Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

-"Worship" Amber Run

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“Steve--dude. C’mon. I know you’re not serious.” Sam doesn’t blink as he looks from the dingy kitchen to a defiant Steve Rogers, standing in said kitchen, arms crossed over his boney chest.
His knuckles are bruised from a fight he denied starting just last week, but his black eye healed up in a timely fashion, thanks to a strict icing regimen that Steve had perfected by this point in his life. “...Because I know you. And I know that this is just some kind of joke. And it isn’t funny, by the way.”

“It’s already in writing,” Steve sticks out his chin in the way he’d been known to do when challenged. “This apartment is officially mine. And I like it. I’m proud of it.” Steve is surprised by how convincing he sounds even to his own ears. As he says the words, he knows them to be true. “It’s...charming.”

“I mean,” Sam shakes his head, walking around. The floor groans under his feet, complaining with every heavy step. Sam lets out a long, weighted breath. “Steve--this place is old. And when I say old, I mean, it’s--”

“It was built in 1922.” Steve supplies helpfully, running his fingers along the walls. They aren’t completely straight or smooth; the paint is chipping in some places and marked up by scratches in others, but he had never been one to refuse a challenge. His hands are gentle, loving, as he brushes them against the surfaces. His fingers come away coated in dust. “Just needs a paint job and some love. All original hardwood and cabinets. Got lots of history.”

Silently, Steve knows the apartment will need a little more than some paint. It'll need at least a week of back-breaking cleaning, his scoliosis and arthritis will flare up, the dust will trigger the ugliest side of his allergies, and in turn, his asthma will have his lungs working overtime--

But Steve has never owned his own apartment before, never thought he’d get the chance. His commissions had been doing surprisingly well and his job at the VA ensured a steady income on top of that.

He loved living with Sam, but he didn’t love Sam coming home at 3 am dripping in alien goo from whatever intergalactic beast he’d help stop from invading the earth that week all over their living room floor. Not to mention the countless hours he spent listening to Sam grumble about how dangerous it was for Steve to be living with him--given the enemies Sam had, and all.

Sam was a great roommate. Falcon, on the other hand...not so much.
Steve is going to miss sharing their apartment, but he's looking forward to getting up at 6:00 am and not having to sneak around the house like a criminal because Sam is still sleeping, or making sure Sam puts his weapons away properly, or having to scrub blood out of the carpet...the list goes on.

This apartment is full of huge windows that let in a lot of natural light, which is perfect for painting. It's old, and….out of shape, maybe, but it has so much character. It feels like the apartment is alive, beneath him. There's a certain coursing energy, that makes it feel like the walls are breathing him in.

It just needs some love, love that Steve is more than willing to give. A project like this for him to focus his energy on is exactly what he needs.

The master bedroom even has an en suite bathroom with a tub that Steve can soak in to soothe his aching muscles. The kitchen is large and spacious, and the living room is cozy, lots of places to store his plant-children that Sam teased him about loving so much. It is, essentially, his dream home. And it's all his.

“No kidding,” Sam muses, and then looks at Steve with narrow eyes. “What about the other tenants in this place? You got any idea what kind of demographic you’re moving into here, Rogers? What your neighbours are like?”

It's a good question, as far as concerns about buying a new place go. Steve already knew, though, and he wasn’t concerned.

“I think I’m literally the only person in this entire building who isn’t retired yet,” He grins dangerously, adjusting his wire-frame glasses up higher on his nose. He'd figured that with all the dust in the place, risking contacts wouldn’t be an option for at least a little while. “I’m going to get like, fifteen grandmas out of this deal, no additional cost.”

Sam groans, looking up at the ceiling in remorse. “Dude, you’re moving into a retirement home. This isn’t some bachelor pad to bring hot guys over and sex them up. This is like.” Sam shakes his head, waving his hands in frustration. “This building just screams virgin. I mean, I am just really not seeing any pluses to this. No way you're going to get laid in here.”

“Sam!” Steve sputters, face turning red. He can't really deny the allegation, though. The house doesn't scream seduction or anything remotely close to it. “You don’t buy an apartment for the sex appeal.”

“You do if you’re trying to get laid, which, evidently, you are not!” Sam cries dramatically, but there is a hint of a smile tugging at his face that Steve is quick to notice. “This is a boner killer, for sure.”

“It just...needs some imagination.” Steve says defensively, looking around at the space. He can feel nothing but love for the place, nothing but potential. “I’ll put my own spin on it. I’ve got ideas. I have a Pinterest board, n’stuff.”

“Oh, thank god, we’re saved! He’s got a Pinterest board!” Sam snorts, shifting his weight and listening to the squeaks of the floor beneath him. “All I’m saying is that I don’t think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“A great apartment for a killer price?” Steve smiles sweetly, batting his eyelashes.

Sam just rolls his eyes and shivers dramatically. “It’s freezing in here, man. Please tell me you’ve got heating. If there isn’t any heating, I, as your legal guardian, forbid you to live here. You will literally die. Literally.”

“I have heat,” Steve mumbles, self-conscious. He rubs his arms and finds they’re coated in goosebumps. A chill rushes over him--it hadn’t been cold earlier, but now that Sam mentioned it, Steve can't ignore the frigid air. It's probably nothing, though--terrible circulation was on his list of medical problems, among many, many other things. “I dunno, must just be turned down. And I’m 26, you don’t need to worry about me so much,” Steve scowls.

Sam loves to joke that he was the “mom friend” of the group when in all reality its totally Natasha, otherwise known as the Black Widow, that makes sure Sam, Steve and Clint all keep their heads out of their asses. Sam is just as clueless and reckless as the rest of them.

You’d think being friends with three Avengers would earn Steve some merit points or extra popularity, but no. He's still just a dorky guy from Brooklyn, who just happens to hang out with Falcon, Hawkeye, and Black Widow on various occasions, as far from the public eye as possible. It's not necessarily a secret that Steve is friends with the Avengers, but Natasha insisted they not make a spectacle of it, so as not to give their enemies any reason to think Steve is a good target. It had all been fine and good until the civilian identities of the Avengers got leaked. After that, it became a lot harder to go out in public with any of his friends. They became real antsy about it, so hangouts became a covert operation. 

And so, Steve, still very much a virgin, still very much overlooked in the dating apartment, remains a loner.

His longest ‘relationship’, if one could even call it that, had been three dates and a phone call. Steve broke it off when the guy kept shamelessly picking his nose at the dinner table and wiping it in random places.

He may be desperate, but he’s got standards, dammit.

“Hell yeah. You’ve got a lot of work to do.” Sam whistles, but there is a tug on his lips that let Steve know he’s at least a little proud. It makes something in Steve respond in like with a small swell of pride.

He has an apartment, of his very own. With no roommates. It's all his, and he doesn't have to share it with anyone. 

“The price was right,” Steve repeats, uncrossing his arms to run a hand through his blond hair. It needed some love, of course, but it had good bones. Sturdy, and safe. “And I think it’s beautiful. I mean, it has history, Sam. It’s got a lot of natural light, too, which will be perfect for my art. And it’s mine. Like--really mine.”

“Are you sure all this dust won’t kill you in your sleep? Allergies? Asthma? What about mold? Did you have it inspected?” Sam has a joking tone to his voice, but Steve knows there is a heavy undertone of real worry that Sam is unable to help when it comes to Steve. “Older places like these apartments are rife with asbestos, Steve.”

Perhaps Sam really is a mom friend when it comes to stuff like this--he loves to worry, especially about Steve. Usually, it comes off in a teasing manner or they fought like cats and dogs, but Steve knows it came from a good place; Sam loved him, and wanted the best for him. The feeling is mutual.

“I had it inspected, this apartment will not kill me.” Steve clarifies with confidence, wanting to reassure his friend. “And dust can be cleaned. Sam, c’mon. It’s already done, I move in next week. It’s within walking distance to the subway and a grocery store, and...I dunno. Something about it...it just felt right. Like it was meant to be.” Steve shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Just be happy for me. Please?”

“‘It’s been on the market for a long time,” Sam plows on as if Steve hadn’t spoken. “They had trouble selling it--did you ask why that is?” Sam was using the voice he always seemed to take on when he thought Steve was doing something stupid. Sam used that voice a lot, especially when Steve would come home to their shared apartment with a black eye and bloody knuckles.

Steve snorts, shaking his head. The stories he had heard run through his head but he dismisses them just as readily as he did when he first heard them.

“Doesn’t matter to me.”

Sam arches a brow at that, intrigued. He knows Steve too well, all of his tells--Steve is a terrible liar.

“You did ask.”

“Yeah, I asked. I’m not an idiot.”

“That is still up for debate.” Sam shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring pointedly at Steve. “So? Why has no one taken an interest? Something must be up for people to be turning this place down, with all of its dust and...y’know...” he makes a vague gesture to the house in its entirety that offends Steve more than it ought to, “Charm.”

“It’s dumb,” Steve shakes his head. “People are stupid for turning this place away as quickly as they did in the past. S’been through a lot of owners.”

That piques Sam’s interest even more. His eyebrows lift and he looks around. “Someone die here or something?”

“Actually,” Steve murmurs, pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands. “Legend says it’s haunted.” It feels surreal to say it out loud, and kind of funny.

Haunted. People had refused to buy this big, beautiful apartment because of some ancient rumour that it was haunted. It's the dumbest thing Steve had ever heard. People are so damn superstitious.

Sam blinks. And blinks again. His face goes blank. “Haunted.”

“That’s what I said. Yeah.”

“You bought a haunted apartment?”

“According to legend, Sam. It’s just talk. Someone made up a story years ago because the wind made the door slam shut or something, and it’s made everyone afraid of this place,” Steve says very patiently as if he was talking to a child. “It’s just some stupid story. People love a good scary story.”

“This is how every horror movie, like, ever starts, you know that, right?” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “This is like, the exact scene where the protagonist is all--oh, ghosts aren’t real, haha, not me, no sir, and then they get ultra-super-spooked-and-murdered-by-the-ghost.”

“I don’t know that, actually. You know I don’t like scary movies. They--”

“Give you nightmares, yeah, yeah, Grandma, I know. I’m just saying, you might wanna start watching. Maybe they’ll teach you a thing or two about how to handle a poltergeist,” Sam lets out a low whistle, nudging at a small pile of dust bunnies. “Better call the fuckin’ Winchesters or some shit. If you die in here, promise you won’t come back to haunt me?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Steve grins wickedly, and Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh. His fate is sealed.

Sam shakes his head fondly at Steve, looking around at the less-than-perfect apartment. “What have you gotten yourself into, Rogers?”

The light filtering in through the window casts a golden glow on the apartment, illuminating the dust particles that danced in orbit around the kitchen where they stood, reacting to every delicate disturbance of air.
Even if it's kind of gross, an indicator of how much work had to be done to get the place up to Steve’s spiffy-clean standards….it's still kind of beautiful. A rainbow.

Steve watches them dance, lips pursed.

“A whole hell of a lot, it would appear.”

***

“I’m gonna miss having you as my roommate, Rogers.” Sam sighs, leaning against the counter of the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets.

“I’ll miss you too, of course. Not you leaving your dirty socks everywhere or singing Disney hits in the shower at the top of your goddamn lungs...or trudging alien guts through our living room or bleeding all over the bathroom counter from a bullet wound, but.” Steve shrugs playfully, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Other than that, you were a great roommate. Really helped me brush up my sewing techniques and my first aid.”

And Sam was a great roommate. They got along great, they looked after each other, and they were best friends. Minus the whole Avenger part of their relationship, they got along like two peas in a pod. Sam was there for Steve at his sickest, at his healthiest, every high and low since they’d met four years ago.

But living with an Avenger isn't safe. When Sam, AKA the Falcon’s civilian identity got leaked, Tony Stark insisted that all Avengers move into the tower which was equipped with max security. Civilians like Steve Rogers don’t live in billion-dollar towers with Tony Stark, despite Sam's insistence that he'd secure Steve a room. So. Here Steve is. 

They’d met when Steve was brought on to teach art therapy classes at the VA where Sam did group therapy for recovering vets, during the times he wasn’t out saving the world.
Steve, being the oblivious idiot he was, hadn’t recognized Sam since the Avengers PR used to work hard to keep the real identities of its heroes under wraps for their own safety. Their friendship was instant, and when Sam told him the truth about who he was, it didn’t matter to Steve about the dangers of being best friends with a superhero; Sam was a good guy. One of the best he’s known.

Through Sam, Steve met Nat and Clint, and the four of them were damn near inseparable.

When Steve’s mom passed away just a few months after he’d met Clint, Steve was left with an apartment that hurt to be in, medical bills he couldn’t afford, and a lonely aching in his bones.

He and Sam moved in shortly after that. The rest is...well, history.
But Steve’s commissions had been doing surprisingly well, and he’d taken on more classes at the VA due to a peak of interest in art therapy, and so all in all, Steve was doing okay for himself.

Things were good.

It was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever been able to say. Sure, he still had debt like most Americans, but it was manageable debt, not soul-crushing debt. Steve could both notice and appreciate the difference.

“What if you slip in the shower?” Sam cries, dragging Steve back into the present moment. He throws his hands up in the air, his eyes getting all wide and concerned. They’d been arguing for nearly an hour. “Or cut your finger on a kitchen knife and bleed to death? What if you have an asthma attack and can’t get to your inhaler in time?”

The very last one was possible, even highly likely in the winter times, when Steve’s lungs reached their most stubborn and the icy air was constantly reaching for his chest like a fist.

“I’ll be extra careful,” Steve smiles sweetly, batting his eyelashes in a dramatic fashion. It was all he could do; reassure Sam, try to do his best to let Sam know he was going to take care of himself. “Promise.”

“I somehow don’t believe that for a second.”

“I pinky promise,” Steve vows, a hand over his heart. “I’ll try really hard to, y’know. Not die. ‘Sides, people live alone all the time. Like you, now. Congratulations.”

Steve knew why Sam was wary of leaving Steve alone. Sam had been with Steve in the harrowing days and weeks after losing his mother. Steve has forgotten to eat, to shower, to take his medication. He had worked himself into a deep, dark place that even Sam, as trained and experienced as he was with helping people through the darkest times, struggled to pull Steve out of.

Sam had seen Steve neglect to take care of himself, but he had been there to force self-care upon Steve. If he was going to live alone, Steve knew Sam was going to worry about something like that happening again.

“Not many people are as accident-prone as you, Rogers,” Sam retorts, though there is real worry under his facade. “And you better not lie to me. Pinky promises are sacred.”

Steve rolls his eyes so hard it kind of hurts. His heart aches for his best friend and the genuine concern he knows Sam will probably struggle with for the first few days of Steve being on his own. “I’ll be fine, Sam. I’m a grown-ass man, perfectly capable of living alone.”

“When are you going to install the security system?” Sam prompts, and Steve closes his eyes and groans so loud it probably wakes up his new neighbours.

The security system had been a gift from Natasha, and an agreement had been reached by Steve, Clint, Nat, and Sam that since Steve was a Helpless Untrained Un-Enhanced 90lb Asthmatic who was Friends With the Avengers, the security system had to be in place for the good of all parties involved. Steve had tried his best to object, but ultimately, he was out-voted. 

“That is a 'next week' issue. I promise I’ll install it, I told you guys I would, but my first priority is making this place liveable so that my stupid lungs don’t crap out on me with all of the dust and the temperature.” Steve shivers for emphasis.

Sam looks wary of that response. “A lot can happen in a week, Steve. I’m getting you a life alert necklace.” He mutters with an accusatory finger, his face scrunching up. “And pepper spray.” That one sounded like a threat. “And so help me God, Rogers, you will use both.”

Steve opens his mouth to come back with something sly, but is interrupted by the sound of laughter.
He stops short, eyes darting around the room in confusion, his heart skipping at the surprise of the sound.
The laugh wasn’t his own, and it wasn’t the full-bellied laugh that was characteristic to Sam. It had come from somewhere on Steve’s left.

But no one is there.

It was more of a short little snort, really. A few chuckles, at most, and raspy. Definitely male.
Is someone else in the apartment? It had been abandoned for a while, it would make sense that someone could’ve taken to squatting while it was empty. It isn’t unusual, in New York. He'd checked out the bedroom, but hadn't peered into the closet...

Steve frowns, his heart racing a little, trying to come up with an explanation for the sound that didn't make him want to call the police.

“Did you hear that?” He asks Sam abruptly, his playful demeanour dropping. There is a shift in the air. Steve tilts his head to listen harder. “I could’ve sworn, I…”

“Hear what?” Sam murmurs, looking around obliviously. He frowns, obviously unable to come up with any plausible reason for Steve’s sudden discomfort. “...Steve?”

Steve blinks, shaking his head. “You didn’t...just hear that laugh?” He chews on his lip. “Don’t kid with me, Sam. I’m serious.”

“I think I’d hear if someone laughed at my very serious not-a-joke-threat,” Sam narrows his eyes, trying to follow Steve’s gaze to see where he was looking. “I didn’t hear a thing, Steve. Maybe it was someone through the walls?”

But Steve knows it had been way too close, too clear to have come from his neighbours. It had sounded like it was someone standing right behind him.

Steve swallows, but cracks a sheepish grin and forces the worry to melt off of his face.

“I guess I’m a little nervous about the move? I coulda swore I heard someone laughing. Sounded like it was coming from...right over there,” he gestures softly to the general direction.

Sam snorts, slapping an affectionate hand over Steve’s back. “Easy, champ. Can’t have you goin’ all crazy on me now. I didn’t mean to freak you out asking about the whole haunted-house thing. It’s like you said, ghosts aren't real, it's just some stupid scary story. Don’t get all worked up about it, yeah?”

Steve smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Course they ain’t. I’m just a little stressed, I guess. Lots to figure out, with the move. It’s a big step.” He pauses. “I wish my Ma could be here.”

“She’s watching.” Sam reminds Steve softly, and Steve offers a grateful smile in return, but something in his eyes is still sad. Perhaps that sadness is always there, hiding behind the light.

“Maybe you can come with me to take a look around? Make sure there ain’t any monsters hiding in the linen closets?” Steve asks, voice hopeful. He’s really only half kidding.“Please?”

Sam looks genuinely concerned for Steve, probably thinking that the blond hadn’t ever lived alone, especially not in such a large apartment, in a rather sketchy, or, uh, outdated part of town.

Sam nods a couple of times, body relaxing. “Sure, Rogers. You got it. Lets go check it out, yeah?”

"Yeah," Steve breathes, soothed by Sam's easy agreement. 

That marked the first time Steve ever got a taste of the ghost that lurked.

***

Steve spends the first day moving in and cleaning.

Sam is there in the morning to help Steve move all of his things in, especially the heavier furniture items, but leaves soon after some heckling from Steve, who insisted he had lots of cleaning to do before he could unpack, and that Sam wouldn’t enjoy that in the slightest.

Steve loved cleaning, it's his self-care ritual, and he really just wants to be alone with his apartment, to let it all soak in.

Steve puts Frank Sinatra on a tinny little speaker, keeping it soft enough to sound a little romantic, just in the background as he begins to unpack the box that contained his cleaning supplies while balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Nat, hey.” He pauses, rifling through the box to dig out the duster and broom. “Yeah, got all my stuff in here. Looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Sam is a little….unsure.”

“I’m sure he’s just worried,” Nat reasons, her voice smooth and reasonable, as usual. “You haven’t lived alone...well. Ever.”

“Mm. I know,” Steve sighs, beginning to sweep the dust-packed floors. “I'll be fine, though. He just likes to fuss.”

“I’d like to come see it, judge for myself,” Steve can hear a smile in her voice. She's up to something, probably wants to scope the place out and install some kind of Russian security device that would shoot missiles at unwanted guests. She meant well. 

“Yeah, I’d like that. Tomorrow evening? Drinks?” Steve offers up, swelling with pride and excitement. “You and Sam and Clint can come. A housewarming of sorts.”

“You sure the ghost won’t mind the company?” She hums, sounding amused. “Sam told me a little about the supposed hauntings of the house.”

Steve presses his lips together with a shudder. The broom stills as Steve straightens up, and his spine cracks as he does. He remembers the laughter of the previous day, how clear it had sounded...yet no one had been around when Sam looked.

Steve lets the silence hang too long, he knows Nat's going to be suspicious. He tries to sound nonchalant anyways.

“It’s nothing, Nat, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Steve.”

“Really, it’s nothing. Just dumb rumours. People like to talk, you know how it is.”

“Steven.” Shit. When she uses his full name, Steve knows he's really in trouble. "It's me. Talk to me."

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair and staring hard at the floor.

“It’s just.” He pauses again, shaking his head. Saying the words out loud feels like too much. “The house was such a good price because it was on the market for a long time. No one wanted to buy it.”

“Because of the ghost.” Her voice is very matter-of-fact. Steve doesn’t know how he feels about that.

Steve purses his lips and decides to just let it out. Nat is very perceptive, it won't matter what he says; she'll know the truth. Might as well be honest.

“I know you're probably going to think I’m crazy, or paranoid, or whatever. But I feel...something here, Nat. I just. I mocked the idea, too, when I first saw the place. But now...I swear I feel like I’m not alone.”

“Steve, look--”

“No, just--I know how it sounds, Nat, believe me. You know I don’t believe in any of that paranormal crap. But yesterday, with Sam, I could’ve sworn that I heard someone laughing when it was just the two of us in here. And today, this whole time I’ve been home it just feels like someone is with me. Like the hairs on the back of my neck won’t go down. I just feel like I’m being watched.” Steve’s heart beats a little faster just at the admission of the feeling he’d had in his gut all day. He looks around nervously, but just as it had been all day, he was alone.

At least, he hoped.

“It’s perfectly natural to not feel safe in a new house. You’re alone, in a…less than ideal part of town. These feelings are to be expected, Steve.” Nat is trying to soothe him, Steve knows, but it only makes him more frustrated. She wasn’t here, didn’t feel the things that Steve knew he felt. “It doesn’t make you crazy.”

“No, no, no. I know I’m safe. I’m fine, Sam checked every nook and corner, there isn’t some weirdo living in my attic, and the area really isn’t that bad, I’ve lived in worse with my Ma. I don’t feel...” Steve waves his hands in the air helplessly, trying to put a name on this feeling. “I don’t feel threatened. I just don’t think I’m alone.”

The presence he felt wasn’t a menacing one, but it was there. Watching. Observing. Probably judging Steve’s crackling bones and wheezing lungs. And laughing at him, apparently. At least it had a sense of humour. 

Nat is silent for a long time on the other end. Steve can just hear her quiet breathing.

“I see,” She says finally.

“I’m sure you’re right, you know. It’s probably, just. It’s nothing.” Steve looks out the window. The sun is about to go down, casting the apartment in an orangey hue. It makes things seem more manageable, with that kind of warmth filling up the space. “I guess I just gotta get settled in, is all. Weird being in a new place.” He laughs nervously, to shake off the pressing weight on his chest that wasn’t a panic attack, but something else.

Something external, pressing down on him.

“Just take it easy, Steve,” Natasha murmurs. There is something she isn’t telling Steve, Steve knows, but he doesn’t press her. Whatever her opinion on the situation is, Steve is sure she’ll share it in good time. Nat always does.

In her line of work, ghosts probably aren't the craziest things she’d come across, but if she’d faced them before Steve was sure she’d say. She wouldn’t let him spiral like this, if she knew.

“Yeah, I will. I’m fine, really. I’m just paranoid.” Steve lets out a nervous chuckle, and resumes cleaning, sweeping his dirt pile into the dustpan and emptying it in the garbage with absent, tired movements. Saying the words out loud makes them feel more true; Steve really is just being paranoid. Things are fine; things are good. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll let you go--talk soon. Thanks, Nat. Bye.” Steve pulls the phone away from his ear and set it down on the coffee table.

Steve lets out a little breath that turns into a cough as he shakes his head, muttering to himself. He begins sweeping again, getting a huge dust bunny out of the corner of the living room that releases a dust-bomb into the air around him, snaking its way into his lungs and eyes.

“Ghosts,” He says between breaths and shakes his head at himself. “Goddamn haunted--” he is cut off by a round of coughs that shake his entire body, the dust irritating his lungs and his allergies.

Steve hunches over, unable to catch his breath as the fit of coughs become more and more desperate. He braces himself on the nearest wall with one hand, the other gripping his knee as he bends over, trying to force himself not to panic. He can feel his face glowing red from the strain.

Shit.

“Fuckin’ inhaler,” he curses, mind clouding with the need to breathe. “Shit.”

Steve needs to breathe. The dust is so bad, and Steve needs to breathe, now. Where the hell had he put his inhaler?

Goddammit. If he dies from an asthma attack Sam will be so pissed. And at Steve’s funeral, he’ll just keep repeating I told you so to Steve’s coffin in a smug little way and Steve can’t let him do that. He would not stand for that shit.

He needs his goddamn inhaler.

Steve’s breaths get shorter, more panicked as he stumbles around the living room, hands searching clumsily over the counter and into the drawer closest to the fridge.

Where the fuck did he put it? Where was it, where was it, dammit--

It isn’t in the drawer. Shit, Steve thinks, wracking his mind--he knew it was foolish to not immediately designate a spot for it upon getting to the house, but there had been so many other things on his mind. His breathing becomes more panicked as he struggles to locate it, the genuine fear of passing out creeping in.

This is his new reality. Steve is alone in a way he never had been before, and when shit hits the fan, he's the only one around to deal with it. He's learning that lesson the hard way--Sam isn’t around to curse and run around and find his puffer for him anymore.

There was only Steve and the empty apartment, and his wheezing breaths.

Just as Steve is getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, a drawer on the opposite end of the kitchen flies open, startling him.

He watches in breathless amazement as his inhaler practically jumps out of the drawer and rolls towards him on the ground, stopping just inches away from his toes.

Steve stares blankly, trying to process what the hell just happened, before he decides he doesn’t give a fuck how his inhaler got to him, just that he needs air, now.

He reaches for it desperately, when finally his fingers make purchase with the medication, shaking and fumbling as he inhales deeply.

Steve coughs a few times but begins to catch his breath as the inhaler works to calm his angry lungs. He feels relief wash over him in a great flood.
He carefully and deliberately sets the inhaler on the counter where it would be clearly visible, scolding himself for making such a stupid mistake as he catches his breath in heaving gasps.

What the hell had just happened?
Steve knows that drawers don't just fly open, and inhalers don't fall out and roll on their own. His mind flashes to the rumours he’d heard about the place, about the terrible ‘ghost’ that haunted the apartment and wouldn’t leave its inhabitants alone long enough to let them settle in.

The ghost supposedly drove everyone away. Steve doesn't know how much of that nonsense he can buy into, but there is no doubting what he had just witnessed.

“Dammit,” Steve mutters to himself, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. He's still a little shaky, his movements jerky from the exhaustion and come-down of adrenaline. His mind is flooded with questions.

“Dammit is right,” he hears a smooth voice comment, which makes him jump a little and curl his hands into fists, immediately ready for a fight. It's instinct, really. He doesn't feel threatened, just startled. Unsure. It's the anticipation.

“Hello?” Steve whispers, backing himself up against a wall and looking around wildly. “A-Are you there?” He’s not sure who he’s talking to, but it feels like the appropriate thing to say.

He waits, but there is nothing but silence, and Steve is left feeling dumber than ever. His hands fall limp to his sides in defeat.

Steve’s jaw clenches and unclenches. He trusted his gut, dammit. He knew he heard a voice, clear as day. Clearer even than the laugh he’d heard when Sam was in the room--and he knew that whatever had happened with his inhaler, it defied the laws of physics and gravity. Those were the facts, and they weighed heavily on him.

Either he’d seen and heard what he thought he had, or he was going crazy. 

“I heard you,” Steve says defiantly, sticking up his chin. “I-I know someone is here, just. Just show yourself. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”

He hears a snort.

An honest to god snort. The ghost is laughing at him. The fuckin’ ghost that haunts Steve’s fuckin’ apartment is fuckin’ enjoying this.
Steve’s confusion, his apprehension. It's getting a kick out of it.

“Least you could do is not laugh at me,” Steve scowls, looking around self consciously. “I’m not afraid of you or anything. I’m pretty sure...I think you may have possibly just saved my life?” he laughs nervously, it sounds forced and unnatural. He feels crazy. “So. It might be nice, to. To meet you. And to say thanks.” That was probably wise, right? Make friends with the supernatural being that haunted his apartment. He definitely doesn't want to piss it off. That would probably be...bad.

Steve waits, but in turn, he gets...nothing. 
Silence. Empty air. Dancing dust particles.

“They say this place is haunted,” Steve relaxes his posture slightly but doesn’t let the tension fully seep away. Part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, shake it all off like nothing happened, and ignore the signs of someone else lingering. “That there is a pretty mean ghost that likes to run people out of the apartment. S’why this place has been on the market for so damn long. Ghosts aren’t the ideal roommates, apparently.”

The larger part of Steve, however, is as curious as ever. Steve doesn't like unanswered questions, he doesn’t appreciate mysteries. He wants answers.

“I didn’t want to believe them, at first, ‘cause--’cause ghosts ain’t real, but. I’m not stupid. I can feel someone there. My ma taught me to always trust my gut, and. I know that I feel some…..something.” Steve slides his back down against the wall, sitting down on the floor with hunched shoulders. He's talking to a ghost that doesn’t want to talk back. “And I just heard you--and I know I ain’t crazy.”

As he says the words, he's not sure he believes them. Steve knows he’d heard something, but--brains play tricks all the time, and he was going through a lot of change recently, his mind is flooded with new experiences and information.

And yet, even as he reasons with himself, goosebumps rise on his arms from the rush of cool air.

“I’m proud of this apartment, and I plan on sticking around. So you’re kinda stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you.” Steve inhales deeply, and he’s grateful when his lungs don’t protest. “So please don’t….like, y’know kill me, or something. In case you just saw, my lungs, and my body in general, tries to kill me often enough without some angry spirit helpin’ the process along.” Steve laughs a little at himself but it sounds forced.

“Christ. Listen to me, talking to myself about ghosts.” Steve lets his head fall softly back against the wall, feeling very defeated and very small. It had been a long day. “Jesus.”

He hears a hum of agreement from somewhere in the shadows.

This time, Steve doesn’t jump. He’s too tired to do that. He just arches a brow, and nods softly. “Mmhm. Yeah. You agree. Awesome. Glad we’re on the same page ‘bout that.”

Even the ghost thinks he’s crazy.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” Steve murmurs as if an afterthought. If they're going to be roommates, they should at least get acquainted. “I dunno if you know that. Steven Grant Rogers. Can you read minds?”

The ghost doesn’t answer. Apparently it isn't feeling very conversational.

Steve sighs, shaking his head. “Look what my life has come to,” he mumbles under his breath, hauling himself to his feet slowly, feeling the groan of his muscles. “Just fuckin’ insane.”

He shakes off the tension and tries to ignore the feeling of cool air following him as he walks the short distance to the stove where he grabs the kettle and fills it with water, settling it over the stove.
The ritual of making tea is just as comforting to Steve as the actual tea itself, and some comfort is exactly what he needs right about now. Something to ground him in this reality.

He rummages around in a box labeled “kitchen” to find a mug that reads #ShortPeopleProbs that was a gag-gift from Sam for Christmas last year. Truthfully, the mug is the biggest one he owns, and therefore it was typically his go-to choice. He tends to ignore the saying.

He isn't that short, dammit.

Steve listens to the kettle boil, thankful for some white noise to go with the soft music that crooned out of his speaker. When the water is boiled, he pours it into the mug, happily inhaling the aromas that drifted from the herbal tea.

It reminded him of his mother, her gentle fingers curled around her favourite floral mug, the line of her red lipstick staining the rim of it as she hummed to herself and read the paper. The smell of herbal tea would fill the kitchen on those soft Sunday mornings, the light filtering in to frame her golden hair like a halo. His guardian angel.

God. Steve misses her. It hits him like a wall sometime, the way grief tends to do.

That’s when Steve’s phone rings again, and the shrill sound makes Steve start and nearly drop the spoon he was holding.
It seemed so far that everything is able to put him on edge; the ghost situation had him on his toes, and any little sound or disturbance in the air that wasn’t expected made Steve’s heart race.

Wondering who it could be, Steve wanders away to follow the sound of his phone ringing, not paying any attention to the stove he had left on high.
__________________________

Later that night, after getting off the phone, Steve dreams of being watched.
A thousand eyes, sunken into the drywall of his bedroom and unblinking, they follow his every move, they don’t have pupils, they’re colourless and cold.
And yet.
And yet he feels safe.