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He pulled onto the long dirt road that served as a driveway for the farm-like compound that had become home to him, Bucky, and Tony, each wanting a chance to live a bit simpler and quieter.
They’d had enough adventure.
And Steve wasn’t usually one to act entitled, but dammit, the universe owed them a bit of peace—at minimum for Bucky and Tony, who’d never ask but so badly needed someone to say enough.
Though guiltily, Steve hadn’t been able to quit their old life altogether, soon falling back into a role training the younger heroes, occasionally volunteering at their facility, and keeping tabs on those in charge, too.
Sometimes he dreamt of being able to stop, perhaps taking up a hobby like Bucky and Tony, but it wouldn’t be enough.
Just thinking of not doing—it made his skin itch.
It wasn’t something he couldn’t blame on the serum; he’d always needed a purpose. Sitting idle made his muscles twitch.
At least Bucky and Tony understood.
On the other hand, Tony and Bucky had taken to the quiet life better than he'd imagined, finding ways to stay busy on the large parcel of land and outbuildings dotting it. Tony had a few workshops, and Bucky had a forge.
Who knew the man secretly desired to be a blacksmith, wanting to make lawn ornaments and the occasional sword? Not that there was anything wrong with that.
And watching Bucky create seemed to return a light to his eyes that Steve hadn't thought he'd see again.
Besides, Tony knew a thing or two about working iron—the first of his suits hadn’t been machined; he’d forged it with his hands, after all—so it worked out that he could help Bucky with his new hobby.
And that wasn't all the hooligans had in common, as over the last year, they had begun collecting more strays than most people would have as pets in a lifetime—everything from cats with missing limbs to blind dogs to the llama that Tony still refused to explain the origins of, having just walked out of the woods with it on a lead one day.
So, yeah, Steve had accepted this facet of his life, the chaos, knowing that even if they never said it, his partners needed what bringing home the strays gave them, reminding them that no one was beyond saving or unworthy of love.
Which meant that Steve shouldn't have been surprised when he walked into the house, silently kicking off his shoes, then shrugging his coat, hanging it by the door.
But, when he stepped into the living room, he still paused, mouth twisting and brows furrowing as he blinked, staring at the black and white speckled chicken on Tony's shoulder, seeming to peck and tug at his hair.
And until that moment, Steve hadn't considered a chicken capable of expressions, but between the constant head tilting and ticking noises, it seemed flustered, judgmental of Tony’s hair, as if it were the world’s poorest kept feathers.
A hard peck to his ear, then a yank of his hair, had Tony wincing, though at seeing Steve, a smile slipped into place. He wiggled his fingers in a wave, setting his tablet down.
"Hey, I was wondering when you’d get home. FRIDAY mentioned you’d hit traffic.”
“It’s a long drive on a good day, but yeah, a tractor-trailer jackknifed—though I was able to jog down and offer a hand.”
“Overachiever.”
And if Steve hadn’t been staring at the chicken, possibly a rooster from the big red dangling things on its face, he might have rolled his eyes. “I thought you liked that about me.”
Tony hummed. “In bed maybe—oh, by the way, did you grab Buck's prescriptions on the way home?"
Apparently, they weren’t talking about the chicken in the living room—or perhaps, Steve had finally lost it, and he was the only one seeing it.
He didn’t know which would be better.
Chicken shit on the furniture sounded like a special circle of hell.
His head tilted in a similar fashion to the chicken’s, eyes fixed on it, as he answered, "Yeah, um, but they didn't have enough—apparently, they can’t remember that he’s a supersoldier and is prescribed three times the max dose without making a stink with the doctor first."
The sharp huff from Tony made the chicken ruffle its feathers in annoyance as it squawked. He shushed the bird, then eyes hard, said, "Fuck them—it shouldn’t be so hard to get his meds. This is the one thing I miss about the city—no small-town bullshit to deal with—access to real pharmacies.”
“I know, but it’s part of living here, away from people.”
The chicken made a whistling noise, then began grooming Tony again.
Tony scritched its neck, the feathers appearing oddly soft. “Middlemen suck, but maybe we should switch to delivery. Better than him going without.”
His gaze broke away from the chicken. "We’ll talk about it—see what he wants. In the meantime, we got some for the night. The rest should be ready tomorrow after they talk to his doctor.”
The chicken pecked Tony's ear, earning a yelp before he poked it back in retaliation.
Flapping its wings, a crow pierced the air, though Tony still didn’t explain why the chicken was in the house or where it came from.
Instead, Tony said, "Whatever, but for the record, I still think they’re fucking twats for this shit." He paused, petting the rooster, mouth twisted in thought before speaking to a spot beyond Steve. "Sleep makes things easier for him—and there’s only so much of that grouchy fuck’s puppy dog eyes I can take, you know? It leads to situations."
And from how Tony looked at the rooster as he said that last bit, Steve wondered just what he’d missed while away over the previous two days.
He hummed, still not quite over the bird on Tony's shoulder but letting it slide. Hopefully, it had a nice place to sleep outside because he had limits.
"I know," he said. "Speaking of, where is he?"
Tony made a face that Steve had seen too many times, which immediately made him sigh and close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Just spit it out—it wasn’t just feathers over there you brought home, was it? So just give it to me straight. What else did you two find?"
A cleared throat, a few purring clicks from the rooster, then, "Uh, well, last I knew, he was in the, uh, bathroom—filling the tub."
Eyes opening, he gave Tony a weary look, pleading with whatever deities that may be listening for patience as he asked, "It's an alligator, isn't it? Because of course it would be—of course, you'd somehow find an alligator in upstate New York."
Tony pulled a face. "What? Are you insane? Why would you—never mind, that was probably a fair response—but no—not an alligator, Steve." And at Steve’s raised eyebrows, he lifted his chin, adding, "Actually, it's some kind of bitchy goose that somehow has the same personality as Bucky when someone steals his malted milk powder.”
The rooster crowed.
Steve blinked, then nodded, perhaps hoping that by doing so, it would all make more sense and be okay.
He was very tired.
"He named it Excalibird," Tony said, then shrugged like that made all the sense in the world. "You know, like the sword? Get it? He's been learning to forge—Excalibird."
The rooster began rubbing his face on Tony's temple, but Steve didn't let it distract him, instead asking, "So there's an attack goose swimming in the bathtub?"
"Uh, yeah, pretty much," Tony said, then frowned. "Are you good? Because, excuse the pun, but your feathers are looking a bit ruffled right now."
Steve sucked in a breath, pushing his questions aside. Because he loved his idiots, and if a rooster and an attack goose made them happy, he'd do what he always did:
Carry on.
So he forced a smile, though the weird beady eyes of the bird boring into him made it more strained than he’d like.
Then, as casually as he could, he said, "Uh, nope—no feathers out of place, actually, but I really could use something to eat, so how about I go see about dinner?"
Because he needed a minute to process the chicken in the living room.
But something about what he’d said had Tony tense, reaching up as if to shield the chicken's ears.
Did they have ears? It had been a really long day.
Sometimes he wished the old phrase, not my monkeys, not my circus, could apply at times like these, but these were very much his monkeys—for better or worse.
Then whispering, Tony said, "Just don’t make any, um, you know what. I don’t want him to get any weird dinner at Hannibal Lecter’s vibes, you know? Wyatt Chirp is a sensitive soul."
His mouth fell open; then silently, he mouthed the name "Wyatt Chirp" before taking another breath, reminding himself that he loved these idiots, and headed to the kitchen, hoping they still had some steaks in the fridge for dinner.