Chapter Text
Benched. On medical leave. It all means the same thing, really.
Until SHIELD's cadre of scientists and researchers figure out how to reverse whatever the artifact had done to him, Steve is stuck watching on the sidelines. Which also means more tests. Bruce volunteers to contribute to the research, pointing out that the artifact was obviously giving off some sort of radiation. "I'll need a sample," he says. "A feather, probably, since it's part of the affected tissue."
Steve agrees despite a small instinctive part of him balking at the idea. Fury, however, refuses to even take the chance that Bruce might get clobbered by a wing. (He did find it pretty funny when Tony earned another wing-slap during the briefing, though.) So it takes three medical assistants to pull the feather, two to hold the wing and the other to pull. It hurts, but it's brief and the spot clots quickly. He's irrationally relieved that they only pull a small down feather and leave the flight feathers alone.
Fury assigns him one of the large VIP guest rooms on the Helicarrier, dismissing Steve's protests. "You're going to need the space," Natasha points out, and Steve can't really argue.
The suite is huge, with a king-size bed and windows all along one wall - one-way glass, bulletproof, of course. Steve finds he appreciates the view; just being able to see the sky is oddly comforting. The wings, tightly folded behind his back, reflexively start to unfurl at the sight. Steve starts to pull them in again, but then reconsiders; he's alone, there's plenty of space and he's nowhere near any light fixtures.
Slowly, cautiously, he relaxes and extends the wings out behind him as far as they will go. It's not as difficult as he expected - like stretching out an additional pair of arms, but with different joints and using muscles he's never used before. They're heavy, but not so much that it's a strain, and he can manage. He groans in spite of himself, realizing how cramped they were before and how good it feels just to stretch them out. How do you even work out muscle cramps in wings, anyway?
He flaps experimentally once or twice, and catches a flash of white out of the corner of his eye from his reflection in the mirrored closet doors. Curious, Steve turns to face the mirrors and spreads the wings out wide, as far as he can manage, flight feathers fanning out like splayed fingers.
Eagle's wings, he thinks, although the color is all wrong. He's never seen an eagle with pure white wings. They're even bigger than he thought; fully extended, each one looks like they're ten feet long. He has to turn diagonally to keep from banging a wing against the window. He lets them droop a bit and soften out of the stretch, letting the joints bend more naturally but not forcing them back towards his spine. Even relaxed like this, they're enormous; they make him look small in comparison, and it's been a while since anything's been able to do that. He glances out the window again, wondering if he can actually fly.
Steve immediately stops that train of thought before it can leave the station. Those are not thoughts he needs to be entertaining right now. He's tired, he's stressed and frustrated at being benched, that's all. Sleep is probably the best course of action.
He winds up lying on his side on the edge of the king-size bed. The wings take up the rest of the space and then some, but it's comfortable enough. He's slept in worse conditions. Any other concerns - like figuring out how he's going to get a shower - can wait til tomorrow.
In his dreams, everyone - from his past and his present - has wings. They're all soaring past him as he watches, standing on a cliff overlooking the city. Bucky's look like a peregrine falcon's, the type of wings that you know are fast just by looking at the sweep of the wing. That, and the way he's outpacing Dugan, who's trying to keep his hat from blowing off his head as he and Bucky race across the sky, trash talking as they go.
Colonel Fury has black glossy wings that match his trenchcoat. Steve's mother drifts by in a swirl of white feathers. Tony is in the Iron Man suit, with metal wings to match, buzzing past and annoying Bruce, who's trying to mind his own business on giant green wings that dwarf the rest of him. Schmidt appears briefly in a thunderhead, bat-winged and snarling before several winged Commandos converge on him and the sky becomes clear again.
And Peggy is there, same as he remembers her, in that red dress. She's flying towards him on golden wings and somehow without a hair out of place in spite of the wind. She hovers so she's at his level and extends a hand. "You owe me a dance, Steve."
He reaches out, but hesitates, feet still firmly planted on the ground. "I still don't know how."
She laughs and takes his hand in her own. "The only way to learn is to try. You know that better than anyone."
He dreams of flying.