Fanfiction: Ghost Stories
Summary:
Classic Avengers lineup a la early days. Some of the first members leave their uniforms behind to tackle the threat of male bonding on a camping trip. Barton gets jealous, Hank gets blisters, Pietro tells a ghost story, and Cap brings it all home.
Disclaimer:
Follows a work of fanfiction intended for entertainment purposes only, the creation and publication of which earns its author no monetary profit. All recognizable characters and referenced canonical events are property of Marvel Comics Incorporated. Or Disney, whatever.
GHOST STORIES
Camping. As though it happens every day all the world over - such as it may. And what an everyman pastime indeed; such a picturesque opportunity for male bonding and unwashed endeavors. For elaborative storytelling, excessive fist bumping, and peeing on things with wanton abandon. How normal. Quite normal, in fact, and possibly suspect. Quicksilver was on to these Americans.
"Wait. What? No way. You've never been camping before?" Barton accentuated his disbelief by speaking slower, infuriatingly. "As in not ever?"
"Not officially, no."
His brow furrowed in its practiced shape of pretended incomprehension. "Is this a language barrier thing? I don't even know what that means."
"It means he'd love to join us," said Capt- said Steve Rogers. No uniforms, no code names; that is supposed to be the general rule for these off the clock 'relationship-building' exercises. Additionally for this trip as proposed, no mobile phones, no fancy gadgets, no members of the finer sex, and hopefully no interruptive breaches of national security. Just several days' exposure to rugged nature, uncontested manliness, and this routine of getting to know one another.
"So you will join us, right?" The off-duty Captain smiled a bit too imploringly, and Quicksilver got the unspoken hint. The good Captain would doubtlessly have arranged for a less isolated, less involved, less drawn-out activity, if he had foreseen that this might not be the quintessential idea of a good time for everyone he planned to recruit.
You never learn someone so thoroughly, so rawly, until surviving alone with them in the woods for an indefinite period of time. Pietro knew this firsthand for his own part, having 'unofficially camped' throughout several years of his childhood, for better and for worse.
"Why not a baseball game instead?"
"Chuh." Barton rolled his eyes, showing the room his back to stare cross-armed out of a window. "Haven't you two seen enough ball games? All those man-dates you go on…" He added, "And don't you dare say the circus, either!"
"No need to be jealous." Simultaneously a satisfying huff of hot air from the archer, who was jealous, and a reproachful look from Capt- from Steve, who was the one man Pietro had actually become natural friends with since coming to this unnatural country. He signed. No one deserved less to be stuck alone with Barton.
"Well then. Where are we camping?"
***
"Aw man, yeah, this is perfect. It's better than perfect!"
"Is this...it?" Hank Pym emerged from the back seat, where he had spent most of the day's long drive lost to the world as he studied a signed copy of 'The Ubiquitin-proteasome Proteolytic System', first edition. He rubbed at some eyestrain, taking in their surroundings. "How do we know this is it?"
"Because look around you, for crying out loud. We hit the great outdoors bullseye, doc. Can't you smell it?" Clint turned in place for a few theatrical rotations with both arms outstretched, breathing deeply. "Ahh!"
Steve had to smile to himself. "It's nice, all right. Real nice."
At the dead end of a winding and unpaved road, they parked in a clearing just large enough to turn the vehicle around in. A canopy of tremendous trees diluted any direct sunlight to a soothing near-glow, and cocooned the sweet-smelling moistness of the forest. It felt alive all around, and utterly pure. Plan was, that night to stay put and make camp, setting out on foot the next day headed for even more remote territories. The weather should be perfect for the duration, and spirits were already running high.
Best of all, he had even managed to get each and every one of his duckies in a row for some good old fashioned team building. Almost. "Well I'll just radio Quicksilver, and th-"
"I thought you said no technology."
"-and then turn it off." Whirling, Steve had to crank his neck back to see where the speedster had positioned himself; straddled at least ten feet up on the first of many high branches of this great old Sugar Maple. "When did you get here, Pietro?"
"I said that I would follow you." His resolution to play nice for the Captain's friendly little expedition notwithstanding, sitting still in an enclosed automobile for hours on end would have been unreasonably torturous.
Barton grumbled as he stretched out and shook off his annoyance that he had failed to notice what could have been a sniper up that tree, "Bet he used a tracker."
"I would have no need. Roads are highly predictable."
"You know, for someone who's never even camped... how'd you get up there, anyway?"
"Faster than you could."
"Boys, boys." Hank had migrated with Steve to start unloading their gear. He said with a wink, "How about helping the old men set up camp?"
Daylight had begun fading as they went about pitching the tents -two double sleepers was what they had decided to bring for sleeping arrangements- and unpacking supplies for cooking and cleaning up.
Equipment in each hand, Clint roll-climbed over one of two giant logs that bordered where they had designated a fire pit, righting himself only to see newborn flames already kicking into life, and his teammate nursing the fire's swift growth. "Oh." He cocked the torch in his hand. "Guess we didn't need this. Do you have a lighter or something?"
Pietro looked up from his careful work, one brow risen quizzically. "What is that?"
"Propane. For starting the fire. What's funny?"
"Never mind. Yes, I have a lighter or something."
***
The next day passed along in a surreal dichotomy between technical eventlessness and the untiring magnificence of free nature.
They traveled uncounted miles (Hank kept a log, but only 'for the sake of science', however that would add up) and crossed nigh any type of terrain imaginable. There were slopes of scarce pines checkering scraggily rocks where they climbed sideways more than walked, broad acres of grassy rolling hills where Clint summarized The Sound of Music so his companions would get the joke, and a bubbling creek they followed through a ravine maze into darkening wood. Then lots and lots of forest growing more and more dense.
"See, Captain, we came the long way around. I told you. This is the same stream that-"
"We came the scenic way, Pietro." Steve smiled, shrugging off his pack and stretching. "And it was worth every minute."
Under the marigold light of evening sun, the group went about setting up camp once more. Clint pointedly left the fire up to Pietro this time, keeping an eye on that business from where he collected dry wood nearby.
The four men ate together and left little room for small talk, cleaning up just in time for the last light of day before settling down around the hearty campfire.
"Yeah. I do miss beer though." Clint tapped his boots together, legs outstretched from his position lounged against his pack.
"I can't get drunk," added Steve, eventually.
Hank shrugged. "I don't really drink. Never acquired a taste for it."
Someone cleared their throat. A pinecone fell to earth nearby. The fire popped.
"I brought whiskey."
The party twisted towards Pietro. Two shocked looks plus one more hopeful.
"Are you serious?"
He shrugged one-handed and with the other, retrieved from his pack a fifth of amber liquor, tossing it towards the archer. "I thought it was standard operating procedure."
"Don't tell me. You read a book about camping etiquette?" Clint broke the seal and threw back a swig. "Ugh. That's awful. I love it. Here, Cap."
"No, really. I can't get drunk. Super soldier serum." Steve tossed it to Hank without a sip, who tossed it back to Pietro as though the bottle were hot.
"Neither can I. Mighty mutant metabolism." The super soldier barked a laugh while the mutant speedster took a swallow. "But it does help you feel warm."
"Oh, are you cold?" Steve began to sit up, ready as ever to tackle the world's problems. "I have an extra-"
"No. I just meant- never mind." Pietro passed the bottle, which went round without stopping again to Barton.
"So." Deliberately thoughtful and regarding the mutant with a comfortable half-smile, Clint swung the neck between his fingers a few times before uncapping it. "You track unfamiliar roadways from the rough, unseen." Swig. "Make fire from scratch with a hand drill. Climb trees like a koala." Swig. "And graph the course of rivers from some inbuilt head-compass." Swig. He leaned forward and with one precise motion sent the bottle sliding across the dirt like shuffleboard. "But you never been camping. Officially." He nodded with a wink. "Catch up."
Quicksilver took three swallows, and said no more.
***
The dream started like slow torture. Like always.
All the right smells and sounds, just as it had been, just as he could never quite recollect under wakefulness. There were mother and father. There were the horses, the wagons, the tents. There was young Wanda, all giggles under a wild mop of dark curls, twirling circles in a sun-kissed patch of crimson clover.
Growing up, his sister had never seemed small to him, she never seemed different, in hindsight. But dreams oft lay out the truth plain to see, through the pristine magnification of hindsight. She was just an innocent little girl, the sweetest he had ever known, and he could never manage to keep her from harm.
It always ended the same. Always a great fire in the middle of their camp at night, always a myraid of familia all around - always profoundly normal, at first. And always, it ended the same.
They came. The gadje. With their torches and their hatred. Their lies and their clubs. With wretched hearts sick from the poison of fear festered to rage and not an original thought or one drop of mercy among them.
He foresaw immediately this would not be the typical gang-initiated intimidation tactics; kicking over the pot warming their evening meal, spooking the horses, breaking a few things, roughing someone up. This would be the end.
They accused father of thievery. They accused Wanda of witchery. They accused unnamed others of various carnal trespasses. It would not suffice for the travelers to simply vacate - these gadje wanted vindication. They wanted blood. The situation escalated from dire to apocalyptic, it seemed like a heartbeat. Pietro had edged up to stand astride the adults of his clan before the first blow was struck. Soon it would take the combined strength of two tradesmen from town to hold him back, while their brothers beat his father to eventual death.
Behind him, other men tore sibling from sibling, wives from daughters, including his own mother whom some wrestled into the family home. She was a rare beauty, like sister, and noblemen were apt to blame her gypsy sorcery for sneaking all manner of crude fantasies into their own heads.
Pietro was beleaguered not far away from the broken bedroom window, and in between blows, heard jeering laughter and ruckus amidst her muffled cries - then saw the growing flames, bigger and hotter by the second. The arsonists trampled their own kind in flight just as things began to blur. Somehow he wrangled himself free, must have. This is where the pounding comes in, like booming thunder. bang! In his ears, in his head, someone's bloodcurdling scream cutting through sudden electric pain. bang! The last clear memory, as though seared onto his eyeballs, this elaborate engraving upon the metal doorhandle to their home. Not possibly red-hot, but unnaturally aglow, and wreathed in hellsfire. bang! bang! bang!
The scream became his own, and Quicksilver bolted up awake and gasping, sweat or tears or both streaming down his face.
A dream. Just a dream. Already fading from memory, like dust in the wind. Like always.
Remnants of the group's campfire somewhat illuminated the inside of the tent from outside - the light scarce, but the smell of smoke distinct.
He allowed himself to feel grateful at least that the traveling party had elected to bring two duel-sleeping tents, and that the good Captain shared his. Humiliating as this was, it could only be made worse by explaining his episode to a tent full of two more witnesses - or even to Barton alone. Now damage being done, he took the time to compose himself with deep breaths, head in hands still trembling, mentally preparing a response for any such thing his companion was reasonably about to say.
At last came softly, "I'm so sorry."
Pietro opened and closed his mouth. This was not in the script of his imagining.
With calm almost unsettling, Steve asked, "Do you dream like that often?"
"I...." he raked the hair out of his face once, twice, stopping at the notice of faint scarring on his palm, like an insignia in white ink. He winced against the fist he made. His head hurt. "No. It just- it must be the fire, the smoke."
"Oh. Would it help if I put it out?" He was already beginning to rise. "I'll go put it out."
"No. No, it’s fine. I just- I need some air. Alone. Please. I'm sorry." Before he had unzipped the flap, a hand formed firmly to his shoulder. Not a harsh grip, just present strength.
"Pietro. If you need to talk, or there's anything I can do, I'm here." Adding, "And it doesn't have to be right now. I get it." He folded a jacket across Pietro's forearm, and with one solid tap, let go.
"Thank you, Capt-," he corrected himself before the other man could, "Steve."
***
"Hi, I thought you were camping," came his sister's sleep-raspy voice over the communicator.
He turned the device to its lowest volume, and knelt in a nook surrounded by dense shrubbery, as nearby to camp as he could pick up a signal. "I was. We are. I just-" he waited while she yawned, and mustered a nonchalant tone. "I'm just calling you."
"At the witching hour?" she asked, amused.
"Is it? I did not check time. You were sleeping, I'm sorry."
"No, no, it's fine. What happened?"
"Nothing." A little too fast, she would be able to tell. "I just-" just say it. But over the years it seemed to grow harder and harder. To share, to burden her with his troubles and worries. Even before they had left Magneto. They were grown up, or nearly so, and things should be separate by then. Their persons should be separate. Like never. "I had a dream, woke me up. It was nothing. Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Everything is fine.” Another yawn, he could hear she struggled against it. “What was it about?"
"Nothing." Ugh. Too fast again. "Tell you later."
"When will you be back?"
"Soon. Couple days."
"Good. Do not worry, things are fine here, I'm fine. So how is it going?"
"As to be expected, I suppose. Wanda-" just stop talking. "I know this is strange. Do you remember our door handle?"
"....what door handle?" She chuckled lightly. "Sorry, does that answer your question?"
"Yes. Never mind. Go back to sleep. I love you."
"I love you. See you soon."
"Goodnight."
***
The good Captain exercised gracious discretion, for his own part. First rising in the morning, he said simply, "Get any sleep?" It had that sympathetic tone, but it was genuine, and thereby tolerable.
"Yes, plenty.” None. But there could be no question left in his leader's mind, no doubt as to Quicksilver's suitability for this team, for the trials that they must face as Avengers, as Earth's Mightiest Heroes who do not succumb to nightmares or the need to share their feelings. "It was nothing. Truly. I'm fine."
"Okay."
Everyone emerged from their tents and went on about the morning. Breakfast. Chit-chat. Cleaning up. Re-packing for the hike ahead. All were in agreement to make the return trip to the truck, camp there for one night more, and drive home the next morning.
At some point during the busywork, it appeared that Hank positioned himself aside the Captain, a little too separated. They exchanged what seemed to be careful words in hushed tones. Pym could not suppress a timid glance over the other man's shoulder, and his eyes darted away when met with Pietro's. Did it betray the subject of their conversation?
The archer set his pack to lean against a rock, and swung his upper body side to side until the cracking noises stopped. "God, I'm too young to be too old for this." After stretching to touch his toes a few times, "Didn't sleep worth a damn. Rocks everywhere. How about you?"
"Did he send you?"
"...what? Who?"
"Do not play dumb, Barton. No matter how well it suits you."
"Hey! What's your problem?" They squared up and locked eyes, like tomcats on a fence. In other circumstances, it would take their Captain's stern intervention to break up the ensuing argument, and days for them to cool off and return to speaking terms. Clint relented old habits first. "No one sent me, it's not like that. I just, ya know, wondered if you're okay."
"So he did talk to you."
"No! Jesus, man, come on. It's the middle of nowhere, we could hear each other sneeze from a mile away, much less scream. Don't get all defensive because your friend actually gives a shit." He jabbed a thumb inwards. "That's me, by the way."
Pietro looked away, uncharacteristically abashed.
With more restraint than came naturally, Clint continued, "Look, this isn't the Brotherhood, okay - and I'm not Magneto or one of his cronies. No one's trying to get at you anymore, so just relax already."
Just as his words had begun to dissolve the other's ire, that last bit vexed him anew. Jaw clenched involuntarily, Pietro noted, "I seem to recall you were trying to 'get at me' just last night, in fact."
"Oh, give me a break. I was trying to get you to talk - that's totally different." He sighed. "Listen, I know your custom is to keep personal things on the down low, so I get it, no disrespect. I mean, it would just be cool if… I don't know. Forget it." He hoisted his pack to secure it onto his back, nodding towards their companions. "Looks like we're moving out."
Unbeknownst to the archer, he was just beginning to get interesting.
***
They made their way back on a route less intense than their journey in on the prior day.
Steve had started out in pace with Pietro at the head of the progression, saying early on in a low tone, "Hank's got blisters the size of his toes."
"Ah." Which is probably something one would disclose in private to their super soldier boss, being embarrassed. Which was probably the conversation Pietro had witnessed that morning between the two men. (It is true that Wanda has had cause in the past to remind her brother that the world actually revolves around the sun.) "Bought new boots for the trip, did he?"
"You guessed it. Poor guy. Say, so I'm going to hang back a bit today, but if you can set us on an even course as much as possible, and just keep an easy pace?"
"Roger, Rogers."
And so it went.
They braked about mid-way to snack and rest in the shade a while. Steve kept Hank company nearby, as he soaked his aching feet in the stream that they would have to part ways with before the final stretch.
"You guys watch lots of movies together?" The archer's tone was not miffed, exactly.
"Do you mean Capt- Steve and I?"
"Yeah."
"None that I recall specifically. Why?"
"You said 'Roger, Rogers'." Barton sniffed, watching his own foot idly rearrange a pebble on the ground. "It's a line from a movie, that's all."
"I see." Pietro regarded the other man. In the beginning, they both as new recruits had vied for their place to be next in line for leadership of the team. Under the more than competent leadership of Captain America, that impulse had faded for Pietro, and at least between himself and Steve, the absence of competition left room for friendship to grow. It was not, as might be suspected, a ploy for control or special favors. "Bart- Clint. Counterintuitive though it may seem to you, we do genuinely have many things in common."
Clint blinked, reeling back a little. "Uh, well yeah, I guess so. I mean, I lost my parents as a kid too."
“Uhm. I meant Steve and I."
"Oh. Right." With a stick, the archer worked at scraping some caked mud off his boots. "Which isn’t surprising, really. Besides the obvious, being from different countries and all. But you're both, like, old school. You could probably sit around talking about the importance of family values and respecting your elders, or the lost art of letter writing." His gaze flashed up as if to check in on the mood. "I wasn’t making fun, I'm just saying."
"Does Wanda talk to you?"
"Whoa, whoa, hey now." He put up both hands. "She isn't into me - believe me, I've asked. We still got a long day ahead, let's not even go there."
"No, I-" despite himself, Pietro laughed. "I know my sister most certainly is not into you. What I was getting at is, you referred earlier to my ‘custom'. I assumed perhaps Wanda... divulged. Or else how would you know."
Clint flashed a knowing grin. “Because I was in the circus, remember? Half the carnies we traveled with were gypsies, and half of them were foreigners. The whole outfit was real tight knit, just like family. We hung out together all the time. They called me their Puyuria.” His fond smile disappeared. “Please don’t tell me that means something bad. Seriously, even if it does.”
“No.” The irony was not lost on Pietro that despite this lovely moment they might be having, he still recoiled internally at the thought of his native language revealed to an ‘outsider’. It had been a matter of perseverance growing up, that he and his sister did not speak it even amongst themselves in front of others within hearing - avoiding unwanted attention increased their chances of passing as normal, and keeping out of danger. “It means that they considered you a friend.”
“Oh. Good.” Clint nudged him with an elbow. “Are you gonna call me that now?”
“No. And do not touch me.” All traces of gaiety abandoned the archer’s expression. “That was a joke, Barton. Partially. I’m still not calling you that.”
“Whatever.” Clint had begun inching back - now out of arm’s reach, he added with a mischievous wiggle of his eyebrows, “Maybe Wanda will though.”
“Why, you-“
“Fall in, guys!” beckoned their Captain, approaching from the river nearby. Hank limped along behind him. “Let’s cover some ground before Hank’s feet thaw out.”
***
They enjoyed a small feast back at base, tapping into a surplus of supplies stored in the truck - along with, thanks to Pietro keeping himself occupied by foraging during the (ungodly slow) return, the extracurricular addition of wild mushrooms that they toasted over flat rocks, and plump berries for dessert.
Hank was able to better dress his damaged feet with a full first aid kit coupled with zero intention of putting his shoes back on. Once at rest with the group, he took turns throwing sticks and stones at his new boots, hanging by their laces over a tree branch.
“Never. Again.”
“It won’t be bad next time, now that you broke them in. But if it makes you feel better…” Clint threw a pinecone, hitting one boot square on the toe.
“My feet are the only things that got broken, far as I can tell. I don’t even want to bring them home. It seems like bad luck.” Hank tried his arm at throwing a pinecone that missed target widely. “There, see? Bad luck.”
Steve threw a stone that ricocheted off one boot to hit the other, eliciting the response of “Showoff,” in unison.
“Okay. So who knows a ghost story?” Clint clarified, “And it has to be good.”
“Not me.”
“Well, maybe not a good one.”
“I do not partake.”
“Aw, c’mon guys.” Clint roused the fire and set another log on. “Those psychedelic mushrooms should start kicking in any minute; it’s time to get crazy.”
Hank casually checked his pulse. No signs of psychedelic properties taking effect, for the third time. “Why don’t you partake, Pietro?”
He settled on what might be interpreted most accurately, “Bad luck.”
“Ha. Right. So is that a… gypsy custom?”
“Hank.” Steve shifted from some unseen discomfort, shifting again to avoid a rock in the ground. “I think that’s considered derogatory.”
“What, ‘gypsy’?”
Steve sent the archer a stern look across the fire. “Yes, Clint.”
“Huh, I don’t know, I think it depends on context. My buddies in the circus didn’t mind.” Clint nodded towards the resident non-American. “Does ‘gypsy’ bother you?”
Habitually, Pietro surveyed the other man’s face for any malicious intent - finding none, as usual. Clint Barton was brash, hotheaded, overconfident, and a horde of other things that Pietro would never attribute to himself. But his nature was not to mean harm to someone undeserving of it. He was by all evidence a decent man. Who nonetheless would never, ever be permitted to date Wanda.
“I prefer to believe you could come up with a more creative way to insult me, Barton, if that were your intent.”
Clint puffed up a little. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“And yes, Hank, I suppose you could say it is a matter of custom.” The group listened on, waiting for more. Even Steve, who never pried - one of the reasons they got along well, he did not endeavor to egg Pietro out of his comfort zone, unlike Barton who made a second career of it. But true as the archer had said, this is not the Brotherhood; there were no enemies here, should be nothing to hide among friends. “Growing up, we were taught that there is a certain power in the deceased, to be respected - and in most cases, avoided.”
“Geez, I said ghost story, not séance.” Clint stood up. “Where’s that whiskey?”
“My pack, on the side. What is a séance?”
“What you must be thinking of. Ghost stories are just supposed to be made up.”
“Ah. Then even more so. Because how would you know the difference?” Eyes narrowed, Clint handed him the bottle, cautious. Pietro took a deep swallow and made to give it back without breaking their gaze, then neither releasing the glass, held the archer in place thereby. “You would think to weave a harmless tale around the fire of camp, where beyond your sight dwell broken spirits in sad remembrance of the warm light of day. But should they whisper tales of their lost lives into your ears, and trick you into speaking the secret names given at their birth that the mother tells no one, thereby would you open a passage unknowable between this place and that, through which they could make themselves seen to you in your dreams or in the reflection of mirrors when you are alone. But you would not be alone for long, Clint. Though the madness of this haunting would surely drive you to the very ends of solitude, destitute, eventually you would find a nice fire like this one to watch, reminded of the warm light of day that rises no more, and making company there with other souls stolen from the living world, you would learn to whisper your own tale to an unsuspecting Puyuria telling ghost stories for fun.”
He let go of the bottle at once, sending Clint back-stepping twice to catch balance. He took a silent swallow, then again, and sat down unblinking.
“Now that was a good one,” said Steve after a moment. After another, they laughed together.
~epilogue~
“Did I pass the test?”
Steve set back down the cooler he had half-hoisted before the question came. Leaning forward on elbows, he regarded the other man opposite the truckbed. The final stage of their journey home had been peaceful -stories, radio, junk food, inevitable gridlock traffic- and the trip overall a resounding success. Surprisingly, Pietro had even joined them on the drive back, although he slept most of the way.
He matched the mutant’s unassuming smile that had not wavered. “Why would it be a test?”
“Everything in this world is a test.”
“Well,” Steve hoisted the cooler over the side, setting it to the ground. When he straightened to return to the conversation, both remaining tents had disappeared. Nearby Pietro’s head, a leaf caught in tumultuous wind settled uneasily down to earth. The mutant fingered one stray lock of hair back into place, still sporting that calm smile. “I wasn’t testing you. No uniform, remember? I’m off-duty.” Steve pointed back and forth, “Now you and me tomorrow in the gym, that’ll be another story.”
That lock of hair flipped back, and Pietro raked his whole head full-handed. His smile had died an immediate death. “I was being serious.”
“So was I.” At the others’ growing annoyance becoming apparent, he added, “Pietro, honestly. There wasn’t any kind of test going on. This was all just… normal.”
He signed close-mouthed, glaring daggers at the ground and strongly considering a long run in the opposite direction. “I hate that word.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Listen, it’s okay; these things take time.”
What had Barton called it - a language barrier thing? Pietro returned his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s been a lot to take on for you - it would be a lot for anyone. Between getting tangled up with Magneto, and moving to a place like this that’s so different, after how hard you had it all those years before. It’s a lot to assimilate, a lot to unlearn. You’ll feel like a fish out of water for a while, maybe for years. But that’s okay. It just takes time.”
A different smile emerged, tempered for a different reason. “Spent much time flopping madly about and struggling to breathe, have you, Captain?”
Steve laughed outright. “I guess you could say that. So believe me, it gets easier.”
“Well. That would be… nice.”
“It’ll be swell. And your friends are with you.” He retrieved the cooler, making his way around the back. “This ice is shot, Hank’s cheese sticks are getting warm. Are you coming inside? Jarvis should have dinner set soon.”
“You have been very decent.”
Steve halted at the unexpected segue.
“I- we, my sister and I, we both appreciate all that you have done for us. She probably has said so. I probably have not. But thank you.”
With the cooler propped on the tailgate, Steve slapped the other man on the back. “Welcome to America.” From the stairs, smiling over his shoulder, he paused again to say, “I meant it about the gym tomorrow, by the way.”
And so set the evening sun, bringing an end to a perfectly normal camping expedition among friends.
*fin*
Classic Avengers lineup a la early days. Some of the first members leave their uniforms behind to tackle the threat of male bonding on a camping trip. Barton gets jealous, Hank gets blisters, Pietro tells a ghost story, and Cap brings it all home.
Disclaimer:
Follows a work of fanfiction intended for entertainment purposes only, the creation and publication of which earns its author no monetary profit. All recognizable characters and referenced canonical events are property of Marvel Comics Incorporated. Or Disney, whatever.
GHOST STORIES
Camping. As though it happens every day all the world over - such as it may. And what an everyman pastime indeed; such a picturesque opportunity for male bonding and unwashed endeavors. For elaborative storytelling, excessive fist bumping, and peeing on things with wanton abandon. How normal. Quite normal, in fact, and possibly suspect. Quicksilver was on to these Americans.
"Wait. What? No way. You've never been camping before?" Barton accentuated his disbelief by speaking slower, infuriatingly. "As in not ever?"
"Not officially, no."
His brow furrowed in its practiced shape of pretended incomprehension. "Is this a language barrier thing? I don't even know what that means."
"It means he'd love to join us," said Capt- said Steve Rogers. No uniforms, no code names; that is supposed to be the general rule for these off the clock 'relationship-building' exercises. Additionally for this trip as proposed, no mobile phones, no fancy gadgets, no members of the finer sex, and hopefully no interruptive breaches of national security. Just several days' exposure to rugged nature, uncontested manliness, and this routine of getting to know one another.
"So you will join us, right?" The off-duty Captain smiled a bit too imploringly, and Quicksilver got the unspoken hint. The good Captain would doubtlessly have arranged for a less isolated, less involved, less drawn-out activity, if he had foreseen that this might not be the quintessential idea of a good time for everyone he planned to recruit.
You never learn someone so thoroughly, so rawly, until surviving alone with them in the woods for an indefinite period of time. Pietro knew this firsthand for his own part, having 'unofficially camped' throughout several years of his childhood, for better and for worse.
"Why not a baseball game instead?"
"Chuh." Barton rolled his eyes, showing the room his back to stare cross-armed out of a window. "Haven't you two seen enough ball games? All those man-dates you go on…" He added, "And don't you dare say the circus, either!"
"No need to be jealous." Simultaneously a satisfying huff of hot air from the archer, who was jealous, and a reproachful look from Capt- from Steve, who was the one man Pietro had actually become natural friends with since coming to this unnatural country. He signed. No one deserved less to be stuck alone with Barton.
"Well then. Where are we camping?"
***
"Aw man, yeah, this is perfect. It's better than perfect!"
"Is this...it?" Hank Pym emerged from the back seat, where he had spent most of the day's long drive lost to the world as he studied a signed copy of 'The Ubiquitin-proteasome Proteolytic System', first edition. He rubbed at some eyestrain, taking in their surroundings. "How do we know this is it?"
"Because look around you, for crying out loud. We hit the great outdoors bullseye, doc. Can't you smell it?" Clint turned in place for a few theatrical rotations with both arms outstretched, breathing deeply. "Ahh!"
Steve had to smile to himself. "It's nice, all right. Real nice."
At the dead end of a winding and unpaved road, they parked in a clearing just large enough to turn the vehicle around in. A canopy of tremendous trees diluted any direct sunlight to a soothing near-glow, and cocooned the sweet-smelling moistness of the forest. It felt alive all around, and utterly pure. Plan was, that night to stay put and make camp, setting out on foot the next day headed for even more remote territories. The weather should be perfect for the duration, and spirits were already running high.
Best of all, he had even managed to get each and every one of his duckies in a row for some good old fashioned team building. Almost. "Well I'll just radio Quicksilver, and th-"
"I thought you said no technology."
"-and then turn it off." Whirling, Steve had to crank his neck back to see where the speedster had positioned himself; straddled at least ten feet up on the first of many high branches of this great old Sugar Maple. "When did you get here, Pietro?"
"I said that I would follow you." His resolution to play nice for the Captain's friendly little expedition notwithstanding, sitting still in an enclosed automobile for hours on end would have been unreasonably torturous.
Barton grumbled as he stretched out and shook off his annoyance that he had failed to notice what could have been a sniper up that tree, "Bet he used a tracker."
"I would have no need. Roads are highly predictable."
"You know, for someone who's never even camped... how'd you get up there, anyway?"
"Faster than you could."
"Boys, boys." Hank had migrated with Steve to start unloading their gear. He said with a wink, "How about helping the old men set up camp?"
Daylight had begun fading as they went about pitching the tents -two double sleepers was what they had decided to bring for sleeping arrangements- and unpacking supplies for cooking and cleaning up.
Equipment in each hand, Clint roll-climbed over one of two giant logs that bordered where they had designated a fire pit, righting himself only to see newborn flames already kicking into life, and his teammate nursing the fire's swift growth. "Oh." He cocked the torch in his hand. "Guess we didn't need this. Do you have a lighter or something?"
Pietro looked up from his careful work, one brow risen quizzically. "What is that?"
"Propane. For starting the fire. What's funny?"
"Never mind. Yes, I have a lighter or something."
***
The next day passed along in a surreal dichotomy between technical eventlessness and the untiring magnificence of free nature.
They traveled uncounted miles (Hank kept a log, but only 'for the sake of science', however that would add up) and crossed nigh any type of terrain imaginable. There were slopes of scarce pines checkering scraggily rocks where they climbed sideways more than walked, broad acres of grassy rolling hills where Clint summarized The Sound of Music so his companions would get the joke, and a bubbling creek they followed through a ravine maze into darkening wood. Then lots and lots of forest growing more and more dense.
"See, Captain, we came the long way around. I told you. This is the same stream that-"
"We came the scenic way, Pietro." Steve smiled, shrugging off his pack and stretching. "And it was worth every minute."
Under the marigold light of evening sun, the group went about setting up camp once more. Clint pointedly left the fire up to Pietro this time, keeping an eye on that business from where he collected dry wood nearby.
The four men ate together and left little room for small talk, cleaning up just in time for the last light of day before settling down around the hearty campfire.
"Yeah. I do miss beer though." Clint tapped his boots together, legs outstretched from his position lounged against his pack.
"I can't get drunk," added Steve, eventually.
Hank shrugged. "I don't really drink. Never acquired a taste for it."
Someone cleared their throat. A pinecone fell to earth nearby. The fire popped.
"I brought whiskey."
The party twisted towards Pietro. Two shocked looks plus one more hopeful.
"Are you serious?"
He shrugged one-handed and with the other, retrieved from his pack a fifth of amber liquor, tossing it towards the archer. "I thought it was standard operating procedure."
"Don't tell me. You read a book about camping etiquette?" Clint broke the seal and threw back a swig. "Ugh. That's awful. I love it. Here, Cap."
"No, really. I can't get drunk. Super soldier serum." Steve tossed it to Hank without a sip, who tossed it back to Pietro as though the bottle were hot.
"Neither can I. Mighty mutant metabolism." The super soldier barked a laugh while the mutant speedster took a swallow. "But it does help you feel warm."
"Oh, are you cold?" Steve began to sit up, ready as ever to tackle the world's problems. "I have an extra-"
"No. I just meant- never mind." Pietro passed the bottle, which went round without stopping again to Barton.
"So." Deliberately thoughtful and regarding the mutant with a comfortable half-smile, Clint swung the neck between his fingers a few times before uncapping it. "You track unfamiliar roadways from the rough, unseen." Swig. "Make fire from scratch with a hand drill. Climb trees like a koala." Swig. "And graph the course of rivers from some inbuilt head-compass." Swig. He leaned forward and with one precise motion sent the bottle sliding across the dirt like shuffleboard. "But you never been camping. Officially." He nodded with a wink. "Catch up."
Quicksilver took three swallows, and said no more.
***
The dream started like slow torture. Like always.
All the right smells and sounds, just as it had been, just as he could never quite recollect under wakefulness. There were mother and father. There were the horses, the wagons, the tents. There was young Wanda, all giggles under a wild mop of dark curls, twirling circles in a sun-kissed patch of crimson clover.
Growing up, his sister had never seemed small to him, she never seemed different, in hindsight. But dreams oft lay out the truth plain to see, through the pristine magnification of hindsight. She was just an innocent little girl, the sweetest he had ever known, and he could never manage to keep her from harm.
It always ended the same. Always a great fire in the middle of their camp at night, always a myraid of familia all around - always profoundly normal, at first. And always, it ended the same.
They came. The gadje. With their torches and their hatred. Their lies and their clubs. With wretched hearts sick from the poison of fear festered to rage and not an original thought or one drop of mercy among them.
He foresaw immediately this would not be the typical gang-initiated intimidation tactics; kicking over the pot warming their evening meal, spooking the horses, breaking a few things, roughing someone up. This would be the end.
They accused father of thievery. They accused Wanda of witchery. They accused unnamed others of various carnal trespasses. It would not suffice for the travelers to simply vacate - these gadje wanted vindication. They wanted blood. The situation escalated from dire to apocalyptic, it seemed like a heartbeat. Pietro had edged up to stand astride the adults of his clan before the first blow was struck. Soon it would take the combined strength of two tradesmen from town to hold him back, while their brothers beat his father to eventual death.
Behind him, other men tore sibling from sibling, wives from daughters, including his own mother whom some wrestled into the family home. She was a rare beauty, like sister, and noblemen were apt to blame her gypsy sorcery for sneaking all manner of crude fantasies into their own heads.
Pietro was beleaguered not far away from the broken bedroom window, and in between blows, heard jeering laughter and ruckus amidst her muffled cries - then saw the growing flames, bigger and hotter by the second. The arsonists trampled their own kind in flight just as things began to blur. Somehow he wrangled himself free, must have. This is where the pounding comes in, like booming thunder. bang! In his ears, in his head, someone's bloodcurdling scream cutting through sudden electric pain. bang! The last clear memory, as though seared onto his eyeballs, this elaborate engraving upon the metal doorhandle to their home. Not possibly red-hot, but unnaturally aglow, and wreathed in hellsfire. bang! bang! bang!
The scream became his own, and Quicksilver bolted up awake and gasping, sweat or tears or both streaming down his face.
A dream. Just a dream. Already fading from memory, like dust in the wind. Like always.
Remnants of the group's campfire somewhat illuminated the inside of the tent from outside - the light scarce, but the smell of smoke distinct.
He allowed himself to feel grateful at least that the traveling party had elected to bring two duel-sleeping tents, and that the good Captain shared his. Humiliating as this was, it could only be made worse by explaining his episode to a tent full of two more witnesses - or even to Barton alone. Now damage being done, he took the time to compose himself with deep breaths, head in hands still trembling, mentally preparing a response for any such thing his companion was reasonably about to say.
At last came softly, "I'm so sorry."
Pietro opened and closed his mouth. This was not in the script of his imagining.
With calm almost unsettling, Steve asked, "Do you dream like that often?"
"I...." he raked the hair out of his face once, twice, stopping at the notice of faint scarring on his palm, like an insignia in white ink. He winced against the fist he made. His head hurt. "No. It just- it must be the fire, the smoke."
"Oh. Would it help if I put it out?" He was already beginning to rise. "I'll go put it out."
"No. No, it’s fine. I just- I need some air. Alone. Please. I'm sorry." Before he had unzipped the flap, a hand formed firmly to his shoulder. Not a harsh grip, just present strength.
"Pietro. If you need to talk, or there's anything I can do, I'm here." Adding, "And it doesn't have to be right now. I get it." He folded a jacket across Pietro's forearm, and with one solid tap, let go.
"Thank you, Capt-," he corrected himself before the other man could, "Steve."
***
"Hi, I thought you were camping," came his sister's sleep-raspy voice over the communicator.
He turned the device to its lowest volume, and knelt in a nook surrounded by dense shrubbery, as nearby to camp as he could pick up a signal. "I was. We are. I just-" he waited while she yawned, and mustered a nonchalant tone. "I'm just calling you."
"At the witching hour?" she asked, amused.
"Is it? I did not check time. You were sleeping, I'm sorry."
"No, no, it's fine. What happened?"
"Nothing." A little too fast, she would be able to tell. "I just-" just say it. But over the years it seemed to grow harder and harder. To share, to burden her with his troubles and worries. Even before they had left Magneto. They were grown up, or nearly so, and things should be separate by then. Their persons should be separate. Like never. "I had a dream, woke me up. It was nothing. Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Everything is fine.” Another yawn, he could hear she struggled against it. “What was it about?"
"Nothing." Ugh. Too fast again. "Tell you later."
"When will you be back?"
"Soon. Couple days."
"Good. Do not worry, things are fine here, I'm fine. So how is it going?"
"As to be expected, I suppose. Wanda-" just stop talking. "I know this is strange. Do you remember our door handle?"
"....what door handle?" She chuckled lightly. "Sorry, does that answer your question?"
"Yes. Never mind. Go back to sleep. I love you."
"I love you. See you soon."
"Goodnight."
***
The good Captain exercised gracious discretion, for his own part. First rising in the morning, he said simply, "Get any sleep?" It had that sympathetic tone, but it was genuine, and thereby tolerable.
"Yes, plenty.” None. But there could be no question left in his leader's mind, no doubt as to Quicksilver's suitability for this team, for the trials that they must face as Avengers, as Earth's Mightiest Heroes who do not succumb to nightmares or the need to share their feelings. "It was nothing. Truly. I'm fine."
"Okay."
Everyone emerged from their tents and went on about the morning. Breakfast. Chit-chat. Cleaning up. Re-packing for the hike ahead. All were in agreement to make the return trip to the truck, camp there for one night more, and drive home the next morning.
At some point during the busywork, it appeared that Hank positioned himself aside the Captain, a little too separated. They exchanged what seemed to be careful words in hushed tones. Pym could not suppress a timid glance over the other man's shoulder, and his eyes darted away when met with Pietro's. Did it betray the subject of their conversation?
The archer set his pack to lean against a rock, and swung his upper body side to side until the cracking noises stopped. "God, I'm too young to be too old for this." After stretching to touch his toes a few times, "Didn't sleep worth a damn. Rocks everywhere. How about you?"
"Did he send you?"
"...what? Who?"
"Do not play dumb, Barton. No matter how well it suits you."
"Hey! What's your problem?" They squared up and locked eyes, like tomcats on a fence. In other circumstances, it would take their Captain's stern intervention to break up the ensuing argument, and days for them to cool off and return to speaking terms. Clint relented old habits first. "No one sent me, it's not like that. I just, ya know, wondered if you're okay."
"So he did talk to you."
"No! Jesus, man, come on. It's the middle of nowhere, we could hear each other sneeze from a mile away, much less scream. Don't get all defensive because your friend actually gives a shit." He jabbed a thumb inwards. "That's me, by the way."
Pietro looked away, uncharacteristically abashed.
With more restraint than came naturally, Clint continued, "Look, this isn't the Brotherhood, okay - and I'm not Magneto or one of his cronies. No one's trying to get at you anymore, so just relax already."
Just as his words had begun to dissolve the other's ire, that last bit vexed him anew. Jaw clenched involuntarily, Pietro noted, "I seem to recall you were trying to 'get at me' just last night, in fact."
"Oh, give me a break. I was trying to get you to talk - that's totally different." He sighed. "Listen, I know your custom is to keep personal things on the down low, so I get it, no disrespect. I mean, it would just be cool if… I don't know. Forget it." He hoisted his pack to secure it onto his back, nodding towards their companions. "Looks like we're moving out."
Unbeknownst to the archer, he was just beginning to get interesting.
***
They made their way back on a route less intense than their journey in on the prior day.
Steve had started out in pace with Pietro at the head of the progression, saying early on in a low tone, "Hank's got blisters the size of his toes."
"Ah." Which is probably something one would disclose in private to their super soldier boss, being embarrassed. Which was probably the conversation Pietro had witnessed that morning between the two men. (It is true that Wanda has had cause in the past to remind her brother that the world actually revolves around the sun.) "Bought new boots for the trip, did he?"
"You guessed it. Poor guy. Say, so I'm going to hang back a bit today, but if you can set us on an even course as much as possible, and just keep an easy pace?"
"Roger, Rogers."
And so it went.
They braked about mid-way to snack and rest in the shade a while. Steve kept Hank company nearby, as he soaked his aching feet in the stream that they would have to part ways with before the final stretch.
"You guys watch lots of movies together?" The archer's tone was not miffed, exactly.
"Do you mean Capt- Steve and I?"
"Yeah."
"None that I recall specifically. Why?"
"You said 'Roger, Rogers'." Barton sniffed, watching his own foot idly rearrange a pebble on the ground. "It's a line from a movie, that's all."
"I see." Pietro regarded the other man. In the beginning, they both as new recruits had vied for their place to be next in line for leadership of the team. Under the more than competent leadership of Captain America, that impulse had faded for Pietro, and at least between himself and Steve, the absence of competition left room for friendship to grow. It was not, as might be suspected, a ploy for control or special favors. "Bart- Clint. Counterintuitive though it may seem to you, we do genuinely have many things in common."
Clint blinked, reeling back a little. "Uh, well yeah, I guess so. I mean, I lost my parents as a kid too."
“Uhm. I meant Steve and I."
"Oh. Right." With a stick, the archer worked at scraping some caked mud off his boots. "Which isn’t surprising, really. Besides the obvious, being from different countries and all. But you're both, like, old school. You could probably sit around talking about the importance of family values and respecting your elders, or the lost art of letter writing." His gaze flashed up as if to check in on the mood. "I wasn’t making fun, I'm just saying."
"Does Wanda talk to you?"
"Whoa, whoa, hey now." He put up both hands. "She isn't into me - believe me, I've asked. We still got a long day ahead, let's not even go there."
"No, I-" despite himself, Pietro laughed. "I know my sister most certainly is not into you. What I was getting at is, you referred earlier to my ‘custom'. I assumed perhaps Wanda... divulged. Or else how would you know."
Clint flashed a knowing grin. “Because I was in the circus, remember? Half the carnies we traveled with were gypsies, and half of them were foreigners. The whole outfit was real tight knit, just like family. We hung out together all the time. They called me their Puyuria.” His fond smile disappeared. “Please don’t tell me that means something bad. Seriously, even if it does.”
“No.” The irony was not lost on Pietro that despite this lovely moment they might be having, he still recoiled internally at the thought of his native language revealed to an ‘outsider’. It had been a matter of perseverance growing up, that he and his sister did not speak it even amongst themselves in front of others within hearing - avoiding unwanted attention increased their chances of passing as normal, and keeping out of danger. “It means that they considered you a friend.”
“Oh. Good.” Clint nudged him with an elbow. “Are you gonna call me that now?”
“No. And do not touch me.” All traces of gaiety abandoned the archer’s expression. “That was a joke, Barton. Partially. I’m still not calling you that.”
“Whatever.” Clint had begun inching back - now out of arm’s reach, he added with a mischievous wiggle of his eyebrows, “Maybe Wanda will though.”
“Why, you-“
“Fall in, guys!” beckoned their Captain, approaching from the river nearby. Hank limped along behind him. “Let’s cover some ground before Hank’s feet thaw out.”
***
They enjoyed a small feast back at base, tapping into a surplus of supplies stored in the truck - along with, thanks to Pietro keeping himself occupied by foraging during the (ungodly slow) return, the extracurricular addition of wild mushrooms that they toasted over flat rocks, and plump berries for dessert.
Hank was able to better dress his damaged feet with a full first aid kit coupled with zero intention of putting his shoes back on. Once at rest with the group, he took turns throwing sticks and stones at his new boots, hanging by their laces over a tree branch.
“Never. Again.”
“It won’t be bad next time, now that you broke them in. But if it makes you feel better…” Clint threw a pinecone, hitting one boot square on the toe.
“My feet are the only things that got broken, far as I can tell. I don’t even want to bring them home. It seems like bad luck.” Hank tried his arm at throwing a pinecone that missed target widely. “There, see? Bad luck.”
Steve threw a stone that ricocheted off one boot to hit the other, eliciting the response of “Showoff,” in unison.
“Okay. So who knows a ghost story?” Clint clarified, “And it has to be good.”
“Not me.”
“Well, maybe not a good one.”
“I do not partake.”
“Aw, c’mon guys.” Clint roused the fire and set another log on. “Those psychedelic mushrooms should start kicking in any minute; it’s time to get crazy.”
Hank casually checked his pulse. No signs of psychedelic properties taking effect, for the third time. “Why don’t you partake, Pietro?”
He settled on what might be interpreted most accurately, “Bad luck.”
“Ha. Right. So is that a… gypsy custom?”
“Hank.” Steve shifted from some unseen discomfort, shifting again to avoid a rock in the ground. “I think that’s considered derogatory.”
“What, ‘gypsy’?”
Steve sent the archer a stern look across the fire. “Yes, Clint.”
“Huh, I don’t know, I think it depends on context. My buddies in the circus didn’t mind.” Clint nodded towards the resident non-American. “Does ‘gypsy’ bother you?”
Habitually, Pietro surveyed the other man’s face for any malicious intent - finding none, as usual. Clint Barton was brash, hotheaded, overconfident, and a horde of other things that Pietro would never attribute to himself. But his nature was not to mean harm to someone undeserving of it. He was by all evidence a decent man. Who nonetheless would never, ever be permitted to date Wanda.
“I prefer to believe you could come up with a more creative way to insult me, Barton, if that were your intent.”
Clint puffed up a little. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“And yes, Hank, I suppose you could say it is a matter of custom.” The group listened on, waiting for more. Even Steve, who never pried - one of the reasons they got along well, he did not endeavor to egg Pietro out of his comfort zone, unlike Barton who made a second career of it. But true as the archer had said, this is not the Brotherhood; there were no enemies here, should be nothing to hide among friends. “Growing up, we were taught that there is a certain power in the deceased, to be respected - and in most cases, avoided.”
“Geez, I said ghost story, not séance.” Clint stood up. “Where’s that whiskey?”
“My pack, on the side. What is a séance?”
“What you must be thinking of. Ghost stories are just supposed to be made up.”
“Ah. Then even more so. Because how would you know the difference?” Eyes narrowed, Clint handed him the bottle, cautious. Pietro took a deep swallow and made to give it back without breaking their gaze, then neither releasing the glass, held the archer in place thereby. “You would think to weave a harmless tale around the fire of camp, where beyond your sight dwell broken spirits in sad remembrance of the warm light of day. But should they whisper tales of their lost lives into your ears, and trick you into speaking the secret names given at their birth that the mother tells no one, thereby would you open a passage unknowable between this place and that, through which they could make themselves seen to you in your dreams or in the reflection of mirrors when you are alone. But you would not be alone for long, Clint. Though the madness of this haunting would surely drive you to the very ends of solitude, destitute, eventually you would find a nice fire like this one to watch, reminded of the warm light of day that rises no more, and making company there with other souls stolen from the living world, you would learn to whisper your own tale to an unsuspecting Puyuria telling ghost stories for fun.”
He let go of the bottle at once, sending Clint back-stepping twice to catch balance. He took a silent swallow, then again, and sat down unblinking.
“Now that was a good one,” said Steve after a moment. After another, they laughed together.
~epilogue~
“Did I pass the test?”
Steve set back down the cooler he had half-hoisted before the question came. Leaning forward on elbows, he regarded the other man opposite the truckbed. The final stage of their journey home had been peaceful -stories, radio, junk food, inevitable gridlock traffic- and the trip overall a resounding success. Surprisingly, Pietro had even joined them on the drive back, although he slept most of the way.
He matched the mutant’s unassuming smile that had not wavered. “Why would it be a test?”
“Everything in this world is a test.”
“Well,” Steve hoisted the cooler over the side, setting it to the ground. When he straightened to return to the conversation, both remaining tents had disappeared. Nearby Pietro’s head, a leaf caught in tumultuous wind settled uneasily down to earth. The mutant fingered one stray lock of hair back into place, still sporting that calm smile. “I wasn’t testing you. No uniform, remember? I’m off-duty.” Steve pointed back and forth, “Now you and me tomorrow in the gym, that’ll be another story.”
That lock of hair flipped back, and Pietro raked his whole head full-handed. His smile had died an immediate death. “I was being serious.”
“So was I.” At the others’ growing annoyance becoming apparent, he added, “Pietro, honestly. There wasn’t any kind of test going on. This was all just… normal.”
He signed close-mouthed, glaring daggers at the ground and strongly considering a long run in the opposite direction. “I hate that word.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Listen, it’s okay; these things take time.”
What had Barton called it - a language barrier thing? Pietro returned his full attention. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s been a lot to take on for you - it would be a lot for anyone. Between getting tangled up with Magneto, and moving to a place like this that’s so different, after how hard you had it all those years before. It’s a lot to assimilate, a lot to unlearn. You’ll feel like a fish out of water for a while, maybe for years. But that’s okay. It just takes time.”
A different smile emerged, tempered for a different reason. “Spent much time flopping madly about and struggling to breathe, have you, Captain?”
Steve laughed outright. “I guess you could say that. So believe me, it gets easier.”
“Well. That would be… nice.”
“It’ll be swell. And your friends are with you.” He retrieved the cooler, making his way around the back. “This ice is shot, Hank’s cheese sticks are getting warm. Are you coming inside? Jarvis should have dinner set soon.”
“You have been very decent.”
Steve halted at the unexpected segue.
“I- we, my sister and I, we both appreciate all that you have done for us. She probably has said so. I probably have not. But thank you.”
With the cooler propped on the tailgate, Steve slapped the other man on the back. “Welcome to America.” From the stairs, smiling over his shoulder, he paused again to say, “I meant it about the gym tomorrow, by the way.”
And so set the evening sun, bringing an end to a perfectly normal camping expedition among friends.
*fin*