Author's Note: Hello, everyone! :) This is loosely based off of GOTG fic I read a while ago, that I can't remember the name of, but I thought the idea of kind-of-demontors was fascinating. Thank you to my friend for helping me write the first part of this, they're the only reason I finished it. XD

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Pairings: None.

Warnings: Some violence/physiological horror. No slash, no smut, no incest, no non-con. Language is all K.

Summary: "Dragr," Thor called them. "Demons" Clint had said. "Thieves" is what Steve labels them as. AKA, the one where Steve is captured by creatures that feed off of happy memories, and the team is left to pick up the pieces. Post-Avengers.

For your information, this story is cross-posted on Archive Of Our Own under the pen name of "Galaxy Threads".

Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

Do You Remember Being Happy? (Cause I Sure Don't):

Natasha is laughing.

Steve doesn't know what strikes him as odd about this, only that it does. Like the sort of gut clenching apprehension he'd have knowing he was walking into a trap or a firefight. It's not quite adrenaline, but it's approaching that point.

Her smile is wide, lips split with a sincerity that he knows she only gives to a few people. She's dressed in loose clothing that suggests that they're post-mission. He can't remember the mission, or how he got here, only that he is. He doesn't even know where he is, but with how relaxed his team is, it can't be anywhere bad. Steve's brow furrows somewhat as he comprehends this, but something at the back of his head encourages him to ignore it.

He does.

Natasha leans against Clint's shoulder, staring fondly in the direction of Thor. The Asgardian is seated on the coffee table in between the couches, his hands poised as he continues the story. He can't make out distinct words, the only thing he can focus on is how he's feeling, and there's a warm sensation in his chest. Content. Maybe not quite happy, but...safe?

It's hard to determine.

It's just so present.

Tony says something to his left, causing Clint to snort and reply with something equally sarcastic. Steve feels a laugh bubble on his tongue, but it's so confusing because reasons as for why escape him. If he can't understand what they're saying, why is he laughing? It's not funny. It just is.

Steve looks down at his lap for a moment—he's drawing. Oh. The sketch is blurry, he doesn't know what it is. He must've smeared the charcoal—and then looks up. There is no laughter. No safety. Tony is standing in front of him as Steve's ears ring and a plethora of questions threatens to spill off his tongue.

"Everything special about you came out of a bottle."

Steve's stomach clenches, dread wrapping around his throat. He can't get himself to breathe, let alone comprehend what's the implications of this are.

"A bottle."

"Bottle."

"Bot—"

"Steve," the female voice is quiet, and Steve snaps into attention jolting into reality with a sharp noise. It sounds like discomfort or maybe even a squeak of surprise, and he grinds his teeth together. His nails are digging into his palms causing a slow stream of red to leak. It looks disgusting, but he can't feel it. (Never feels it.)

He looks up. Stops staring at his hands because he must have them memorized now. Irrational panic swims through his chest and he shoves it to the side, trying to focus.

His therapist is cross legged on the swiveling desk chair in front of him. Her clipboard is resting on her leg and she's leaning against it, the cup of coffee long forgotten in her hands. Large glasses are settled on her nose, giving off the impression that she's older than she actually is. Her dainty features are thrown slightly by the bright pink hair she's sporting, but when Steve asked about it a few sessions ago, she'd said it was for a mission.

Because she works for S.H.I.E.L.D., and likely gives her detailed notes to Director Fury when their fifty minutes are complete.

Steve can't remember her name.

Why can't he remember her name?

"Steve, are you with me?" she questions. Steve swallows along his dry throat and forces a nod. The woman looks relieved and offers a reassuring smile, bright lipstick spreading. It reminds him sharply of Peggy, lips pressed together as she slams her fist into a fellow recruit's jaw. Steve remembers being afraid of her.

Most everything after that is fuzzy.

Like normal.

"The memories might return with time." The doctor—Steve can't remember his name, either—had assures, "Many people go through traumatizing experiences like this and have lapses. It's normal. Give it a few months."

"I do not believe you understand how Dragr work." Thor had murmured in response, far too quiet. He hadn't seemed like he'd wanted Steve to hear that, but it had slipped out anyway, causing Romanov to shoot him a look. Steve had only panicked.

They're never coming back.

"Steve, how are you feeling today?" his therapist questions tapping that ballpoint pen against her papers, and Steve lifts his gaze, forcing the room to snap into focus. "You've spent a majority of our session in silence."

"I have?" Steve asks before he can stop himself. "I'd…" he bites at his tongue in embarrassment. He thought he'd been talking. Maybe that was a previous session. Everything has blurred again, the memories smushing together in one large knot. He glances at the clock, showing the needle touching the five. The session has reached the halfway point.

Steve can't say with surety that he's disappointed about this.

Steve feels syllables building on his tongue, then he realizes he can't remember what he was going to say. Again. Instead all that's audible is a slight mix of a gurgle and sigh. He flicks his gaze up towards the ceiling in frustration, knuckles clenching.

"Steve," the therapist sighs. Disappointed.

What does she want him to do? Give her an audible autobiography about his life every session? The most he'd get in is a few sentences and then realize that he has no idea what order his head goes in. Was he actually born on July fourth? Is Christmas really the twenty-fifth? Nothing makes chronological sense.

"Steve, I'm not asking for an autobiography." His lips press together as he realizes he must have said that out loud without meaning to. "I just want you to tell me how you feel right now," the therapist says gently. Her hands shift the slightest on her coffee cup, but Steve knows it's not because she's about to drink it. He's spent close to three weeks coming here twice a week and he has never seen her actually take a sip. It's not like Stark, who can down a single cup in one try without flinching at the temperature.

"Angry." Steve mutters in admission.

She smiles at the word, apparently proud of his progress. Because one word is something to cheer at. His therapist shifts the clipboard in her manicured hands, "Why do you think you feel angry, Steve?"

"Why do you want to know?" Steve asks sharply, and then sighs realizing that was out of line. "I'm sorry." He rubs his forehead, trying to breathe. "I don't know."

"That's alright." The therapist promises.

No, it's not.

"When you think of the word, what's the first thing that comes into your mind. It can be anything." She adds.

"Salt water." Steve admits, and the air suddenly feels tight as he hears Peggy softly saying his name, and seeing the ocean below. "Cold salt water."

With speaking those words, Steve starts to recall—the grand total nothing else. He has no reason for salt water to be associated with anger. Maybe it was some sort of prank, or misguided childhood trauma. He doesn't know. He's not ever going to know.

Or maybe, a quiet, sly voice in the back of his mind purrs, it's because you drowned to death in salt water.

Steve starts to stand. This session is doing nothing. He can't remember enough of his problems to solve them.

"Steve, please sit down." The therapist encourages. Her glasses have shifted down her nose, which gives off the impression that she's angry. Or frustrated. Probably both. Her hands clench around that stupid coffee mug again, a stray piece of pink hair falling over her shoulder.

"This isn't working." Steve says flatly. "There's no reason for me to be here."

"We just need to give you thoughts a chance to connect, it's going to be hard and take time," she urges.

Time he doesn't have. This could take years. He can't spend days upon days coming back to this small office with the fake potted plants and the ocean noises in the background to muffle sound and pretend that he's making progress. He can't just sit around and do nothing. He'll go crazy.

Crazier.

Steve stands, but he doesn't move towards the door. The therapist stares at him for a full moment, then finally she sighs, looking to her watch. "Let's end early today. We are making progress, and we'll make more, we just need to be patient."

That's what she said last time, too.

There. He remembers that at least. An insignificant detail that will do nothing for the past, present, or future.

Steve nods at her wordlessly, picks up his jacket, and then heads for the door. Tony will be disappointed when he learns that Steve couldn't finish the session. He made it all the way to the end last time, so it's expecting a bit much for him to relapse that.

The door laps shut behind him, clicking.

But does Tony's opinion really matter to him? He's been told they were associates, friends even, but there are no associated feelings connected to the idea. Just a vague sense of frustration and the stupid phrase ringing through his ears almost constantly.

Out of a—

It follows the man like thick, ugly, shadow. It makes any trust Steve would have had for him flicker, but he's not very good at trusting anyone right now. Too much to work with, but too little all the same.

"Hey, kid! This is a restricted area." The words snap him back into the present and he blinks, looking up a grumpy doctor, pointing to a sign. "Can't you read?"

Steve turns to face him fully, and the doctor's eyes bulge comically. "Oh. Oh. Sorry, Sir. Captain. sir captain," the doctor says and Steve starts to feel angry again. Why do they have to call him that? Why does no one call him by his name? Everyone treats him too delicately otherwise, like they might shatter something fragile if they say something wrong. One of the few people that have called him "Steve" since he got out of the hospital is his therapist.

And he doesn't even know hers.

He stands there for a moment longer, and watches the man's hand twitch as if he's preparing to salute him. Steve barely represses a roll of his eyes in annoyance, that same, bustling anger heating his veins before he moves forward.

Steve shoulders past the doctor and continues into the next room.

"Aaand look who got out early," comes the multi-billionare's voice before he's even through the doorway. Tony looks up from the phone he's flicking through to shift some in the waiting room's chair. The man's eyes are heavy, as if he hasn't slept and there's the barest edge of something around his mouth that Steve can't read.

Steve stands there awkwardly for a moment, debating what to say; if he needs to say anything.

Tony turns off the device, looking at him over sunglasses. "You just taking another "bathroom break" or did Ms. Watson actually let you go this time?"

Watson.

Is that her name?

"We can go," Steve responds shortly.

Tony lifts an eyebrow, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket. "Without me signing you out again?"

"Yes." Steve's word is clipped, and Tony lifts his hands in surrender, getting up to his feet smoothly. Steve ignores the sets of eyes boring into the back of his head. Others waiting for the crazy patients like him to get out so they can all go to their asylums together.

Calm down.

He bites on his lower lip. Crazy people are problems. He hates being a problem, but that's all he's been for the better part of a month.

"'Kay, let's head out then," Tony speaks, straightens his jacket, and moves for the door without another word. Steve follows behind him, ducking his head and trying not to pretend that everyone is quietly judging him. Tony flicks out a pair of sunglasses and slips them on, glancing once to makes sure Steve is following before he continues.

The walk to the parking lot is soundless, and Steve folds his arms across his chest and tries to pretend it doesn't hurt. He doesn't know why it should or would. If it had been before this whole thing started, he would have. As it is...

"Do you want help?" Tony finally asks, as he closes the driver door after clambering into the car they took here. He shoves the sunglasses up into his tangled hair and stares at Steve carefully.

"Not much of a choice." Steve says with false cheer and slumps in the passenger seat, resisting the childish urge to lift his feet onto the dashboard. "Director Fury conditioned it. If I want a job when all of this is over, I have to."

"Do you want a job?" Tony asks, giving Steve a short glance. He turns the key and the engine starts to life.

Steve stares at him, frustrated. "I don't have a choice. I need money to live."

"I own your apartment." Tony argues, and then looks at him, flicking a finger out. "Seatbelt. Do you think this is a biker gang or something? You're going through that phase, aren't you? The teenage rebel, but it's in your twenties, so the stupid twenty-something rebellion?"

Steve grabs the seat belt and locks it in place. Just another thing he forgot.

Tony nods, shifting the gear from park. "Good."

The car pulls out of the parking lot and begins heading towards Avenger Tower. Traffic, as Steve has grown re-accustomed to, is slow. He bites back a groan, realizing this is more time he has to be stuck in the car with the engineer.

"What about eating?" Steve mutters. "I need money for that."

Tony shrugs, "I can pay for that, too."

He makes it seem so flippant. Like it's of no consequence, even though Steve knows what starving is. He remembers the cold nights where he and his Ma sat next to the fireplace and tried to ignore hunger. It clawed against his ribs. Yes, he knows that feeling well. Those memories are fine.

Just...little else.

Steve represses a scowl. "Is it wrong to want to provide for myself?"

"Hey. Do not take off my head. I'm on your side," Tony argues, though most of his focus is directed on the cars around them. A relief, because when Bruce took him back from the office at the beginning of the week, he spent most of it with his eyes on Steve and rarely even glanced towards the road.

The words register and Steve shoots him a scowl. He hates it when people tell him that. Being "on someone's side" translates better to "I'm pushing for whatever is most convenient for me, but please don't expect it to be what you need." He looks up at the man, blaring a hole through the side of his head for reasons he doesn't fully understand. "Don't do sympathy. You're not very good at it."

Tony doesn't rise to the bait. Would he have, before this?

"Y'know, Cap, I don't like therapists either." The admission is quiet and oddly raw, but Tony quickly adds, "They drink too much coffee and I get worried about their sleep schedules. I mean, do you think they sleep? With all that caffeine it must be nigh impossible. I don't sleep, so it's not a problem for me, but they're like...you know, normal, so that much consumption has to be a health violation. Do you think they've ever—"

Steve tunes out the rant, turning his attention to the streets. When that view fails to hold his interest, he glances towards the floor of the car. Next to his foot lies a half smashed piece of charcoal. It's not an ideal size, but Steve picks it up. Did he leave it here in the first place? No one else on the Avengers team draws.

They assassinate. And hit things or accidentally start something on fire. Sometimes doing one involves the other.

Tony glances in Steve's direction, "Sorry, another bug? I thought I had that problem figured out, but..." He seems to not have enough energy to get started on another tangent. Steve presses his lips together, trying to bury guilt. If he could just get cleared for driving again, then he would be able to take himself to these appointments. He wouldn't have to have a chaperone.

Part of Steve wonders why Tony, who has a driver, doesn't just let the man take him to and from.

"Do you want ice cream or something?" Tony asks, although his tone lacks the usual flare of life. It almost seems like he's trying more to get a response out of Steve than really cares for the question.

Steve sighs.

"Nope. Okay." Tony concludes, drumming his fingers. "You eaten recently?"

"Are you practicing interrogations?" Steve questions, looking up at him through half lidded eyes. He realizes how nasty the words are and then appends, softer, "I don't really feel like holding a conversation."

But that seems wrong almost. Rude. Why is it rude to not want to hold a conversation? Why does no one accept that sometimes he just wants to be a listener?

The car comes to a halt at a red light, jarringly. The multi-billionaire may be one of the safest drivers on the Avengers, but it's not much to compare against. Tony turns his full attention to Steve.

"I don't really feel like talking either, but I'm trying Steve. Can you just try to trust me?" If Steve didn't know better, he'd say that Tony's voice is desperate. Almost frantic. But that doesn't change Steve's answer: No. Can't do that, can't do a lot of things.

He bites on his tongue and pulls his gaze away from the man. He sees the brief flicker of hurt wash over the multi-billionaire's face from the corner of his eye. He doesn't want to talk about something as heavy as this. Why does no one want to talk about nothing but this? Tony's trying so hard he's inadvertently making it worse.

Mm. Pleasant thoughts.

The light turns green and Steve expects Tony's focus to return to the road, but the car remains still; Tony's weary eyes still resting on Steve. It hurts, oddly, because for all he doesn't trust them, the thought of their disappointment makes something in his stomach swirl.

"It's green." Steve says. Tony is still watching him. Thinking. Cars start honking and maneuvering around Tony's red sedan. But Tony's not one to move on other people's terms. "Stark," Steve presses.

"Going." Tony mutters. The car rolls forward. The rest of the drive is taken in complete silence.

It feels strangely fitting.

000o000

"Ow. If I'd known it was going to be this dark I'd've brought an actual flashlight." Clint announces, blowing out a heavy breath and groaning softly, "I think that's the fifth stalagmite—tight, whatever, that I've hit. I'm going to be blind before we're done with this."

Steve huffs, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Admittedly, he's right, though. They didn't expect to have to come this deep into the cavern. The further that they've gone, the worse that visibility has gotten. Natasha and Clint both have small penlights and Tony's suit offers a deep blue glow, but it's not the sun. The cavern isn't exactly acting as gentle terrain either.

They're not going to get anywhere if conditions get worse.

"It's stalactite." Bruce offers, somewhere behind him.

"You've named your rock formations?" Thor asks, doubtful.

"How certain are we that Fury's intel was right?" Steve questions pointedly, trying to keep them on track. He squints into the heavy Stygian ahead of them, trying to make sure that he's not about to lead his team into a wall. The others are spread out behind him, tensed and prepared for battle, but admittedly a little less than they were at the start of this. They've been down here for more than twenty minutes.

They'd expected the fight to start far before this.

And yet, they've still come across nothing.

This is not the place of swarms of weird supernatural creatures, as the readings Director Fury was given insisted. Or Dragr, according to Thor, who had taken one look at the readings and said the unfamiliar term without missing a beat. Not ghosts or dragons, or something odd like that. Something closer to an angry spirit. Apparently the readings were a match for both Thor's previous experience and technological scans he'd seen on Asgard before.

"Pretty sure." Tony answers. He shifts some behind Steve, which causes the light to bounce off of the cave wall and reflect on the deep puddles of the floor. "Also. Barton, 'I'd've'? Really? Are you from the South? Have a grandmother who makes you pies and sends you on adventures with Dorthy, too?"

"Ha." Clint says tonelessly. "You wish. Nat would have been a much more compelling Wicked Witch of the West."

There's the sound of flesh smacking against flesh and Clint makes a noise of pain. Presumably, Natasha just hit him. "Ow." Clint voices, but it doesn't sound serious enough for Steve to actually take pity on. "Rude. You know it's the truth."

"I have a knife." Natasha says flatly.

"Alright. Point taken. Although I'm certain that you'd look flawless with green skin anyway."

"Hawkeye." Steve says, trying to pull up exasperation he hardly feels. He wants to laugh, but this isn't the time or place. They're supposed to be focused, and they were, but the long minutes have drained their professionalism into this.

"Can we please just get this done?" Bruce asks softly. His unease is obvious, and Steve chances a glance behind him to check on the doctor. Bruce doesn't like the dark much, not in the way that Tony actively avoids cave systems, but it is something that has kept him quiet and sullen for a majority of this expedition.

Thor, beside the gamma-expert is tense. His eyes are flitting over the cave's walls like he expects the creatures to come crawling out of the tiny cracks in the ceiling howling for their murder. Bruce is staring at the floor, obviously trusting that either Thor on his right or Tony on his left will stop him from running smack face-first into a wall or the various features of the cave.

It's really more of a tunnel.

"How close do you think we are, Thor?" Natasha questions, grabbing Clint's arm and yanking him out of the way of another stalactite. "We're getting deep. Don't you think we would have run into one by now if they were here?"

"It's hard to say." Thor answers, "They are not predictable creatures, and we don't have the proper substances to draw them out."

"What, like salt? Did we need to bring salt?" Clint questions, if a little dryly.

"Shoot, I knew I forgot something." Tony says, making a derisive snort. Thor open his mouth to correct the archer, and then the world topples from underneath Steve. The brief glance behind to check on his team and it's over. Steve hadn't been paying attention to ahead of him, assuming, arrogantly, that it was solid earth like everything else. He hadn't had a reason to believe there was an incline, or a drop off.

Someone calls his name, but his balance is already tipping and no one is close enough to do anything to stop it. He sees them all make a lunge for his arms, but his wild eyes lock with Natasha's then he's offset completely and tumbles.

And then he's falling, and nothing catches him before he hits the bottom.

His head smashes against the hard stone and he feels skin split, blood pool over his nose, and then there's nothing but darkness.

000o000

"Are you hungry?" Bruce's voice gently breaks through Steve's thoughts, and he glances up at the man for a moment. He's taken his eyes off of the book he was attempting to immerse himself into and hates the way reality clicks when he has to focus on something other than the characters and their problems.

It takes some effort to focus on the doctor. He breathes out slowly and gives a slight shake of his head in answer to the question. Bruce looks doubtful. "You didn't eat anything this morning."

"Wasn't hungry." Steve shrugs, turning a page in the book like this isn't anything noteworthy.

Bruce is making a weird face. His lips are pinched together as he looks at Steve as though he's never seen him before. "Why don't you let me make you something anyway? I'm not much of a cook, but I think that it would be good if you got something in your system."

Steve's stomach churns at the idea. He smiles anyway, though he knows that Bruce can tell it's forced. "Sure."

"Will you actually eat it?" Bruce doesn't move.

Steve's smile falters. "Probably not." He admits. "I don't have an appetite."

Bruce humphs. He rocks on his feet before taking a seat on the coffee table in front of the couch Steve is curled on. He's stuffed himself into the smallest space available, legs tucked up next to his stomach and the book propped up on his knees. The open space of the communal room has helped ease some of his anxiety.

And as weird as it is, having the people flit in and out through various parts of the day has been a relief. The caves were so dark and the only thing he heard was himself for the longest time. The screaming. And the Dragr's ragged breathing before they would laugh and smile, as if their very souls had just seen light for the first time.

He shakes his head to clear the thoughts before he can drive himself into a panic again.

"I don't blame you, my cooking tends to do that," Bruce responds, a half smile on his face.

Steve bites back a huff of laughter, running a finger along the edge of the page. "Can anyone on this team cook?" He can't. He tries, but he can't. Maybe he could before, but right now, his ability to stress bake is very low. Unless he's opting to give out food poisoning.

"You can. If you want to whip up a batch of pancakes, no one would blame you." Bruce's half smile grows a little more sincere, his hands beginning to relax. Steve doesn't often engage in the banter with them. He doesn't really know how most of the time. These are strangers. Strangers he has memories of, but strangers all the same.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "It's…" he glances towards the window. "What? Five? Aren't pancakes a breakfast food?"

"What makes five PM so different from five AM? They both have a five in them," Bruce retorts in response, with an expression that signifies that he's pretending to mull over the question. After a moment, Bruce shrugs, "And besides, you make good pancakes regardless of what the clock says."

Steve closes to book, staring at his teammate for a hard moment. "Did you just coerce me into making dinner for you?"

"Shamelessly," Bruce grins.

A part of him wants to scoff and throw up his hands, but he just sits there for a moment. Thinking. He bites on his lower lip and then gives a slight shake of his head. "That's...maybe not tonight."

He doesn't want to admit he doesn't know how. Every time he says something about the black spots in his memories, they'll get this...look on their faces. A shadow, long and worn. Most of the time he doesn't say anything now, not wanting to sadden them.

"That's okay," Bruce shrugs, his eyes falling to the floor for a moment, obviously detecting the ploy before returning to Steve. Curses. Sometimes Steve forgets how fast Bruce's brain is. "But remember the offer's always open." His lip quirks up, clearly amused.

Steve lets out a little huff, before returning his attention back to the book in his hands. But he only stares at the words, unable to give them meaning after the interruption. His hands, when he releases his death grip around the edges of the novel, are trembling. He fixes his stare down, refusing to look towards the gamma-scientist.

Pancakes. Why did Bruce have to bring up the pancakes? Why does this have to bother him so much? It was just an innocent question, well relatively innocent, even if the intentions may have been somewhat self-serving.

Maybe it's just because it's so normal, from a life shared by all the Avengers but Steve, even though he had been there. It belongs to someone else now. Someone who died when he fell in that tunnel. Maybe it's because he doesn't like expecting to act like the Steve he doesn't remember. He fell. Someone else crawled their way back up.

"But all jokes aside, I can probably make you a sandwich without sending you to the ER," Bruce offers, then drums his fingers against his knees. Fidgeting. "And you should eat something."

"Really, I'm fine." Steve answers shortly, glancing up for half a second, before returning to staring at the paper.

"Steve," Bruce sighs, exasperated. There it is. It's amazing how good he is at reaching the end of their combined patience. He's getting faster. Bruce removes his glasses to rub them against the edge of his shirt, clearly trying to decide whether or not to say something. He doesn't.

Bruce stands up, offering Steve a short, forced smile, then makes his way to the kitchen. "I'm making something anyway."

"Great." Steve mutters. A snide part of him wants to say thank you for listening, but he bites it back, boring his annoyance into the cover of the book. A Tale of Two Cities. He has the entire thing marked up with a blotchy pen from start to finish. He's read it at least twice, but has little memories of doing so.

"Does red raspberry or coconut pineapple sound better?" Bruce shouts from the kitchen.

Steve feels his eyebrows raise somewhat.

"I'm thinking coconut pineapple might be kinda fun," Bruce adds. After a moment of silence he then adds, "Just kidding, Thor's been here, why can't that guy learn to use two knives? There is peanut butter in the coconut oil." That last bit is muttered.

That seems about right. He doesn't know how he knows that, though. He does have vague memories of an annoyed fondness at finding peanut butter in some sort of jam. Thor's doing, because he doesn't see the point of using two knives when one works just as fine. He knows that. How does he know that? He knows all those little details, though, almost innately. How can he know these strangers so deeply?

Steve sighs, pressing his face up against the book.

"Smoothie. Did I mention a smoothie?" Bruce calls in through the kitchen. "I don't think I did. Sorry. I'm making a smoothie. Just, not with the coconut peanut butter oil." Bruce keeps prattling as he works, which is something Steve knows isn't normal. Bruce is usually quiet. But the noise calms him. He leaves A Tale of Two Cities on the couch and moves into the kitchen after a few minutes.

He watches silently as Bruce wrestles with the blender and taste tries the drink several times, obviously trying to work past his gag reflex at least twice. When Bruce is finally satisfied—of which involved dumping what Steve suspects was about half a container of lemon juice into the smoothie—he takes out two glasses and sets them on the counter.

They're Christmas themed. Steve's eyes widen when he recognizes them. Natasha bought them to be passive aggressive in the middle of August for reasons he can't remember. There's a crack on the edge of one of them when Clint dropped it and cut open his hand on the alarmingly small piece of glass.

"—eve!"

He blinks, snapping back into the present. Bruce looks at him from the other side of the counter, brown eyes narrowed. "Steve? Hey, are you with me?"

Steve's face heats with embarrassment. He gives a stiff nod. Bruce still looks skeptical, but offers another one of his pained smiles before shoving one of the glasses towards Steve. Steve's hand wraps around it by habit. It's cold.

Bruce lifts his own glass up, as if drinking to something. "Cheers." He says.

Cheers.

Steve lifts up the glass on autopilot, but has no where near the amount of enthusiasm he needs for this. Cheers. He can't remember cheers. Happy thoughts. Happy memories. The Dragr took them, and Steve wishes…

He wishes so desperately that he remembered what it felt like to be happy.

Their glasses clink.

The drink is tart.

000o000

The soft clicking noise wakes him. It's almost like windchimes, but more mellow, and far less cheerful. His head is aching, and every breath reveals that he has at least a few broken ribs that are digging against his lungs. Scraping. He's trying to breathe through ice-laced water.

"It wakes," a voice hisses.

Something brushes against his face, more like a breeze than solid, but a shudder washes down his spine. It's ethereal. He flinches anyway. There's something not quite right with it.

Steve's lips part, he aches. A soft moan escapes him, and one of those windchime voices hisses with delight. He tries to remember, to think. He doesn't know how he got here. Or where he is. The last thing he can remember is falling, then hitting the ground. He was in a tunnel. With his team. They were...what? What were they doing?

"I hunger," a different voice whispers, those ghostly hands touch at him again, "let me feast."

"No, brother. Not yet. Do not indulge yourself. It is so rare that we find meat for ourselves, we all must feast,"

Meat. Meat. Are these things—whatever they are, but decidedly not human—going to eat him? Steve tries to struggle, to move, but his limbs are too heavy and his mind too far away. There's cuffs around his wrists, pinning him upright against a wall. His shoulders ache, but he can do little else but breathe.

The wind chime noise rings again. He thinks it's the creatures moving, but he isn't sure.

Steve begins to panic. He doesn't know where he is, or what to do, his teammates don't know where he is, and if he doesn't do something quickly, they're going to eat him. They were...hunting. Dragr, according to Thor. Creatures like ghosts, but not ghosts.

"Mmm," a low voice hisses. "I have not tasted in so long…"

Steve manages to lift his heavy head. His eyes are only half parted, leaving everything distorted and in shadow. Not that it would have done much if he could see clearly. The only light comes from a single, flickering candle on top of what he thinks is some sort of rock. Ghostly figures, long limbed and strangely sharp, are illuminated by the glow. There's five of them. They aren't quite solid, almost more like smoke, and deep red eyes are staring at him.

He opens his mouth, but all that escapes is a croak.

He can't see any of his teammates, which is a relief, but his shield and the few knives he kept on his person are absent.

One of the wispy shadows strides closer, the mellow wind chime ringing. The long fingers reach for his temples, and he tries to flinch away, but his limbs feel beyond his control. Like he's been drugged to the point of a hazy echo instead of lucidity.

"So hungry…" the creature whispers. The fingers brush against his scalp, cold and wrong.

Steve's dry lips part, "W—wait—" he tries to protest. He doesn't understand. If he could somehow...if he could think straight, maybe he could bargain his way out of this. Maybe find a way that will leave him happily un-eaten.

"No more waiting," the creature bares long, translucent teeth, "too hungry to wait."

Don't—! His mind screeches, but it's meaningless. The creature leaps forward and sinks the long teeth into Steve's arm. It takes a moment for the pain to register, but less for his mind to almost...bend, twisting and jolting, memories being dragged forward and scattered. He hears himself laughing, hears others laughing. Bucky, Peggy, the Avengers.

But those are only memories.

When he can pick out his voice in the present moment, there is none of the joyful sound. Only screaming.

000o000

The next therapy session doesn't go much better than the last, but Ms. Watson remains hopeful and annoyingly optimistic. Steve is quiet the entire drive home via Clint and tries to forget about the entire thing by diving into the Harry Potter series for the rest of the day. It helps for a little bit, but the ignored stress and anxiety only rears its head more prominently when he lays down to sleep that night.

Steve's sleep schedule since they found him has been...odd. Some days he'll sleep without a problem, no dreams, no nightmares. Others, he'll remain awake the entire night or be plagued with memories and night terrors. There isn't really an inbetween, and that night proves to be a sleepless one.

After three, Steve gives up and leaves his room to silently walk the halls of the Tower like a ghost. Pacing helps, sometimes. Running is better, but though he's enhanced, he's not exactly stupid enough to go jogging through New York City in the middle of the night and expect nothing to happen. There's the gym, but it's not the same as fresh air.

"Everything alright, Captain Rogers?" JARVIS is oddly quiet. Steve's gaze flicks to the speaker first, then the camera, and runs a hand through his hair. A part of him wants to admit no, just because then he'd be able to say so, but he doesn't really want JARVIS to wake someone up because Steve can't sleep again.

"Swell," he intones.

"Forgive me if I'm skeptical," JARVIS intones.

Steve paces from one wall to the other, then back again. "Just sleepless. Nothing new."

"I see," JARVIS still seems doubtful, but thankfully doesn't push. He's quiet for a moment before appending, "Mr. Odinson is also awake, if you wish to join him. He's on the roof."

Which doesn't surprise Steve. It should, probably, because it doesn't. He's reminded once again that his subconscious knows these people, and he knows that Thor gravitates to higher places without thinking about it. Details he never asked about. He hates that he has few memories of becoming this close with these people.

Steve paces back and forth for a few more minutes before giving in to JARVIS's silent request, and clambers into the elevator, asking the AI to take him to the roof. JARVIS complies, and Steve steps out into the brisk morning air.

It's still dark out, as dark as it can be in New York City, but he spots Thor without too much effort. He's seated on the edge of the building, legs dangling over the edge. Steve momentarily wonders what it would be like to not be afraid of falling. Thor has Mjolnir, should someone come up and give him a good push, it would only be an annoyance, not a death sentence.

Not that Steve's entirely sure a fall from Avengers Tower could kill Thor anyway, but that's not the point.

Steve breathes out stiffly, thankful he had the foresight to grab a light jacket, and walks across the roof towards the Asgardian. The blond turns somewhat to glance back at him when the crunch of gravel catches his attention, and gives a nod of acknowledgement.

"Captain."

"Thor."

Steve stands behind him for a moment, hesitating. Then he takes a seat beside the man, cross legged and tugs the jacket around himself further, if only for something to do with his hands. Thor returns his gaze to the city, expression closing off.

Steve follows his gaze. Cars are still moving, people bustling to and fro. The city that never sleeps indeed. It's a little quieter, but it's not still nor silent.

"Sorry, I don't mean to impose, JARVIS just mentioned you were up here." Steve says after a moment, glancing at the Asgardian.

Thor shrugs somewhat. "I knew you were coming. JARVIS explained. You're not imposing on anything."

Steve nods, pressing his lips together. "What are you doing?"

Thor's lips ghost a smile. He gestures vaguely towards the streets. "The noise helps. You are not the only one who avoids their dreams this night," he says the last part a little quieter, but Steve doesn't judge him for it. He only blows out a small breath. He doesn't think anyone on this team sleeps soundly. Too many skeletons in the closet.

Steve sighs, listening. New York still moves on. It seems completely ignorant of everything that happened. Everything that changed. But Thor's right, the noise does help. It's a relief from his own thoughts, and a background hum to the anxiety thrumming beneath his skin.

When the first etches of the sunrise begin to peak over the horizon, Steve looks up at his teammate. "Thor?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"With the…" he pauses, uncertain how to voice this question, "the Dragr. They drink happy memories, right? Do we...can I ever get those back?" He's asked round-about versions of this question. Nothing direct, and something that Thor could avoid a concise answer to. But he's tired of waiting, and he needs to know even as much as he fears the answer.

Thor's expression grows sorrowful for a long moment. Then it twists and he rests a hand on Steve's shoulder. His body doesn't flinch away, used to the gesture, but Steve's mind is not. He frowns. "It's...always different for everyone," Thor says, carefully, "but I know of no case where the memories returned in their entirety. I'm sorry, Captain."

The crushing disappointment he thinks he should feel at those words doesn't come.

After all, he'd suspected as much when the days dragged into weeks.

(But that doesn't mean he wanted it.)

000o000

He begins to forget things when they leave him lucid enough to wake. At first it is the simple things, like last time he ate or what his favorite food is, but then it gets larger. Names begin to vanish. Sentences. Bits of conversation and things that he used to hold close.

It leaks from him like water dripping from a pipe.

His teammates become strangers, people with no names but bitter memories. He loses Bucky to shadowed arguments and frustration. Peggy to a vicious cold shoulder. He begins to lose himself. It takes him a while as he hangs from the chains, nauseous and hopeless, to realize what the creatures are taking.

Happiness.

His memories of happiness. His memories leave them happy, and for that they keep coming back. It doesn't seem to matter to them that the more they return, the less they leave of Steve. They only feast and feast and feast.

He remembers, bitterly, thinking they were going to eat him. He wishes they would. He longs for that.

He's losing himself. Eventually, names become meaningless, and the memories sharp and bitter. Steve scrapes his head against the rough rock, and begs for a death that doesn't come. Nothing comes, save the Dragr and their teeth, searching for anything they haven't already stolen.

000o000

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

"Steve," Ms. Watson's voice is gentle. Her pink hair is loose around her face today, showing how it's sheared short on one side and long on the other, leaving an air of lacking professionalism that strikes him as strange. This is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and she looks like the lead singer of a rock band. "Let's talk about this. You said that you don't think you're ever going to retain the memories you lost, why is that?"

He already told her. Isn't that enough?

He parts his lips with some effort, listening to the clock slowly tick away in the background. "You heard me. Thor knows these creatures."

"But he never said where you would land on the spectrum," Ms. Watson points out. She leans back somewhat, resting her cup of coffee on her knee. "And even if that wasn't the case, would you be okay with never getting them back?"

Steve hasn't ever really considered the possibility they'd be gone. He's longed for them for weeks, dreamt over the holes and tried to parse what he remembers into a coherent timeline. But for them to never come back...for him to never remember how his team became his family, to never remember what Peggy's lips tasted like, or most of his memories with Bucky…

That's...hard.

And he doesn't want that. He wants to remember. He wants to know how to be happy. "No," Steve admits, "I want to remember. I want to know."

"I can see why," Ms. Watson assures, "it must be very hard to live without them. Memories like those define who we are. To lose them would be very jolting."

"There has to be a loophole," Steve mutters, pressing his hands against his forehead, trying to think. "I can't live like this forever. I have to remember. I have to remember."

000o000

"Help me," Steve whispers into the dark. The Dragr are not asleep, but their version of it, prone and twitching along the ground, long limbs curled in. Their twisted mouths are all curved up into smiles. Because of Steve's memories.

"Help," he pleads, his voice hoarse.

The darkness doesn't answer, nor does it send a rescue party. Instead, it only swathes him in shadows and snuffs out any light. It laughs at his expense, and Steve remains too weak to move, let alone break free.

Oh God, please, he prays wordlessly, please, I can't do this anymore. Please.

"Help," he croaks.

Nothing comes.

000o000

Steve nearly trips over something, and Natasha curses in Russian, yanking him sharply to the left. He sways somewhat, struggling to keep pace with her pushing, but unable to break free. Her hands are planted firmly over his eyes, but cracked enough that he can still see the daylight streaming through them. He suspects it's intentional.

He feels rather childish, letting himself be led like this, but he doesn't really care.

Natasha steers him through the crowd until she stops abruptly and waits another moment. "Ready?" she asks.

"You didn't really give me a choice." He says flatly. "You practically kidnapped me."

"Well, the details are hardly relevant anymore, don't you think?" Natasha asks. No. He disagrees. The details are important. He sighs in exasperation, and Natasha finally relents, pulling her fingers away from his face. He blinks several times to adjust to the new lighting, then looks up at what she dragged him out here for.

It's an old building, obviously no longer in use. The windows are broken and there's a hole gaping out of one side. The structure seems slightly crumpled, if beyond repair, and there's tape and signs marking it with warning and safety hazard. Another sign, off to his left, is showcasing the new apartments to be built here the following spring.

Oddly, the building is familiar to him.

His breath hitches.

"Ta-da," Natasha says a little flatly and then gestures towards the apartments. "Welcome home, Captain Rogers."

"I lived here." He thinks it was meant to be a question, but he says it as a statement. Natasha's eyes grow tight, and she nods. He looks at her properly. Her short hair is loose around her face today, and she's wearing one of Tony's hoodies over a black tank top with jeans. She looks every inch a random twenty-something wandering around Brooklyn. But she's studying him with an earnesty that shows her uncertainty.

"How did you…?"

Natasha shrugs, pushing him underneath the tape and towards the back rapidly. Then towards a rusty fire escape. "I work for an intelligence organization. Digging up the address for one Steven G. Rogers wasn't nearly as difficult as it should have been." She clambers up the first flight without hesitating, even as it creaks beneath her weight, then she looks down at him, skeptical eyebrow raised. "Are you coming? Turns out, there was a fire on the first floor about a year after you left for the army. Building owner was either lazy or didn't have the money to repair, so everyone was pushed out to the streets and it became abandoned. No repairs means no maintenance—"

"This seems unsafe."

Natasha huffs, but continues, "No maintenance means it's pretty much in the state you left it. Apartment was still listed under your name when you left, though I don't know how you managed that given you were…well, you."

He lifts his eyebrows, following the Widow up another flight. "Thanks." Then, what he thinks is a very faint memory tugs on his subconscious and he smiles faintly. "Bucky. We shared an apartment after Ma died; his family was well off at the end of the thirties and had pretty much adopted me by that point. They paid. Must've been keeping it in case we came back."

They didn't.

The smile fades somewhat, remembering Bucky's fall, then his dive to the Pacific.

Natasha stops at a door, and Steve inhales slowly. It's familiar to him, laced with grief and pain, frustrations and sadness. He moves towards it, but stops, looking back at a dusty, chipped brick still laying on the ground. It doesn't look like it's moved since Steve left to enlist illegally again.

He moves towards it and shoves the brick off, spotting the little glimmer of the key. Hesitantly, he picks it up and moves across the creaking floorboards towards the door. Natasha follows him wordlessly as he twists the key in the ancient lock and shoves the wooden door open. Puffs of dust waft out and he coughs somewhat, but moves further into the room.

A light flicks on behind him. Natasha's. A flashlight.

His breath catches as his eyes rove over the familiar space. It looks almost exactly the same. A few things are missing, whether by thieves or something else, but his gut hurts from how well he knows this place. He spent most of his teenage years here. His ma died on that couch, holding his hand and comforting him as he cried.

This is...his.

He blinks rapidly, realizing that he's about to cry, and he doesn't even know why. Natasha grips his shoulder for a moment, before letting him go to wander. He does. Drifting in and out of the creaking wood and gripping walls when he feels like the floor is about to give out, but living through memories.

It's when he gets to the kitchen that it strikes him.

Laughter. From a memory.

His ma was sick again that day, so Bucky had come over after school to help where he could. Steve had been in the process of making dinner when Bucky had sat down, looking forlorn and strangely upset. Steve had quirked a brow, being careful not to slice his hands open as he valiantly cubed a carrot. "What's up with you?"

Bucky had avoided the question for several minutes, but Steve kept prodding him until he relented, "My draft came today," and that was when Steve nearly chopped off his own finger. The War had always seemed like this rather abstract thing, affecting everyone and no one all at once. But a draft. For Bucky.

Bucky leaned over the counter and plucked the knife from Steve's grip. "Why are you using this? I couldn't trust you not to stab yourself with a blunt stick."

Steve had soured, shooting him a rotten look. "Who's making you dinner, you jerk?"

Bucky smirked, "Not you. You're making me food poisoning. You know you can't cook, Steve, so please stop. I'm already having a bad day."

And Steve had laughed, bubbling up and out freely because despite how heavy the mood had fallen to, it was the truth, and it was funny. And Steve was upset, but he was still content. He was okay. That was enough for him to feel that small glimpse of happiness.

Steve blinks back tears, snapping to the present as Natasha wraps an arm around his waist and leans her head against his shoulder. It's a purely platonic gesture, meant only in comfort. Steve wraps his arm around her shoulders, and holds her close. Wet, treacherous tears slip down his face.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Of course," Natasha's voice is hushed. "What do you remember?"

And Steve tells her. He explains about the cooking and couch, about his ma putting him back together after another fight and little bits of details that weave themselves into bigger memories until Steve realizes that he's putting his head back together. He's chronologizing everything, and he's remembering things he forgot. Happy bits.

He stops midsetence when he comes to this conclusion, and Natasha looks up at him, brief concern and something almost close to panic touching at her features. "Steve? Steve, are you with me? Hey—"

"Nat," he breathes.

She stills. "What did you just call me?"

"Nat," he repeats, turning to face her and grips her shoulders. She's looking at him like he's a ghost. "I remember. Here. I'm remembering what I forgot, I know what I lost."

Her face opens and her lips part, and Steve can only draw her into a desperate hug of relief and try not to cry. Instead, he laughs.

(It takes him the better part of the day before he realizes what Natasha reacted so strongly to the nick-name. He hasn't called her anything but "Romanov" since they found him. He didn't even remember that he knew the nickname.)

000o000

Steve comes to when a hand gently touches his face. He flinches. It's more solid than the ethereal traces of the Dragr, and it almost stings. The fingers are cupping his cheek, a thumb smoothing dirt, maybe dried tears, away from under his eye.

He isn't breathing. He doesn't want to hope.

"Shh," a female voice soothes. He realizes that he's crying, and he opens his eyes hesitantly to see light all around him. There's figures standing. Human. They seem familiar, but not in a good way. A woman is kneeling in front of him, red hair fiery and the ghost of a name wants to form on his lips.

"It's alright, Steve, we've got you," the woman promises. Metal snaps and his wrist falls, only to be caught by a different hand. He twitches, not realizing there was another person beside him. Well. Machine. A red and gold suit. Armor. The armored thing—man, a quiet part of him insists, Iron Man—lowers the hand, murmurings something he doesn't quite catch. Then he moves to the other shackle, and Steve slumps forward, unable to hold his weight.

The woman catches him, and slowly lowers him to his back.

"I don't…" he stutters.

"You don't need to," the woman promises, even though she obviously has no idea what he's talking about. She pulls gauze from somewhere on her person and begins to wrap his left wrist. "Just keep breathing, you're safe."

The metal armor opens and a man steps out, looking worn and exhausted. Other figures inch forward. It's too much, and too soon. The light burns his eyes and his head hurts too much to think. He coughs slightly and shoves the woman's hand away, propping up somewhat.

"Cap, relax. It's just us," the man-from-the-machine says, as if that's supposed to be a reassurance.

Steve blinks once, and then looks at them. They're all familiar, but names evade him. His body insists safe, even if his mind doesn't know why. He's seen them before, but not as his allies. "I'm...I don't know you." He swallows, "Any of you."

000o000

"So you remembered," Ms. Watson seems somewhat startled by the revelation, like she'd sooner expected him to start up a bungee jumping career than have the memories returned. It stings a little, weirdly, but he nods anyway.

"Nat"—now that he knows the name, he can't stop using it. It feels a little like he's showing off, and the small smile that graces Natasha's features every time he uses it is more than enough of a reward—"took me back home. My old home. In 1940. We talked for a while, and I realized that I had started to put things into chronological order. Things are slipping back now, sort of. I know most of everything from before the ice, but after…"

Ms. Watson nods, taking a sip of her drink. "I suppose that makes sense. If you're remembering in a chronological order, you should have your childhood then teenage years first. The twenties comes after, so maybe given time..."

She lets that hang.

"What if I don't, though?" Steve questions quietly. "What if I don't remember? I don't remember my team, ever? It's been four weeks, Ms. Watson, and I'm still a mess. I'm surprised they haven't given up on me yet."

Ms. Watson hides a smile behind another swig of her coffee. "Steve, even with how little you know the Avengers right now, you already know that they would never do that."

000o000

They introduce themselves with obvious hesitancy, and take him back to some doctors. They run tests as Steve tries not to panic and everyone whirls around him, too bright and too loud.

The Avengers linger at his side like a rather clingy, annoying child, but he can't speak much, so he doesn't comment on it. The organization they dumped him on says they're S.H.I.E.L.D. and the doctors speak in hushed voices as they try to figure out why they don't remember him.

"Demons," Hawkeye suggests.

"Thieves," Steve mutters.

"Dragr," Thor says solemnly, a pained, lost look on his fact. Apparently, the Avengers killed each and every Dragr in the cave before they found him, but it didn't restore his memories automatically. All it did was free him and leave him this scattered mess.

He's grateful in theory, he supposes, but a louder part of him wishes they had just left him there to rot.

The doctors return looking grim and unhappy. "The memories might return with time." The doctor explains, frowning, "Many people go through traumatizing experiences like this and have lapses. It's normal. Give it a few months."

"I do not believe you understand how Dragr work." Thor murmurs quietly. Steve doesn't think that he meant for him to hear that. He does anyway.

000o000

Despite the fact that Steve is a mess, they are still the Avengers. They still work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and have to stop some idiot from blowing up downtown Manhattan every other weekend. Well, they is a relative term. The Avengers do, but Steve hasn't been cleared for active duty yet so mostly sits around and pretends to be useful when he and everyone else are painfully aware that he's not.

Thus far, it hasn't been too much of a problem. The Avengers have returned looking a little worse for wear, but a good meal and a change of clothes is usually all it takes.

Not this time.

This time, Clint very nearly comes home in a body bag, and though JARVIS explained what happened before they got here, Steve still paces like a madman outside of the hospital room as the doctors work to pump out the poison from the dart Clint took in the neck.

"Of all the stupid, idiotic—" Steve mutters under his breath for the hundredth time, passing by Natasha again, then turns to pass Tony and Thor. Bruce is helping where he can inside the room, leaving the rest of them out here to worry.

He turns. "Moronic, crass—"

He reaches the other wall. "Bumbling—"

"Are you just going to exhaust your vocabulary regarding the word stupid?" Tony finally looks up from his phone from where he's probably been texting Ms. Potts.

Steve's hands fidget. He keeps moving. "Maybe. We'll see."

"Great," Tony mutters. Steve scowls at him, and the engineer lifts up his hands in surrender. Steve continues to pace, back and forth across the carpet, feeling vaguely ill. Clint might die. Clint might actually die.

The time drones on.

About two hours from the initial rush into medical, Bruce exits the surgery and lifts up his hands for silence before any of them can say a word. "He's fine," is the first thing Bruce says. "A little tired and nauseous, but we got the poison out. He's awake if you want to see him, we moved him to his room."

Steve doesn't hesitate. He moves past the doctor towards the elevator that is swiftly filled with his awaiting teammates. They're wordless as Steve jams a finger against the number for Clint's floor and waits the long seconds.

Steve all but bursts through the doors, storming down the small hall until he sees Clint laying on a couch with a light blanket near his face and a rubbish bin placed next to his head on the ground. He's a little pale and somewhat gray, but looks otherwise alright.

"Hey," Clint says, tipping his head in greeting.

"What were you thinking!?" Steve rages, storming up to the couch and angrily snatching the blanket up. "You could have been killed. Just because someone is throwing darts doesn't mean you need to leap in front of them," he flicks the blanket out and lays it across Clint.

Then, he turns to storm into Clint's small kitchen and grab a waterbottle from the fridge, and returns to the archer. "Do not drink this until they tell you so. Have you thrown up since they preformed the surgery?" He glances at the rubbish bin, which is empty, "Are you on meds? Yes? Okay, when do you need to take them? I'll come by and remind you, or you set and alarm with JARVIS. You need a shower, you look awful."

He puts the water bottle down, then realizes that everyone is staring at him in complete silence. Clint is looking at him like he's sprouted a limb from his ear and the other Avengers are silent and still, wide eyed.

Steve suddenly feels extremely subconscious. "...What?"

Clint swallows, then says a little shakily, "Steve?"

He blinks. He sounds like he's asking it of a different person, and his jaw sets somewhat. Steve. As in the Steve they know. As in—

Steve stops.

He stares at the archer, then the blanket and the water bottle, fussing that he would have taken part in before the Dragr happened. Not after. And he only knows this, because he remembers doing the same thing before. After a mission, when Natasha got a bad hit, and they'd been taking care of her. He can remember faint laughter. Sitting in the communal room as Clint and Tony argued about the Star Wars prequels, and Thor had claimed the inaccuracy, ranting about the entire thing.

Natasha had laughed, drugged up on medicine as she was.

Steve was drawing the New York skyline he could see from that angle. He was laughing, too. They were happy.

He remembers that.

Steve sits down heavily on the couch next to Clint's feet, suddenly breathless. Clint's eyes follow him, wide and hopeful. Steve mutters a cuss under his breath and holds his head in his hands, breathing out shakily.

"I remember," he whispers. Not everything. No where near everything. But "I remember."

000o000

After a few days of bedrest and one throw up session later, Clint is allowed to be up and moving again. He happily eats something that isn't liquid and Steve pesters him about the meds and everything else because even though Bruce is the true mother hen of their group—and he remembers that—Steve is just happy to do something that feels right.

Normal.

Clint allows it without too much complaining, seeming too relieved to care.

Steve, despite what he was hoping, doesn't just wake up the next morning able to remember everything about his life. There isn't an ah-ha moment during the day where his mind is opened and he's suddenly back to what he was. He gets vague memories, more sensations, but that's it.

It's about a week later that Steve delivers food to Tony's lab via JARVIS's prodding, and sets the take-out before Bruce and Tony. They're busy looking over something, but Steve has learned—he remembers learning—that if he places the food within hands distance of them without saying anything, they'll consume it without realizing.

Steve sits down on one of the desks after doing just that, watching the two work with contentment. They make science seem like magic with their rapid words and half-finished thoughts, holograms dancing. He doesn't know what they're doing, but it doesn't really matter.

Eventually, Natasha, Thor, and Clint join him. Thor because of Bruce and Tony's request, but Natasha and Clint for reasons he doesn't really know. They sprawl out across the lab, on top of tables, chairs, or the floor. Steve finds some spare paper and begins to draw, watching his teammates.

Natasha is cleaning one of her guns, Clint lazily poking at her with the tip of an arrow Tony was modifying. They're bickering about how likely it is to break into Buckingham Palace without getting caught. Tony, Bruce and Thor are doing...something, Thor explaining some Asgardian lore to them rapidly with his hands moving animatedly.

And Steve? He's just happy to watch them.

Because he may not remember everything regarding this team, or how they came to be, but that doesn't really matter. The memories he does have are precious, and they won't be the last one. This is his family. They'll make more memories. Bad, and also so, so many good.