summary: after a mission leaves him rattled in ways he can't explain, steve rogers is pulled from active duty and placed on medical leave. struggling with burnout, insomnia, and a growing sense that something inside him is fractured, he's relocated to a quiet brooklyn apartment under avengers oversight. he expects the silence to swallow him. instead, he meets his next-door neighbor and awkward hallway run-ins turn into the terrifying realization that he's falling hard and fast.
summary: after a mission leaves him rattled in ways he can't explain, steve rogers is pulled from active duty and placed on medical leave. struggling with burnout, insomnia, and a growing sense that something inside him is fractured, he's relocated to a quiet brooklyn apartment under avengers oversight. he expects the silence to swallow him. instead, he meets his next-door neighbor and awkward hallway run-ins turn into the terrifying realization that he's falling hard and fast.
series masterlist
word count: 1556
warnings: none
“Dr. Mattson’s professional opinion is final, Rogers. There’s nothing I can do about that,” Fury leaned back into the black leather that encompassed his office chair.
On the other side of his desk, Steve paced back and forth. He was restless. But more importantly, he was angry. He felt like he might combust at any moment.
“But you can! You oversee everything! You-you can override this,” Steve spoke and shouted so quickly that he was tripping over his own words.
“Okay, let me make myself clear then. I won’t do anything about it.”
“Fury!” He paused for a moment. He wasn’t helping his case. Calm, cool, and collected. If he could be calm, cool, and collected Fury would have no choice but to realize nothing was wrong. A deep inhale, a quick exhale. He sat down.
“These evaluations are important, Rogers. These missions are enough to take a toll on anybody.”
He sighed, “The mission didn’t go as planned, sir. I saw no point in sitting in an office reliving it over and over. We should be sitting in a meeting figuring out our best plan of action so we can get back out there.”
Fury’s eyebrows furrowed. His chair shifted forward as he leaned towards Steve, folding his hands on his desk. “I don’t know what happened in that office, Rogers. I damn sure don’t care. But I won’t put my team at risk.”
In the two years that Fury had known Steve, Steve was rather timid—obedient, even. Even when the others became flippant about a chain-of-command, Steve respected authority like it was built into his bones. But Steve was nothing if not stubborn.
Everything in him wanted to scream. He wanted to urge Fury to see things his way. Yet, Fury’s expression spoke clearly: this conversation was over. A tense silence fell across the room.
“Thank you, sir,” Steve mumbled. Even clouded with frustration, he understood saying anything else would simply make everything worse.
Steve exited Fury’s office with his head hung low. Indistinct chatter echoed down the hall. He lingered for a moment, head turned in the direction of familiar voices and laughter. He considered joining them. There was no doubt he’d be joyfully welcomed into the conversation.
Turning his head away, the downfacing elevator button lit up under the weight of his finger. Two silver doors parted.
Fury’s office was on the 29th floor of the Triskelion, overlooking Washington D.C. Above an array of numbered buttons, a screen counted down from 29 to G. Steve’s chest felt tight, compressed by a wave of anxiety and hopelessness. A familiar feeling recently.
Once upon a time, he was enthralled by the grand view of the city and the sun’s reflection upon the deep body of water below him. Today, he stared forward blankly.
On the ground floor, a doorman grasped the metal handles, holding the tall glass door open for him. Steve gave him a polite nod, a silent gesture of gratitude. A fake smile was plastered across his face.
Steve knew him by name—Paul. A middle aged gentleman with tousled, black wavy hair and deep eye bags. He had two kids—two girls, one college-aged and one much younger. Steve always made a point to talk to him—to acknowledge him in a way the others never would.
There wasn’t a single word between them as Steve passed through the glass doors.
A black car with tinted windows waited outside the building for him. His apartment was only a few miles north of the building. He had once suggested simply taking a bus or a train; it was only a short commute away. After all, this was the only life Steve had left; he was constantly on standby for the next time they’d need him.
But the car was a S.H.I.E.L.D courtesy. Safety and security purposes, they said.
The car ride was eerily silent. Tense. Like Steve’s energy radiated off his body, despite how hard he’d try to stifle it.
He was thankful it was short. Fifteen-or-so minutes passed before his keys jangled against a silver keyring as he unlocked the front door to his apartment building.
The elevator to his floor was far less grand as that of the Triskelion, a small metal box with no view. His apartment, 5C, was humble. Small. He didn’t feel as if he needed anything besides a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in.
He didn’t have a large sum of belongings. Enough clothes to rotate between for two weeks before he’d have to wash them again. A small collection of records, some old and some new, piled messily in a corner. A shoebox of old pictures under his bed.
It made it easier to pack. He placed all of his things into a single suitcase, leaving a single outfit folded on top of his bedroom drawer. He had been informed that someone would come by to pick him up the following morning. He was being relocated to an apartment in Brooklyn, New York. He supposed the nostalgia was intended to make him relax.
He did a quick sweep of his apartment, ensuring he didn’t leave anything important behind. He’d pack his toothbrush in the morning right before he left.
Crawling into bed for the night, Steve was restless. His mind raced as he devised a plan to return to Washington as soon as possible. He hoped this would all be a short detour.
Last he checked before finally falling asleep for the night, it was three-something in the morning. Every night had played out the same way. Sometimes he’d get out of bed at night and read the newspaper. Sometimes he’d recreate a recipe from MasterChef for a very delayed midnight snack. Tonight he couldn’t be bothered, tossing and turning for hours.
Two blue eyes. Steve jerked forward, waking from his nightmare in a pool of sweat. His pulse raced. His alarm clock read 6:42. He never got a lot of sleep.
He sat up in bed for a moment, collecting himself before getting up to start his day, tossing his pillow and blanket into place. He’d be back in his own bed soon enough, he told himself.
His toothbrush was the last thing he put away before zipping his suitcase shut. He combed through his records, picking up the jacket of a record Natasha had gifted him. Vera Lynn’s We’ll Meet Again echoed through the apartment as he poured his morning coffee.
He was disgusted by coffee as a kid. These days, he relied on it.
The sun rose as he ran around his neighborhood. He faltered for a moment, exhausted. Then he took off, pushing himself harder as he picked up speed.
He circled the neighborhood once. Twice. Three times, before returning home to shower. He zoned out under the warm water, staring blankly as his hair got soaked. He hadn’t been to Brooklyn in years. He remembered a time when he was sure he’d never leave.
Ten minutes passed before he paid enough attention to his shower to actually wash himself. Another five-or-so minutes passed before he shut the water off, pulling back the curtain and patting his hair and face dry with a scratchy blue-ish grey towel.
He wrapped the towel around his waist, entering his room and grabbing his clothes off his dresser. A simple white tee and khakis.
At 7:55, there was a knock on his apartment door. A S.H.I.E.L.D agent he had seen once or twice before in passing.
“Good morning, Captain Rogers,” he nodded, extending his hand towards him for a handshake, “How are you doing today?”
Steve shook his hand firmly, “I’m doing well, and you?”
“Not too bad, sir.”
An overly formal conversation. It was politics. Kicking and screaming and refusing to leave would make an absolute fool out of Steve. He’d go peacefully.
“Are you all ready to go, sir?” the agent asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he smiled insincerely, lifting his suitcase off the ground.
DC to New York was an hour long flight. They could’ve driven. At the very least, they could’ve flown commercial. S.H.I.E.L.D sent a private jet. Safety and security purposes. Steve found them to be awfully extra sometimes.
The agent escorted him all the way to his new apartment. Steve never caught his name. He didn’t care to. The layout was almost identical to his Washington apartment. Small, charming. S.H.I.E.L.D always paid attention to detail. But it was stocked. Stacks of old records almost as high as the ceiling. Pantries and a fridge filled with anything you could think of. Pillows and blankets on every seat and a pile of board games and books under the coffee table.
They must anticipate boredom, Steve thought.
The agent handed him a business card. Evan Harrison, S.H.I.E.L.D. “I work on 45th street. If you need anything, you can give me a call, sir.”
“Thank you,” Steve said. Another firm handshake sent Harrison on his way.
Steve sat in his new apartment for the first time, alone. The silence made his ears ring. His chest was tight again. One uniform thought echoed through his head. These four walls were gonna swallow him whole.
summary: after a mission leaves him rattled in ways he can't explain, steve rogers is pulled from active duty and placed on medical leave. struggling with burnout, insomnia, and a growing sense that something inside him is fractured, he's relocated to a quiet brooklyn apartment under avengers oversight. he expects the silence to swallow him. instead, he meets his next-door neighbor and awkward hallway run-ins turn into the terrifying realization that he's falling hard and fast.
series masterlist
word count: 448
warnings: none
“Do you believe you’re still fit for duty, Captain Rogers?”
The question hangs in the air between them, cold and sterile like the office walls. Steve’s eyes wander everywhere but forward where he’s meant to be making eye contact with the doctor before him. Instead he eyes the expensive, meticulously placed couch cushions, the faux plants that hang throughout the office, the dimly lit lamps—he sees right through all of it.
The small steel name plate reads Dr. Lauren Mattson, Doctor of Psychology. Steve wanted to scoff. In Lauren’s perfect world, the space between these four walls was homey. If it radiated comfortability, patients couldn’t help but to let their guard down right? But he couldn’t bring himself to stop fixating on how perfectly placed everything around him was.
The sound of her pencil scratching against her notepad refocused Steve’s attention. This was routine enough for him now to know that more notes was always a bad sign. They’d never care to write about a patient who seemed perfectly happy or sane.
“I follow orders,” Steve felt like he was answering against his will.
“That’s not what I asked.”
After every mission, every agent was mandated to attend a psychological evaluation. Missions were taxing, sure, but all one-hundred years of Steve’s life was basically one extensively long mission. He was used to this. He had made a frantic attempt at convincing everyone around him that this evaluation in particular was unnecessary. No blood, no limp, no broken bones—he was clearly fine. To Steve’s dismay, skipping his evaluation meant he’d be placed on temporary suspension. After all, if there was nothing to evaluate, it would be a breeze right?
His jaw ticked. He wanted so desperately to blink and find this was suddenly over. “Of course I’m still fit for duty.”
No bleeding. No limping. No broken bones.
“Okay.” It was evident in her tone that she didn’t believe him. He was visibly agitated. “How have you been sleeping?”
“Fine,” he quipped. Exhaustion was spelled out in the bright, bold letters of his expression. Her pencil scratched against the notepad.
“Have the nightmares stopped?”
He blinked once. Twice. “Yes,” he muttered.
“You know these evaluations pass by quicker when you’re willing to be cooperative”.
Steve knew that. Any other time he had sat in this office, he was perfectly cheerful. He had always answered every question openly without any issue. Steve knew that she knew that. As much as he could see right through her, it was her job to see right through him.
“As I said,” he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “I always follow orders.”
She sighed. Displeased. “Captain Rogers, I’m recommending a medical leave effective immediately.”
