You’ve always been part of his life, Steve," Sharon continued, "since the day he was born. He's always known who his father was. Who you were.”

It was funny how a mind worked, wasn’t it? Now, at the cause of almost nothing at all, Steve found the wry half-smile that had eluded him before. “Are,” he corrected softly, feeling oddly comforted by doing so. At least reminding people that they didn’t need to refer to him in the past tense was a familiar feeling. Except- okay, maybe he was out of practice with this too, “…am,” he corrected himself a moment later, before getting caught back up in the happy smile the little boy who was leaning into the arm he’d wrapped around him had turned on them both.

“Aunt Bacon was right," James announced cheerfully, "this day's even better!”

Better than what, Steve wasn’t sure, though right at this moment, he couldn’t have agreed more with his son. Still though, in spite of a widening smile, he couldn’t help but turn back toward Sharon, forehead creasing very slightly. Aunt.. Bacon? he mouthed at her, with no little confusion. Who (or possibly what) was an Aunt Bacon?

It didn’t matter though, because James was already turning back to him, with a direct blue gaze that managed to combine excitement, happiness and impatience all together. “Mom showed me your shield. Want to see mine?”

Steve’s bewildered “…yes” might have been a little late. The little boy had already twisted around, bringing one little wrist that was swallowed by an oversized watch unit that seemed a little familiar into clear view. He’d made sure to give himself space to turn it on though, Steve was pleased (or maybe that was proud) to notice, recognizing the plasma generator again just a moment before James succeeded in turning it on.

Sure enough, a bright, glowing plasma shield appeared in the empty space, not quite dwarfing the little boy, but getting close. Steve smiled, and moved his free hand to trace over the hard light rim. “It’s a very good shield,” he told James, with warm approval, watching the smile on the little boy’s face. “I remember your mother giving me one a lot like it once.” In London, in fact. She’d barely been able to be civil with him at the time, but she’d found that for him, when the government had taken his. Steve glanced sideways, sneaking a look at Sharon, a trace of a smile hovering about his lips for the memories that mission brought back. She’d saved his life, kissed him, before proceeding to curse him out with a virulence any drill sergeant would have envied.

That was Sharon. God, he’d missed her.

But right now, it wasn’t hard to guess from the look on his son’s face, that the little boy was eager to show him more than the shield itself. No need for telepathy to guess that - all he needed to do was to think back to a time - a long time ago now - when he’d had just that same feeling, holding new sketches and waiting for mother’s okay to go show them to his father. It had always been a special moment. Some of the best memories he had, so now that he found himself on the other side of it, Steve didn’t hesitate. “Can I see how you use it, son?” he asked.

James nodded quickly, then started moving as if looking around the room for a suitable something to demonstrate on. Anticipating how that might go if he did, Steve put out a steadying hand back on the edge of the shield, smiling at the eagerness in the boy’s expression. “How about we spare your Mom’s room, and start by showing me your blocking drill,” he suggested instead. “Do you know that one?”

The answer came in the form of a solemn nod, and a quick glance to Sharon. “Of course. Mom taught me.” Then he paused for a moment, as if considering the pros and cons of whether to accept the alternate suggestion for a demonstration. Thinking it over for himself, in fact, but after maybe only a second, James nodded again. “Okay.”
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Sharon Carter
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Right or wrong, there were a lot of things she'd blamed Steve for. Not coming for her, years ago, when SHIELD had cut her loose with no warning, leaving her to find a way to survive. That he'd believed she was dead hadn't mattered to her. Not for a very long time. That girl she'd been - idealistic and naive - who'd believed in him had had that trust utterly, brutally shattered. It'd taken her a long time to get past that. Let him in again.

The irony of their current situation wasn't lost on her, but of course Steve would never think to blame her the way she'd blamed him.

Part of her had blamed him for being so damned stubborn in that idiotic fight with Tony that split everything apart. For letting things come to what they had. Then, the cure had become worse than the disease, after Steve was gone, and the only people she had any blame for now were Tony, Carol, and Hank. After what they'd done to him, knowing what Steve would've done if he'd known about James all this time (drove him self crazy, probably got himself killed trying to get out), even she couldn't blame him for this.

He'd do more than enough of that for himself, whether he should or not, but James needed a living father more than he needed a dead hero, and Sharon could admit that she did, too. Needed him, alive and whole, more than she'd ever be able to tell him. The man looking at her with that still solemn expression and squeezing her hand again.

Then he got his first example of what an amazing little boy they'd managed to make together as James tried to reassure his father. The same way he'd reassured her last night, and she watched as Steve reached up to stroke his hair. Gently and with a kind of amazement that made something catch in her throat. No, it wasn't really okay, but it would be. Whatever they had to do to make it that way. And they'd do it together, because this was one thing she didn't feel any need at all to argue with him about for once.

However it all worked out between her and Steve, James would have both his parents. They'd learned to work together a long time ago, sometimes in spite of personal feelings instead of because of. And they'd never work together on anything more important than their son. But...there was something else Steve needed to know, too. That she wanted him to know, because she didn't want to him to think he hadn't been a presence in James' life just because he wasn't physically there. He'd always been a part of his son's life. Since the day he was born. Maybe not in the way he would've wanted to be, but James had always known who his father was, in as much of a real way - not just Captain America, but the man, Steve Rogers - as she could manage.

Well, now, when she'd expected it, the grave look was gone and he was smiling. Even if it looked a little wry. Typical. “Are,” he corrected softly, present tense. Present. Steve was here, and present, and real, but she thought her head might still be catching up with that, “…am,” he corrected as her grip on his hand tightened. Just to remind herself how real he was, right before a very happy, excited James announced how right his Aunt Bacon had been when she told him today would be an even better day than yesterday.

Aunt.. Bacon? Steve mouthed and Sharon smiled a more than a little amused smile at the look on his face as she nodded. Aunt Bacon. Telling him James meant Luke Cage's wife probably wouldn't do anything to make him less confused right now and their son didn't give her a chance anyway. He was already intent on showing off his shield to his still confused father.

He at least managed to get out, “…yes”, to the four year old change of subject ambush he might as well get used to now, even if probably wouldn't have mattered. James was already bringing his arm around and giving himself room to turn it on without hopefully smacking Steve in the face with it. She'd already filled the daily quota for that in Washington.

Then, she just watched them. James proudly displaying 'his' shield and Steve smiling and tracing over the edge of the plasma shield she'd had made for him what seemed like a lifetime ago. So damned much alike it kept breathing from being the easy thing it should've been for a few seconds. “It’s a very good shield,” he told James and their little boy practically lit up with that approval. “I remember your mother giving me one a lot like it once.”

In London, when she'd still been barely speaking to him. It hadn't stopped her from kissing him. Or yelling at him.

"It's the same one," Sharon interjected with smile gone soft at the edges as she looked between her son and the man she'd still been in love with even back then. That she'd never stopped loving, even when she'd thought he hadn't cared enough to find her. "It was his nightlight when he was a baby," she admitted. It worked better than Mickey Mouse or Winnie the Pooh.

James was dying to show it off, that was easy to see, so she resigned herself to probably a little minor property damage as Steve asked, “Can I see how you use it, son?” Her son nodded and started looking around the room in a way that confirmed property damage was imminent. Good thing they had spare rooms.

"Remember, no breaking the walls," she reminded him, just before Steve stepped in with a hand on the shield and a smile and agreement that just might save most of the breakables in here. “How about we spare your Mom’s room, and start by showing me your blocking drill,” he suggested instead. “Do you know that one?”

Turning Steve's way, Sharon raised a brow. He was her son, what did he think?

Their son was already nodding, looking over to her and she met that look with a warm, affectionate smile. “Of course. Mom taught me.” That was her boy. Who apparently needed to give this idea some thought still. If he asked right now, she really didn't think she could care what happened to the room, but she knew better than to tell him that. He really was a good little boy, but he was still a little boy. “Okay.” he answered with a nod.

"You want me to help?" she asked him, but James shook his head. No, he wanted to do this by himself, didn't he? To show his father that he could.

"I can do it by myself," he told her confidently, getting into position. Trying not to smile, Sharon caught his eyes and lifted her chin pointedly, so that he grinned back and nodded and moved the shield up a few inches. Better. Then he started going through the positions and the shifts and turns, moving with a steadiness and precision she liked to at least think was exceptional for a boy his age. She couldn't help but be proud of that as she shifted over a little closer to Steve for a better view.

There were some accompanying sound effects, too, because he was still not quite five, but the room came through it all without any extra holes or dents and with everything still intact. And with one very proud, but still a little nervous, little boy. Waiting to see if his father thought he was a good as he hoped and that Sharon knew that he was.

"You got that last turn just right," she told him, reaching for his arm to tug him over for a quick hug. That one had given him some trouble, but he kept working at it.

"It's easier now," he assured her as he pulled back, looking from her to Steve. "I could've helped fight the Sentinels," James informed his father, since he hadn't had a chance to hear that part yet, "Except Mom took it to go kill all the Iron Man armors."
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He recognized that shield. Or at least one very like it, that Sharon had given him once upon a long time ago.

“It’s the same one," Sharon interjected with a smile that wasn’t at all like most of the expressions she’d been giving him back then, but softer. Happy. Perhaps he shouldn’t make too much of the fact that this one seemed to include him as well as their son, but even as he had that thought, Steve knew there was precious little chance of his heart listening to sense like that coming from his head right now. Not with Sharon Carter smiling at him like that. “It was his nightlight when he was a baby," she admitted.

That seemed like a somewhat unconventional choice, but given that his own ‘nightlight’, if he’d had one, had been the perpetually flickering streetlight nearest the fire escape he’d slept on when it got too warm to bear being inside the tenement in summer, Steve supposed he probably wasn’t the right one to comment. Especially when hearing that did make him feel a little like something of him had been there to watch over his son, however absent he’d been.

That felt like something. Maybe it wasn’t a lot, but it was something.

There was something on little James’ face too, and that was a something that Steve had no trouble at all recognizing. Eagerness to show, nerves and pride nearly bursting at the thought of an opportunity to show just how he could use this plasma shield. He’d read that right, hadn’t he? The speed that his son started looking about the room, as though seeking targets, said that he had.

“Remember, no breaking the walls," [Sharon] reminded him, which definitely sounded like a cue he’d better work quickly with to try to prevent. One hand on the shield, and a quick suggestion that they stick with the fundamental blocking drill, and spare the room? If their son knew that one, that was.

Now Sharon was giving him a look. Steve thought he might actually have been able to feel it hitting him even before a sideways glance her way confirmed that there was indeed an eyebrow being raised at him. It was probably a good thing he’d been long inured to looks from Sharon. Though admittedly, he might deserve this one. James was nearly as quick to deprecate even the slight suggestion that there could be doubt, affirming that his mother had taught him. Though it did take the little boy a little longer still to make up his mind about whether to accept the trade-off, his face a picture of earnest consideration that made Steve wish he had a pencil and paper to try to capture.

“You want me to help?" Sharon asked him, once he’d made up his mind to agree, but that got a much quicker denial. “I can do it by myself," he told her confidently, moving into a recognizable starting position for the drill. Okay. That was quite good, really. Only a little low, but- never mind, Sharon had given their boy a cue with just a look, and he’d followed, lifting the plasma disk into a better, safer angle that he held for a moment before launching into the patterns.

Steve didn’t know exactly what he’d expected, but what he saw, watching, was… amazing. How often had their son - his son - done this? Very few hesitations. Almost no corners cut at all. Hesitant in some places, laboring against the complications of size in a few more, but remarkable. Less than five years old? Steve was hardly even sure of what that long-unaccustomed feeling was in his heart right now, except that it was warm, and very, very welcome in all its strangeness.

Sharon was also closer now than she had been before. That only increased that same feeling suffusing his chest, but knowing from experience that Sharon could be a little like a street pigeon, who’d stay near only if she thought you hadn’t noticed, Steve knew better than to draw her attention to that. There were sound effects too, ones he wouldn’t have minded a chance to draw into panels that were forming in his head to try to hold this moment. Then it was done, and there was a little blonde face turned expectantly to him.

“You’re very good, son,” Steve told him without hesitation. Not for the compliment, at least. The word still echoed oddly to him, stuck in some indeterminate limbo between natural and that sense that he might have been overusing the term for far too long now. He did his best to dismiss that query though, nodding with decision to dispel it and smiling at the boy who was, in fact, really his son. “Very, very good.”

“Next time will be better,” James said, solemn as a judge. Solemn as Steve was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how himself must have looked every time he’d said just those same words. He blinked, turning a speechless look at Sharon. Had she taught her son that too?

“You got that last turn just right," she told him, reaching for his arm to tug him over for a quick hug. The casual closeness of the action brought that warm but indeterminate feeling back more strongly to Steve’s chest. Wanting to perhaps be part of that, at the same time as wondering if it was still too soon for that. Either way though, it was good cover to try to find his voice again.

And to keep watching their son, in every small detail of expression or movement. “It’s easier now," he assured her as he pulled back, looking from her to Steve, who nodded. That turn did take a lot of practice, he knew that well for himself. “I could've helped fight the Sentinels,” the little boy continued, “Except Mom took it to go kill all the Iron Man armors.”

Maybe there hadn’t really been enough time to recover his voice. There it went again, completely failing Steve as he looked back into the completely guileless blue-eyed gaze, and struggled to find an answer. He’d heard about Sentinels - wild ones - during the clean-up on the Mall. Far more widespread than just that fight, and the casualness in the way the voices on the comms had spoken of it, as though it had only been remarkable for the concerted nature of the attacks, had been almost as jarring as anything had in the hours of his return to the world.

Until the second part of what James had said. Iron Man armors. Iron Man. Tony had - that was another drawing up to the edge of something he’d been hovering at, reluctant to truly let himself think about or hear in the dispatches that had been going back and forth on the communicators. Sharon had been fighting Iron Man armors.

“Well, she…” Steve said, fumbling for some kind of answer to their son’s matter-of-fact observation of an apparent fact he could barely bring himself to start to believe, “…probably put it to very good use too.” There. That was somewhat of a poor effort, but at least he’d managed something, and maybe now he could try to lead the subject into something that would let him recover his bearings a little. “How often do you practice your drills, son?” he asked.

James’ blue eyes lit up brightly. “Every day!” he declared, before pausing to qualify that thought. “When I can.”

“It shows,” Steve told him warmly, squeezing Sharon’s hand one more time with a quick smile, before letting go of it gently and bringing himself back to his feet. “Here, though,” he said, gesturing with one hand to invite their son to join him in the open space, “Let me show you something that helps me find my rhythm on the third parry. It’s one of my secret tricks.”

“Cooollll,” said James, radiating eager approval.

Hopefully Sharon wouldn’t give away the fact he’d never actually had anything like a deliberately secret trick in his life. Just a lot of practice and a set of new patterns that came from trying to learn, but it did sound a little better this way, didn’t it?
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Sharon Carter
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James, standing there so eager to show off what he could do. Not wanting her help for this. It was his father, and he wanted to do it all by himself. Show the man he'd heard about all his life that he could do it.

Steve, watching their son - their four year old little boy - intently. With the entirety of his attention, even though she knew he had to be reeling, still, from all of this. From it all coming at him so fast.

God knew she was as she moved over a little closer to Steve Rogers and watched their child go through the drill she'd worked with him on day after day, as often as he wanted and as often as she could. Still reeling. Still feeling almost like she was watching this from outside herself. A moment trapped in amber. Frozen in time. Father and son, like pieces of a dream that hadn't faded at sunrise.

Bits of time in slow motion. It was all impossibly sharp, clear. Standing out in relief and pulling the air out of her lungs. Putting something heavier there in it's place to sit in the middle of her chest. Move into her throat. Steve's hand, warm and solid in hers and moments Sharon knew she'd remember in excruciating detail, even after everything started moving at normal speed again.

The little, cartoon like sound effects James added in. The expectant, hopeful expression on his face when he was done and turned back to Steve. The expression on his father's face, in his eyes, that had something almost wistful settling behind her ribcage with all the rest.

“You’re very good, son,” Steve told him without hesitation and there was a smile on her face for that. A sense of pride in this remarkable little boy that was hers. And his. James was very good. Steve had no idea how much that was true yet, but he would. “Very, very good.”

“Next time will be better,” James said completely seriously and Sharon didn't even try to stop the smile, glancing sidelong at Steve. He'd have to recognize those words and that tone. And that expression. Right on cue, there it was. The surprised, questioning look that had her lifting a brow again in return. Oh, come on. He had to know that wasn't something she'd teach their four year old for god's sake.

That? That was definitely genetic.

Better next time or not, though, he'd gotten that last turn just right, and Sharon followed that up with a quick hug for James. He'd been having trouble with that for a while, but he'd kept working on it until he bent it to his will. Also, exactly like his father.

Of course it was easier now, and of course he could've helped fight the Sentinels. If it hadn't been for Mom running off with his shield to go kill all the Iron Man armors. None of that probably made much sense to Steve yet, despite seeing Washington for himself. Tony, that would be a whole conversation in itself, wouldn't it?

He'd have to know. All of it. He'd want to, no matter how hard it would be for him. And she didn't even try to fool herself into thinking it wouldn't be hard, no matter what he knew or suspected already. Five years apart wouldn't change knowing him well enough, still, to know that. But it could wait for a little while longer. James needed this time with his father, and Sharon thought Steve needed this time with his son, too.

And she...she needed...

“Well, she…” Steve said, cutting into her thoughts as he struggled for words, “…probably put it to very good use too.” You could say that. They'd done what they'd gone there to do. “How often do you practice your drills, son?”

It was like watching her son light up from the inside out under his fathers attention and interest, and there was a brief pang. A spike of anger just after that. For what they'd lost, but especially what James had lost. She'd done her best, god knew, but he could've had his father. All this time, he could've had his father, too.

“Every day!” he declared, before pausing to qualify that thought. “When I can.”

"Every chance he gets. Every day, if we could," Sharon interjected, "It's been easier lately to get in practice time." Now that it wasn't just the two of them and John had excellent training facilities in Colorado. Better, in some ways, than even what was on the helicarrier.

“It shows,” Steve told him warmly, squeezing Sharon’s hand one more time with a quick smile, before letting go of it gently and bringing himself back to his feet. “Here, though,” he said, gesturing with one hand to invite their son to join him in the open space, “Let me show you something that helps me find my rhythm on the third parry. It’s one of my secret tricks.” Which was all he needed to say to have James' complete attention (if he hadn't already had it). Despite the fact that she knew good and well that Steve didn't actually have any 'secret' tricks.

It was a lot of practice and dedication and hard work. It always had been, but she wasn't about to say anything to take that eager smile off their son's face.

“Cooollll,” said James, radiating eager approval and practically bouncing over to join his father. Sharon stood again herself, watching the two of them as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Then considered James' stance and walked over behind him.

"Widen your stance just a little," she reminded him, bending down and hands going lightly to his shoulders. And smiling as he shot her a slightly sheepish smile. Then hurried to fix the position of his feet. So eager he was forgetting the little details, but it didn't really matter. Not this time. All that mattered was that smile on his face, that bright happiness in those blue eyes.

Straightening up again, she gave James' shoulders a gentle squeeze as she looked over to meet Steve's eyes briefly. Smiled easily, if also briefly, as she cautioned, "He's stronger than he looks," and then moved over to the side, enough to be out of the way, to watch.

It might not have been how she'd planned it, or had wanted it to happen, but the results, that was all that mattered.
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Steve Rogers
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The Man Behind the Shield
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Better things to talk about, rather than wallow in the ifs and explanations that were still hovering at the edges of this conversation. Steve might have felt ashamed of choosing that route as an easier option, were it not for the smile it brought to his son (his son) just for asking about how often he practiced his drills.

Every day. If there was a touch of pride in saying that, it was an earned one, wasn’t it?

“Every chance he gets. Every day, if we could," Sharon interjected to corroborate that answer, clarifying the qualification James had added to his initial declaration. ”It’s been easier lately to get in practice time.”

Steve couldn’t entirely remove the query from his expression when he looked back toward her and nodded. Lately? There was meaning there, he could sense enough to know that, but out of context and out of more than the slightest point of reference for what their lives had been, he could barely guess at what that really meant.

Perhaps it didn’t matter, though. Or rather, it didn’t matter right now, because all that really seemed to matter right now was the little boy who was glowing eagerly at the chance to speak about this. All that practice - which showed, Steve assured him without more delay, leaving Sharon’s side with one last squeeze of her hand before beckoning their son into the open space.

He was very, very good - but there were a few ‘tricks’ that his father might still be able to teach him, starting with an easier way to get the rhythm on the third parry. Not really a secret trick, though he’d call it that, and it certainly bought an extra degree of eager attention from James that Steve found he couldn’t regret at all.

Cool? Well, he hoped so. He really did.

Sharon was close by, coming in to supervise with a warm familiarity that spoke of something precious she shared with her son. “Widen your stance just a little," she reminded him, bending down and hands going lightly to his shoulders. And smiling as he shot her a slightly sheepish smile. The errant stance was corrected quickly, without so much as a flash of the disgruntled pique Steve still remembered from the boy’s namesake in similar circumstances. Bucky never had liked to be corrected, especially at the things he knew he should have known.

“He’s stronger than he looks," [Sharon added] and then moved over to the side, enough to be out of the way, to watch.

Steve couldn’t quite resist a sudden urge to throw a quick grin back toward her. “And he takes suggestions better than you ever did,” he added, trusting to the more relaxed posture and what he was hoping really was a lack of anything he could see in current throwing reach to spare him from reprisal as he turned back to their son, stepping into a place that would be easiest for James to see his movements.

“Like this,” he directed, setting his legs and body into the familiar position that led into the movement. “Take your weight off your heels.” A glance toward James showed his son rising onto his toes. Steve smiled, but shook his head very slightly, gesturing downward with one hand. “No, not quite that much. Keep them nearly flat,” he explained, accompanied by another gesture, drawing attention to the way he’d set his own feet, the entire sole almost - but not quite - level with the ground. “Think of the balls of your feet as the only thing that’s pressing down into the floor.”

Steve motioned downward again with his palm. “Now bend, just a little more.” This time he barely even needed to make the suggestion, before James had found the right angle to his knees, and all there was to do was to smile encouragingly. “Yes, just like that. You see how that feels? All the way from your hip to the floor.” The promise of power, ready to respond to any command once you had the various points of leverage primed for quick release. It became a tangible thing with practice, and Steve thought he could see a suggestion of gleam in their son’s eye that said he’d caught something of it. “Now this is a spring,” he continued, gesturing through the slight bend of thigh to calf, “and it’s stored and ready the very moment you need it. And you can tuck your elbow in, just a little, and-“

He didn’t have to finish that thought. James caught hold of the instruction and streamed ahead, dropping his shoulder and sliding really quite smoothly into the sequence for the parry. “-Yes!” Steve exclaimed, smiling with enthusiasm, and flashing that same smile quickly toward Sharon where she was standing, before he brought his attention back fully to his son. “Did you feel the difference?”

“Uhuh.” James nodded. Then frowned again, but that was a frown of concentration again, wasn’t it? It certainly seemed to be, when the little boy set his tongue in the side of one cheek, and began to work slowly through the motions of the stance and block again.

Next time will be better.

It was surreal. It was truly surreal, but in a way that was better than anything he could ever have imagined in a thousand lives. And this time, when Steve turned back to Sharon once again, his smile felt softer than he could remember in a long, long time. And as much as that expression owed to an appreciation for the amazing son she had to raise, it was just as much to being here and realizing that she was there to turn to again, and to share his thoughts and feelings without a need for words.

It was, truly, like coming home.
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Sharon Carter
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So much they needed to talk about. So much he needed to know. It loomed on the edges, waiting. Sharon was as aware of it as she knew Steve had to be. There were unspoken questions in his eyes when he turned her way. The answers wouldn't be easy for him and the former SHIELD agent felt the weight of it all, there between them as Steve nodded. Turned back to their son.

It had been waiting for five years, it would still be there later. James couldn't wait, and shouldn't. He'd waited his entire life and he needed this time with his father. These precious first moments for the man he'd seen in pictures and news footage, heard about in stories for as long as he could remember, to become real for him. For James to be real for Steve.

There used to be a time when she'd prided herself on putting duty before anything, even love. Steve Rogers had changed that. Slowly. Imperceptibly. Like a thin, steady stream of water wearing away a stone. It had taken her a long time to realize how much that was true. Even longer to realize why. Then James, he'd changed everything.

This...this was her family. This man and this little boy that was so much like him it made her ache inside, looking up at her and smiling sheepishly as she corrected his stance a little. Transferred the smile from son to father as she cautioned Steve that James was stronger than he looked, then moved back so that James could learn the 'secret' trick.

Suddenly, he grinned at her and it was almost like that five years was suddenly wiped away. It was a grin she'd seen so many times, and not nearly enough. “And he takes suggestions better than you ever did,” Steve asserted now that she was out of arms' reach and Sharon's brows shot up, arms folding loosely. Oh, really?

"I've never had a problem taking suggestions," she countered, lips twitching up at the corners, "You just didn't like that I wouldn't always use them." She'd held her own well enough in their sparring matches. Sharon knew better than to believe he'd forgot that. Too bad the only thing close enough to throw at him was a pillow and he'd see that coming a mile away. Damned super soldier reflexes.

Steve turned back to James as she stood and watched. Demonstrated that 'secret trick' that she knew was nothing but a lot of practice and familiarity. Their son soaked it up like a sponge all the same. Watching his father intently, trying to mimic his movement and ending up on his toes instead of the balls of his feet. Like always, he corrected that quickly and caught on in no time. She could practically see it click. There was that look in his eyes, quick and determined and as serious as any trainee that had ever come through the doors of SHIELD.

He amazed her. James never stopped amazing her. Every single day.

“Now this is a spring,” [Steve] continued, gesturing through the slight bend of thigh to calf, “and it’s stored and ready the very moment you need it. And you can tuck your elbow in, just a little, and-“ Their little boy was already there, though. Taking that and running ahead with it, sliding into that move like he did so many. Like he was born to it. Between her and Steve, Sharon supposed he was.

“-Yes!” Steve exclaimed, smiling with enthusiasm, and flashing that same smile quickly toward Sharon where she returned it with one of her own before he turned back to their son. Their son. He was enjoying this every bit as much as James was. “Did you feel the difference?”

A nod and a slightly distracted, “Uhuh.” from James as he worked it through in his head then began to go through the move again. Slowly and deliberately and that was Steve, too. Wanting to get it just right. Practicing until he was satisfied that it was right.

As their little boy's attention focused on that to the exclusion of everything else, Sharon found herself watching Steve in profile. Reassuring herself again that he was here. Alive. Turning toward her with another smile she remembered. One she hadn't seen as often. Softer, full of the same sort of wonder she felt herself when she watched the sturdy, intelligent, brave little boy they'd made together. He was here, now, to see that. To feel it with her, and...god, she'd missed that. The simple, real presence of Steve in her life.

No matter how infuriating he could be. No matter how many times she'd tried to push him away. Or punch him in the face. It was still something she wanted.

"He gets that from you, too," she told him quietly, with a softening smile of her own and a slight catch in her voice she couldn't suppress. What she'd needed, what she'd wanted for five years, was this.

"Mom, did you see?" James asked, finishing up and turning her way with what was possibly the biggest smile she'd ever seen. "Did you? That was awesome!" he added, turning back to his father with that same broad, excited smile.

"I saw," Sharon told her son, moving back in closer to run her hand over his hair again affectionately. "You were great," she assured him with a still soft smile, "You'll have to show that to Uncle Wraith later." Who'd watch more or less patiently from under his hat, tell James he guessed that was pretty good, and make his day all over again.

"I need more practice," James replied with a thoughtful nod as Sharon reached over to lay a hand on Steve's arm briefly, shaking her head in bemusement.

"He'll do this all day if you'll let him, you know," she told him, turning her face up to his. And James started through the sequence one more time. "Watch this," Sharon added, then whirled and without any warning brought her fist around and down straight toward her son. Not hard, and in a way that she could pull up short, in case for once he didn't move fast enough, but she wasn't particularly worried about that.

James zipped around at the first hint of movement, eyes narrowed and bringing the shield up to stop her fist dead. Then grinned at her like he always did before drawing out, "Moo-oom," like a protest and sighing at her. "Now I have to start over again."
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