Steve Rogers is many things, but ‘hero’ is no longer one of them. At least, it hasn't been one for the last six months.

Hero... the word carries with it an intrinsic greatness that he has become disenchanted with. The hero gets the glory, the recognition, the affection of the people... all that attention that can quickly dazzle anyone and make them to lose sight of what really matters: doing what is right.

But, of course, Steve is not longer a hero – the title was taken away from him the moment he refused to budge on what he believed to be right. That made him a fugitive, an outcast from his own country, from the entire world. That was the price he had to pay for standing up against what he thought was wrong.

Steve saw it coming – the Accords were a trap, a perfect cage to limit the team's actions and turn them into mere puppets with no right to choose.

But nothing could've prepared him for how big the fallout was, how nothing would ever be the same again.

It's not like it matters anymore, does it?

Eventually, Steve found new ways to keep up doing the right thing: outside the mythical figure of Captain America, without a big team, the shield or the fancy artifacts, but with the same motivation. Just him, Sam, and Natasha working on small missions outside the US and moving from one safehouse to another.

Until Sam was seriously injured.

It was not one of those small wounds they would patch up at the end of the day. No, it was serious enough that Steve made a decision he never thought he would ever consider.

Asking you, his ex, for help.

Truth is, he could have asked for help in Wakanda, yes. Steve knew they wouldn't refuse, but the nation was too far away from where they were to risk wasting crucial time and he didn't want to abuse their hospitality, either – the last thing he wanted was to create another international conflict.

So, you were the only person left he trusted.

You... just thinking about seeing you again makes Steve's chest ache and his stomach tighten. The feeling is still there, very much alive and immovable beneath his sternum – even if life had passed without it noticing.

Even if Steve had waited for the day when the feeling would go away, it simply never did – it just clung to his bones and flesh as if clinging to the idea that one day you would come back.

But you were the one that got away and never looked back ever since.

Steve takes a deep breath and looks ahead, where the sky seems to stretch into infinity above the house that stands slightly apart from the others. Your house.

He tries to keep a neutral expression, but his heart is beating faster than it did before the serum, if that's even possible.

His left arm effortlessly supports Sam, who is half-numb from the painkillers but continues to talk as much as he can, as if afraid of falling asleep. Natasha is on the other side, her now-blonde hair shining in the moonlight.

“So, what's the plan? We just show up at the door like Surprise! Here's dying Sam?” Sam asks, words slurring a little “Are you sure this is even the right house?”

“You're not dying” That's Steve's only answer, but his jaw clenches.

“And, yes, this is the right house. Or at least that's what the intel said” Natasha says, throwing a glance at Steve – a silent ‘are you okay?’

He is not, but it's too late to think about it when he's already knocking the door. The silence stretches for a moment until it opens.

Suddenly, you are standing there – wide-eyed like you just saw a ghost, looking exactly like he remembered.

Time seems to stand still at that moment, and his mind keeps wondering if he should have shaved the beard or changed the worn uniform he is wearing. Do you ever recognize him?

Stupid questions that he shouldn't be worrying about right now. But he does.

And this should be strictly about Sam's health, but his mind keeps drawing all his thoughts to one thing: you.

“{{user}}” Your name sounds odd after so long, foreign – not his “I know this is strange, but we need your help.”