Little Star // a Steve Rogers, Captain America, Avengers story

Broken

Between occasional visits from Steve, Ellie spent the next weeks hard at work; her patient list had nearly doubled since it became known that she was very possibly Captain America's girlfriend. She hated that word, girlfriend. She was a woman, not a girl, and while their courtship – there was no more appropriate word for it - moved at a snail's pace, she and Steve were definitely more than friends.

Of course, the students didn't need to know the particulars of their relationship to make her the most popular adult in the building. She had been obliged to turn away many students who didn't actually need her services.

"I think it would really help my self-esteem if Captain America took me to homecoming. Just as friends, though."

"Since I lost my favorite uncle in the Snap, I thought maybe Captain America might want to mentor me or show me around Avengers compound or something."

"Miss Morris, you're, like, really pretty and I think you look amazing, you know, for being, like, thirty or something, but if, like, Captain America ever decides he might want to spend some time with someone younger, well, I'll be eighteen next month and he could, like, give me a call."

"I think maybe I'm depressed, Miss Morris, since my friends have all seen Captain America around town, and I haven't."

It would get better in the time between Steve's visits; after a week or two of no sightings, folks would focus on other things. And then he'd roll back in town and the fever would build again.

She wondered if anyone had noticed that he never entered her house and he never stayed in any local hotels. She still didn't know where the Stark estate was, but she had some suspicions. Maybe she'd figure it out on this visit.

Sometimes when he was away, she caught sight of him on a news clip. Lots of anti-terrorist activity, some humanitarian work, a steady stream of events at schools and VFWs. No matter what the mission, he never had a cut or bruise when he arrived. She worried all the same, and last night's airplane hijacking over Mauritania, followed by a connected airport bombing in Mali looked particularly rough.

When his knock came, she ran from the kitchen to the front door.

"Hello! Oh, Steve..."

Slouched, in a hoodie and sweats, and obviously in pain, Ellie hardly recognized him.

"Ellie, may I come in?"

Something must be very wrong.

"Of course. Did you ride in this condition? What happened?"

"It was the airport. I took two rounds in the spine and then a girder fell on me. Shattered both of my legs. I'm a lot better now, though."

"I have no idea why or how you're here. Tell me where you want to be. In a bed, flat on the floor, on the sofa?"

"Flat on the floor. A little pillow under my neck and a big one under my knees."

She handed him a small throw pillow from the sofa for his neck and then folded the armchair's seat cushion in half to support his legs.

"Is that good? What about a blanket?"

"That would be nice. Can I have one from your bed?"

"Um, sure. I'll be right back."

She returned with the big soft throw that she wrapped up in while she read in bed and draped it gently over him.

"How's that?"

"Not quite right," he said, as he pulled it up and cuddled it near his face like a child with a security blanket. "That's it. It smells just like you." And with that he lost consciousness.

Ellie, in a minor panic, was at a loss. She certainly couldn't move him. She didn't know if the local hospital could treat him, or if it was smart to have his condition be public knowledge. Who could help her? Who could help her fix him?

Fixing things... that was it! She knew who to call. Now it was just a matter of figuring out how to call him. She pulled the phone out of Steve's pocket. It looked like any smartphone, but nothing she tried brought it to life. Some stupid Stark security, she grumbled to herself, ready to throw it across the room.

"It's a fucking emergency, and I can't help him."

Suddenly the words "Emergency Protocol" scrolled across the screen.

"Oh fuck, what have I done now?"

A quiet artificial voice spoke from her palm, "This is not Steve Rogers. Please identify yourself."

"Ellie Morris... I'm his... his..."

"Ellie Morris, age twenty-eight, five foot one and a half inches, one hundred twelve pounds, residence: 930 Park Street. Is this correct?"

"Yes." How the hell did it know her exact weight?

"Please place both thumbs on the screen for verification."

She did, and immediately the phone began to dial out.

"Please wait for connection to Happy Hogan."

One ring... two...

"Miss Morris, this is Happy Hogan, what's the emergency?"

"He showed up, told me everything that was broken inside him, and passed out on my living room floor. I have no idea what to do."

"Ok, first, may I call you Ellie? We're more of a first name basis organization."

Yes, of course."

"Perfect. Now, is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful. Leave him be and when he wakes up he'll be a new man. We told him to stay home, but he just took the bike and left. I can't believe he made it."

"How am I going to get him to the Stark estate tonight if he doesn't wake up? He, um... he prefers to stay there, not here. I don't even know where it is and I'm sure I can't move him on my own."

Happy laughed. "He won't wake up before tomorrow morning. You're going to be the first woman in the world to have a sleepover with the Captain."

She heard a soft voice murmuring in the background, and a small grunt from Happy.

"I'm going to have to go, Ellie, there's a small human climbing my leg. I'm glad I could help, and now that you're confirmed on the phone, you can dial me if you need me. Just put both thumbs on the screen and it'll go through."

"Thank you, Happy, I'm glad to know there's someone I can call who understands how he works."

Going straight to her laptop, Ellie Googled Happy Hogan. Tony Stark's right-hand man. Of course.

It was slightly disturbing at first, having to walk around the sleeping giant, but soon he became part of the furniture. She spent the rest of the day catching up on work, emailing friends from college, even doing some Facebook surfing.

She had made it thus far without Googling Steve, wanting him to tell his story in his own words, and he had. That evening, however, she wanted his specs, technical details, official records. Slowly she typed the words she didn't like to say out loud in the search bar. Words that made her uneasy because they somehow made Steve's terrifying life away from her real.

Captain America