Work Text:
As they sit at the table in the shawarma restaurant, Natasha has to nudge Steve awake twice. He tries to eat, but he’s got no appetite; he falls asleep halfway through chewing his third bite.
None of them speak of what they’ve just seen and done. None of them speak of Phil.
Nobody says a single word, save “pass the napkins,” once.
After, they don’t leave the scene. It’s too much a disaster, still chaos in the streets amidst more destruction than Steve has seen since Dresden. They stay, all of them, even Tony in his plain clothes, armorless, even Clint who refuses Fury’s direct order to stand down and head back to medical for further testing. He’d had aliens, gods, things Steve can’t fathom at all, controlling his mind only hours ago, but still he stays.
So Steve rallies. He straightens up and squares his shoulders, and he sticks it out with them. It’s the least he can do, even if he can’t shake the drifting, disconnected feeling that makes it seem as if he’s wading through waist-deep water while everyone else around him moves at normal speed.
All of them stay and help however they can. Natasha and Clint coordinate search and rescue efforts. Bruce liaisons with a hundred different EMT units arriving on the scene to lend aid; Rhodey mediates between local law enforcement teams and National Guard when he’s not providing aerial support. Tony takes point managing the hordes of press.
Thor vanishes, and they all know why. No one trusts Loki to remain contained by SHIELD alone.
Steve is left to help clear rubble, pointing straggling civilians toward evacuation routes or, when injured, Bruce’s triage team. He hefts huge craggy boulders of concrete, bends and twists fractured rebar out of the way, shoulders crumpled cars into piles of debris to clear safe paths, ceaseless in his efforts. He has to keep moving. The thought of stopping, resting, it…he can’t, despite the dragging exhaustion that’s got little to do with the burn in his muscles and the ache in his spine. He loses track of the hours ticking by and of the people who labor beside him, firefighters and construction crewmembers and random civilians too invested to stand by and do nothing.
Eventually, the largest sites of destruction are cordoned off into neat quadrants and lit up bright as day with floodlights. Organized squads of professional disaster response teams with backhoes and huge cranes arrive to manage the cleanup efforts in earnest. The ragtag band of men and women with whom he’s sweated and toiled for uncounted hours try and fail to coax him away with them as they disperse, until the site surrounding him is entirely empty and ready for the squads to begin.
A National Guard fireteam, and then a pair of female NYPD officers, try doing the same, with no success.
Steve keeps digging.
He’s been kicking and tugging at a mass of fortified cement that must’ve once been the corner of a building. It’s faced with brick, mortar crumbling under his hands, debris shifting under his feet so that he constantly has to adjust his stance or else slip down into the rubble-filled pit that used to be some kind of underground garage. Down at the bottom, half in shadow, is a huge hulking chunk of the space worm the crews haven’t been able to haul away yet, given the way it’s half-buried. It fizzles and sparks every now and then, twitching. Steve startles hard and swears sharply under his breath every time.
He’s lost his gloves at some point, but his hands are still covered in bright red. It’s making the stone slippery under his fierce grip, and he curses again and kicks at the immovable chunk of rubble so hard he almost loses his balance.
It’s just sweat stinging at the corners of his eyes. He swipes his filthy forearm over his face and takes a breath, or tries to. Turns out it just sticks in his throat, thick and claustrophobic, enough to make him want to choke.
“Hey, Cap,” someone says off to his right.
Steve whirls around to see a guy in a USAF t-shirt and battered pants with holes ripped through the knees. They might’ve been jeans, once. Now they’re the same color grey as everything else.
“Easy, man. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, palms raised. “Thirsty work you been doing, is all. Thought you could use a drink.”
He holds out a water bottle that’s fogged around the bottom with cold, dripping condensation that splatters in dark patches on the grey dust all around their feet. Steve stares at it, frowning. He’s busy, and there’s too much left to do for taking breaks, but now that he’s seen the water his whole body clamors for hydration with an intensity that almost makes him reel.
He reaches out to take it, but gets stuck staring again, this time at the mess he’s made of his hand and the way it’s shaking. He’s sure it must belong to someone else. Blood drips off its fingertips, dotting even darker splotches amidst those left behind by the drops of water, and suddenly he’s dizzy, gasping for air.
Busted brick and asphalt dig into his knees as he goes down hard and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, enough pressure to see stars. His chest is heaving, but he’s sure he’s not getting any air at all, and his whole body shudders with the terror of suffocation, just like asthma, just like ice, just like watching Bucky fall, just like watching space open up and swallow people whole, just like walking through a Brooklyn he can’t recognize, just like waking up over and over and over again sure he’s dead or still trapped, just like–
Boots grind softly into the grit as the man with the water hops down from the ledge where he’d been perched and crouches beside him. There’s a hand on his shoulder, then, and Steve flinches sharply but the grip doesn’t falter. It’s warm and solid, fingertips digging through thick canvas and leather, something real to anchor him down while he tries his best to come apart at the seams.
“—been right where you are, a hundred times, dude, and I know it’s hard,” the man who’s holding him together is saying, “but I’m gonna need you to look at me. C’mon, Cap. You’re alright. Battle’s over, everybody’s safe. You just need to look at me.”
Steve can’t open his eyes because he doesn’t trust what he’s going to see. The bottom’s dropped out and he’s grasping at nothing, nothing at all.
“Okay. That’s okay, we’ll do that in a minute, then. Just breathe for me now, Steve. In for three, hold, out for five. Easy, see? You’ve got this, soldier. Just follow me.”
A hand settles over Steve’s where he’s got it dug into the loose silty ground, fingers tapping out a simple rhythm against the back of it. The contact is overwhelming, and Steve wants to shrug him off, get free, but not as much as he wants the lifeline.
He needs it, right now, because without it he knows he’ll just spin and spin out into blackness.
The vice ratcheting tight at the center of his chest starts to loosen, and the tingling that had spread over his face and down his arms starts to fade. He’s shaking still, maybe more violently than before, but at least the air in his lungs feels real.
The hand that had gripped his shoulder slips backward to settle between his shoulder blades, and Steve is so absurdly grateful for it that he can’t say a word. He just glances up, finally, and is met with a soft smile and big, earnest brown eyes that seem completely unperturbed. ‘Hey, there you are,” the guy says. “Hi. Want to try again with the water, now?”
Steve parts his lips like he’s going to speak, but he has no idea what to say, so he snaps them shut again and nods, mute and a little bowled over. The guy is reaching for the bottle again when Steve grinds out “Who are you,” sounding accusatory and sharp when really he’s just…confused.
The guy pauses and flashes him an easy smile. “Sam. I’m with the VA back in DC. I saw what went down on the news. Couldn’t just sit back, you know? I thought I’d come up here, see if I could help out.” He shrugs and leaves it at that, then goes back to working the cap off the bottle before he extends it to Steve. When Steve doesn’t reach for it–because his hands are a disaster just like the wreck all around them and he’s still trembling and he can’t and they hurt and how the fuck is this his life now, anyway–Sam just holds it right to his lips and lets him take huge gulping swigs, little rivulets of icy spillover trailing down one side of his neck.
There’s still a little water left over when Steve pauses, and Sam doesn’t miss a beat, just takes Steve’s right wrist in his hand and draws it upward so that he can dump the remainder over the back of his palm.
Steve doesn’t resist. He just watches Sam work, deeply confused and a little fascinated, forgetting all the dogged urgency he’d felt since the battle had come to a halt around them.
Sam tugs out a bright white rag from his back pocket and wipes clean streaks through the grime on Steve’s skin, careful of Steve’s mangled knuckles, though he wraps the damp cloth around them snugly and knots it once to keep it secure.
“Got any more water,” Steve asks, then frowns hard; that can’t be his voice, ragged and wild, edged with desperation.
Sam just shakes his head, casual, unconcerned. “Nah, man, not on me. Tell you what. Take a walk with me, I can get you some more. We’ll sit and let somebody take a look at your other hand, maybe, while you drink it. Won’t take but a minute or two, no big deal. Once you’re finished, we’ll see how the crews are handling the cleanup, and you can decide then whether you need to stick around or if it’s okay to take a breather. Alright?”
Steve balks, but Sam’s hand is back on his shoulder, a gentle persuasive pressure Steve can’t shake. “It’s just a water break. You’ve earned it. That was a hell of a mission you ran out there today. A lot of people are still standing because of you who wouldn’t have been otherwise.“
The way Sam’s looking at him, it seems like the simple truth, inarguable. Steve hauls in another breath, less shaky now, and nods. Sam’s hand is already extended, waiting to help him to his feet, when Steve looks up again.
Steve takes it and keeps tight to Sam’s left as they pick their way through the rubble and into the cleared site perimeter. He can almost believe it when Sam tells him that he’s earned the chance to take a moment to collect himself. What comes next, he doesn’t know–but not knowing isn’t quite as bad when Sam seems unflaggingy confident and at ease by his side.