Chapter Text
March 15th 1899
Dear Mr. Rogers,
Thank you for sending in your portfolio for consideration at the Shield Collective. It is always a delight to receive work from such a promising young artist. ‘Construction workers at lunch’ was a particular favourite amongst members of the board and I myself thought that ‘Men smoking at dusk’ showed a remarkable amount of pathos.
However, after careful consideration, we have decided that, at this time, we cannot accept your application to exhibit with the Shield Collective. This should not be taken as a slight against your skill and evident talent. You show great promise and we would love the opportunity to exhibit your work in the future but it was agreed by the board that your portfolio must be expanded upon first.
Please accept our warmest regards and fondest well wishes for the future,
Maria Hill
Deputy Chair for the Shield Collective
Steve wasn’t thinking about the letter. He wasn’t. He was dutifully attempting to tie his bow tie in front of his mirrored armoire and getting ready to spend a pleasant evening in the company of his esteemed patron, the Miss Natalia Romanova, and all of her many friends. It would be a laugh, a jape, it might, if Clint Barton had anything to do with it, turn into a shenanigan. Miss Romanova would be most put out if he spent the entire evening with his face as droopy as a wet mop. So, he wasn’t thinking about the letter.
Except that was a lie.
He was.
The face in the mirror was pinched, thick eyebrows furrowed over a pair of bright blue eyes, its long, crooked nose scrunched and mouth down-turned in a petulant pout. An irritated flush had started to bloom across his already rosy skin. Steve sighed, dropped the silky tie ends, and scowled at his reflection. The instructions had made it seem so easy. Hands braced on his narrow hips, he flicked a stray piece of hair away from his forehead. The rest of his blonde hair was set with a floral scented pomade that made his nose itch and he felt like a prize plum in this penguin suit. The high, starched collar of his shirt cut in under his jaw and the jacket, though impeccably well made and tailored to fit him exactly, left him feeling restricted and straddling the edge of ‘just a bit too warm’.
The offending letter lay on his bedside table, rumped and ripped from the eagerness that had gripped him in the moments before he had opened it. It mocked him. Steve had been sure that the Shield Collective would accept him with open arms. Miss Romanova had said the same. Their rejection was a stinging blow.
“Steven?”
Steve stiffened and his stomach clenched. The call came from down the hall, muted by several closed doors. He debated answering at all, not wishing his patron to see how he had failed so spectacularly at the seemingly simple task of tying his tie.
Another call for him. This time followed by the sharp thump of shoes on plush carpet. Moments later, Miss Romanova poked her head around his bedroom door.
“Are you not ready yet?” she chided when he caught sight of him across the room. “The carriages are here.”
“I—” Steve gestured lamely at his tie and tried not to let his shoulders slump.
“Oh.”
Miss Romanova pushed into the room and glided across to him. She looked lovely, all swathed in black velvet and pearl encrusted lace as she was. The dress hung off her shoulders, exposing just a touch more of her porcelain skin than would be considered proper, and her coppery hair was pulled back from her face, pinned in such a way that there was a cascade of fiery ringlets down her back.
At 32 years of age, she was a good six years Steve’s senior and the first signs of age were starting to creep in around her eyes and mouth. It did not diminish her in any way. She wore her age well, and really, it gave her a distinguished air.
She came to halt in front of him and, with a deftness that only came from experience, she tied his bow tie.
“There,” she said with a satisfied nod. “You scrub up well. I knew that trip to the tailors wouldn’t be remiss.”
Though her tone was light, Steve tried not to stiffen as Miss Romanova brushed non-existent lint from his shoulders. Instead, he inclined his head and offered her a placating smile.
“Now, come. The carriage awaits.”
“You go on ahead. I’ll be right out.”
Miss Romanova gave his fingers a squeeze and brushed from the room, leaving behind only the scent of her richly spiced perfume in her wake.
Steve took a moment to appraise himself in the mirror once more. Even without the top hat, he didn’t recognise himself. This was perhaps the most expensive outfit he’d ever worn. He turned this way and that and smoothed the front of his shirt and jacket, eyeing the spot just under his sternum where his plaster of Paris back brace ended. His fingers traced the lip but there was no obvious line to give it away.
He looked like a gentleman. And that thought made him break out in a sweat.
“You’re not in Gowanus anymore, Rogers,” he muttered and squared his narrow shoulders. “Best foot forward now.”
The carriage cut through Central Park towards the west side of the city and Clint Barton’s Hawkfield estate. Outside, the city was a black silhouette against a lilac and gold sky. Steve peered out the window and into the gloaming, only half listening to the chatter between Miss Romanova and her ward, her cousin, Miss Wanda Maximoff. Wanda was 17 years old, doll-like, and wide-eyed, and at that moment all but bouncing in her seat with excitement about the evening ahead.
“Is it true that Mr Barton will have fire eaters and acrobats and sword jugglers?” She had a tight hold of Miss Romanova’s forearm but his patron didn’t seem to mind.
“Oh yes, and that’s just Clint,” she said with a coy smile, patting the girl’s hand. “I imagine there will be all manner of entertainment tonight.”
Steve had heard about Clint Barton even before he came to the Red Room. His reputation extended across the river to Brooklyn, though his previous patron, the late Madame Carter, had regarded him with confusion and a degree of irritation.
“Who runs off at the drop of a hat to join the circus?” she’d sniff whenever his name appeared in the society pages. “His parents must be rolling in their graves, God rest their souls.”
Steve had only met the man a handful of times but he already considered him perhaps the strangest gentleman he’d ever met.
“Who exactly is this party in honour of?” Steve asked as Miss Wanda speculated about the prospect of seeing someone eat fire for the first time.
“A friend. James Barnes.”
The name sparked a flicker of recognition. There was a rather fine sculpture of a set of turtledoves that sat in Miss Romanova’s library that called Barnes their maker, he recalled.
“The same James Barnes that just exhibited with the Hydra Society for Fine Arts? The sculptor?” Steve leaned forward, hands flexing in his lap, curiosity getting the better of him.
Miss Romanova hummed and inclined her head.
“I’ll introduce you,” she said and while her tone was light, she pressed her lips together into a tight line and her brow furrowed.
But Steve paid her no heed, his mind was already whirring into gear. If the Shield Collective wouldn’t work with him, then maybe the HSFA would. It was a tantalising thought. He’d heard much about Alexander Pierce and his sprawling art collection and society that had the ability to make or break artists. An exhibition with them would lend Steve the kind of credibility that could kick-start his career. Not to mention the kind of money he could make. It would be the kind of money that would allow him to - well, it would allow him to do a lot of things. His ma’s tight, worried face flashed through his mind, her hand clasped to her throat. With a shake, he banished the image. Before, he’d never had the means of acquiring a contact like Alexander Pierce, but now . . .
“What do you know of the HSFA?” he inquired, testing the water.
The evening’s fading light cast shadowy whorls across Miss Romanova’s pale skin that twisted and shifted like ink drops in water. It did nothing to hide her displeasure. One thin eyebrow arched and her nostrils flared.
“Enough,” she said in a tone that invited no further questions. She arranged her skirts and opened and shut her fan with a sharp thwack against her gloved palm.
Miss Wanda kept her eyes on her own fan, carefully opening it slat by slat and running a finger along the feathers. Steve tried not to huff. He didn’t know why Miss Romanova appeared so resolved not to speak about the Hydra Society. Everything he’d read about them appeared above repute. Only last week there had been a lead article in the Times about Alexander Pierce’s latest gallery show. It had been the talk of the society pages. If only because the youngest Odinson boy had seemed resolved to spend his father’s fortune in its entirety by purchasing more than half of the pieces on show.
What artist would turn down an opportunity to work with them?
“A foolish one,” thought Steve sullenly. Or an artist with less to lose than him.
The conversation across from him had moved on. Miss Wanda had drawn Miss Romanova into a discussion about economics and Steve tuned their voices out, not interested in hearing about who had a monopoly on what.
Soon enough, however, Hawkfield pulled into view. It stood on a hill on the city’s west side. On this side of Central Park, it was less developed. The skyline wasn’t as dominated by skyscrapers that reached up high as if to pluck to the stars straight from the sky, and as such, the sprawling limestone mansion stood out.
Hawkfield was built around a central courtyard with a large circular fountain in the centre. The carriage entered the courtyard through an arch and came to a halt in front of a sweeping set of stairs that lead to the main entrance. According to Miss Romanova, the building was closer to a commune than a home with much of it being split into separate apartments for the ever-fluctuating range of artists, acrobats, writers, and vagabonds that Clint so loved to entertain.
Music drifted through the night, drawing them up the steps and through the great entrance hall towards the east wing. Voices weaved between the notes as a pleasant hubbub, warm and inviting. Paintings hung on every wall and every surface was covered in huge vases of fresh flowers. Steve craned his neck, head swivelling from side to side trying to take everything in but the tide of people swept them down the long hallway towards the party’s epicentre. The music swelled as they drew nearer and the voices with it.
People were everywhere too, milling around the hallway and spilling out from the ballroom. A couple dashed past them. The woman squealed and batted at the man’s hands as he attempted to ensnare her but two steps later she pulled him behind a curtain. Their giggles followed them all the way down the corridor.
At the hallways’ end, Miss Romanova turned to them and grinned.
“Down the rabbit hole we go,” she said and beckoned them follow through the doors.
The first room was a bar, smoky, dimly lit; the second held long tables groaning with more food than Steve had ever seen in his life; the third was the ballroom.
To call it a room seemed disingenuous. It was a gilded cavern lit by glittering crystal chandeliers. Velvet covered benches lined the walls and rows of chairs were set up in front of a tall stage. A trapeze hung from the roof and there was a table covered in swords. Every few feet all around the room, there were plinths and on these plinths were contortionists and acrobats bending in ways Steve had thought impossible.
Miss Romanova drew them further into wonderland and the crowds therein. Women in gowns of painted silk, adorned with meticulously made fabric flowers gathered close together, in the low light, their jewels glittered and winked. Men in tails lined the edges of the room, propping up the mantles and ringed in smoky halos from strong smelling cigars.
As they passed, Steve felt dozens of eyes following their progress. Except, they certainly weren’t looking Steve’s way. Nor were they looking at Miss Wanda, though she looked lovely in her red, silk taffeta gown. No, all eyes were on Natalia Romanova. And if she could feel the weight of their stares, she gave no indication of it. She walked with her head held high, green eyes sweeping the room, her face unreadable.
That was until—
“Natalia!” A shout went up from across the room. A sandy haired man bounded towards them and Miss Romanova beamed.
“Clint, you devil.”
They embraced. He kissed both her cheeks and then her knuckles, a pink wash rising in his cheeks. The man wore no hat, no jacket, nor even a tie. His shirt sleeves were pushed up past his elbows and his trousers weren’t pressed. It should have been something to draw ire and shock but people didn’t even look twice. Steve quickly hid his surprise and suppressed the flair of irritation that came as he wished he too couldn’t go without the traditional accoutrements for the evening.
“Bloody good to see you all.” He was breathless with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Entertainment starts at 9 so make the most of the food and booze. And make sure you dance! The band is excellent.”
“I think I’ll have to rely on Miss Romanova’s guidance on the dancing,” chuckled Steve, trying to infuse his voice with a cordial air. “I’m still not quite up to par.”
“Nonsense! You managed a perfectly acceptable waltz last week,” his patron countered and Miss Wanda nodded her agreement.
“Because you were leading.”
“Natalia always leads,” cut in Clint, a broad grin stretching across his face, a doe eyed expression softening his features. “It’s why we love her.”
Miss Romanova scoffed and batted at Clint’s chest with her closed fan but Steve noted a pinkish hue washing across the very tips of her cheeks.
“Anyway, I must dash. Have Natalia here introduce you to the birthday boy—wherever the fuck he is. You’d like him—arty type. He’s the artiste du jour around here.”
Clint waggled his eyebrows and hurried off, unsuccessfully dodging around the crowds as he went.
“Don’t break a leg!” Miss Romanova called after him but he was already gone, weaving his way through the crowd and bumping into every other person. Steve’s patron “Oh it’s no use. You know he fell almost eight feet in Mal Maison last month. I told him those ceilings were too low, but did he listen? No. He did not.”
She let out a long suffering sigh. “I supposed I should introduce you to Barnes seeing as it’s his birthday after all. Come.”
Miss Wanda excused herself after noticing a friend and she was waved away which left Steve in the company of his patron. It was a prospect that made his stomach clench but she took his arm and bent her mouth to his ear and whispered all the scandalous gossip she had about their fellow guests straight into his ear. He tried to not let it show on his face but a few choice tidbits raised a furious flush across the tips of his ears.
“And that’s Howard Stark over there. They say that he slept with half of Manhattan and is currently working through most of Brooklyn.”
“Isn’t he almost 70?”
“You think as small a matter as age is going to stop Howard? No, I don’t think so.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Money talks.”
He didn’t have a response to that, so he kept quiet. Eyes followed them all around the ballroom and Steve let his eyes roam about the people congregated there. Despite the richness and luxury of the guests, his eye was drawn again and again to those atop the plinths and the ways in which they could bend their bodies as easily as if they were a reed in the wind. As they passed by the last plinth on the way to the banquet and bar, one of the acrobats caught Steve’s eye.
He couldn’t have been much younger than Steve himself but he was fine featured and lean, and at that moment was holding himself in an upside down split. He grinned and winked at him before flipping to a low crouch, one leg extended. Steve dropped his eyes and smiled.
Miss Romanova led him past the tables of food and back into the bar.
“There he is,” she muttered, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice as they approached a small group by the mantle. “What the hell is Brock Rumlow doing here?”
The one called Rumlow was a sallow-skinned man who wore too much pomade in his dark hair and there was a perpetual curl to his lip. Steve had met him before but only ever in passing. Next to him was a handsome Black couple. The man was in a black dinner jacket with a lemon yellow silk waistcoat that matched the colour of his wife’s gown. She was tall with impeccable posture and a proud tilt to her chin. On Rumlow’s other side was someone Steve recognised instantly from the society pages and the etchings hadn’t done him a lick of justice.
James Barnes.
He was mid-spiel, animated and bright, as he spoke to the assembled group. His pretty chestnut curls framed the angles of his face and there were two pink spots sitting high on his cheeks, lending his olive skin a lovely flush.
“And I said to Alec, I did, we just have to look more into the Californian market now we’ve got Pym on board.” Barnes took a long sip of his drink and was about to continue when he spotted Miss Romanova. He lurched towards her: happily inebriated. “Natalia! I wondered where you were hiding.”
He kissed both her cheeks and Steve watched the way his lips drew into a perfect bow.
“I could say the same to you, James,” she replied smoothly and gave his cheek a light pinch. “You’re looking well.”
“Barnes here just made a big sale,” cut in Mr Rumlow. He clapped an arm around Barnes’ shoulders. “He collared Hank Pym. How’d you like that, eh, Romanova? Disappointed you’ve not snapped him up yet?”
Steve felt his patron stiffen at his side and her fingers flexed on his wrist but she smiled, serene and unfazed.
“I have no need for middlemen such as yourself, Mr Rumlow. James and I are friends. I can simply invite him for tea to discuss the terms of a sale in person. As I have done numerous times already.”
Mr Rumlow’s grin froze and his eye twitched. The colour slowly drained from James Barnes’ face as his eyes flicked between them.
“I’ve heard how you conduct your affairs, ma’am. Tell me, how is Barton these days?”
“Above reproach. And clearly doing rather well,” Miss Romanova said, waving a hand around the room. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’ve caused me to be most impolite.”
The subject, whatever it was, was done with and she tugged Steve forward and placed her hand between his shoulder blades.
“I would like to introduce you all to Steve Rogers, my newest friend in the Red Room, soon to be the finest artist in all of New York.”
She introduced him formally to the group. The couple she named as Sam and Brunhilde Wilson.
“They came to the city three winters ago now and settled in Brooklyn of all places, though we keep insisting they move closer."
“And see all of you, outside of my working hours? I don’t think so,” chuckled Brunhilde, full lips quirking up at the corners. “Journalism is a messy, messy business. You know this.”
Miss Romanova snickered. "Sam has just taken us all by storm with his music, of course. His latest opera is a hit.”
“Brooklyn?” Steve perked up. “You live in Brooklyn?”
“Weekesville. You local?” Sam asked.
“Gowanus,” replied Steve and Sam nodded like this meant something to him.
Then, Miss Romanova turned him to face James Barnes. Though Mr Rumlow was still at his shoulder and glowering at her, Mr Barnes appeared to have regained his composure and he looked at Steve with an analytical look. Those steely eyes swept over him from head to toe and Steve straightened as much as his curved spine would allow and squared his shoulders, meeting his gaze when it meandered back to his face. Suddenly, he was glad that Miss Romanova had insisted on that trip to the tailors. At least he looked the part of a gentleman, even if he didn’t feel it. Mr Barnes cocked his head at him and pursed his lips.
“You were Miss Carter’s protege weren’t you,” he mused, stroking his chin, finger tapping at the cleft in his chin. “Have you sold or exhibited anything yet?”
There was a challenge in his voice and Steve had the distinct impression that this was some kind of test that he was destined to fail because he had to answer:
“Not yet.” Steve swallowed and tried to bury the fresh sting of rejection and wound to his pride that pushed up his throat and left a sour taste at the back of his tongue.
James hummed and considered his answer. His eyes did another full body sweep. “Pity.”
The word slipped between his ribs like a dagger. Steve’s stomach clenched and he worked his jaw, trying to keep his face pleasant and amenable.
“Did I hear that the Hydra Society is looking for new artists? Perhaps I can slide in and knock you off the top spot. Every society needs fresh talent after all,” Steve said tightly.
Despite the mounting tension between the two, the surrounding group laughed.
“Looks like you’ve got some competition, Barnes. How’s that for a birthday present,” goaded Rumlow with an elbow straight to Barnes’ ribs. He flinched, mouth curling.
“You’ll be disappointed.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“Alec has exacting standards and doesn’t just accept anyone.”
Steve narrowed his eyes. He felt hot behind the ears.
“It’s a good thing I’m not just anyone then, isn’t it.”
Barnes opened and closed his mouth several times but he had no scathing retort. Miss Romanova cleared her throat and slapped her closed fan into the palm of her hand.
“Samuel, tell us, will you be extending your opera’s run this season? It’s been such a rip-roaring success.”
And with that, the tension dissolved and the subject changed but Steve could feel Barnes shooting him dirty looks from across the circle. He kept his eyes trained on Sam who was talking about the intricacies of putting on an opera but every so often he’d look across and catch Barnes’ eye and give him a pointed look as if daring him to say anything else. It gave him a thrill of smug satisfaction to see the way he stewed.
Served him right, he thought. He was being an asshole. Who was he to give Steve pity? He had no need for his pity. He had more use for his connections than he did anything else he could offer. Birthday or not, Steve wasn’t about to take that lying down.
A call went up for the assembly to take their seats for the show and the group finally split.
“I wish you hadn’t antagonised him, Steven,” muttered Miss Romanova in his ear.
“He started it.”
Miss Romanova tutted. “We’ll have to make amends later on in the week.”
Steve wasn’t so sure but they made their way back towards the grand hall where the lights were dimmed and dozens of candelabras had been placed all around the room. It gave it an atmosphere of mystery and sent shadows flickering across the gilded walls.
In the tidal flow of people , Steve found himself separated from his patron. He could still see her, impossible to miss the amount of flowers pinned to her hair or the shimmer of her gown in the candlelight.
“Don’t worry, Barnes, it’ll take more than some upstart from Gowanus to knock you out of Alec’s good graces.”
Steve froze, peering around till he saw Brock Rumlow a few feet away. He was leaning close to Barnes, with what looked like a consoling hand on his shoulder as they moved to find their seats. Barnes frowned and nodded but didn’t look convinced. Steve, now curious, followed.
“Alec wouldn’t go to all the effort of securing Hank Pym if he didn’t love you - love your work. You’re his favourite.”
“No, no, of course,” sighed Barnes, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have promised the California trip otherwise.”
“Exactly. So don’t worry.”
They parted and Steve watched the man give himself another shake before hitching an annoyingly pretty smile onto his annoyingly pretty face and taking his seat as the guest of honour. A waiter passed and Steve swiped two tall glasses of champagne from the silver tray. He downed the first in a single gulp and discarded the glass. A few seats down from Barnes, Steve found Miss Romanova and Miss Wanda waiting for him. He offered his sincerest apologies and settled down, angling himself so that he would still be able to see Barnes. Inwardly, Steve still seethed.
Even as Clint paraded across the stage in a white and red striped bodysuit that cut off mid-thigh and began juggling three curved scimitars, he kept chancing glances along the row. But Barnes was enraptured, eyes wide and mouth agape. He laughed at Clint’s banter and applauded his daring on the trapeze and not once did he look Steve’s way.
He had no reason to. Steve knew this. And yet, he sorely wished he would. He screamed at him in his mind. He hurled the foulest insults he knew and all petty jabs he could think of in his direction. What he hoped to achieve by this, he didn’t know. Perhaps all this fizzing Champagne would imbue him with unknown psychic powers and he could quite literally give the man a piece of his mind. He couldn’t. And it hadn’t. Of course. But it was fun to consider.
All through the show, Steve drank steadily. Glass after glass. He drank until the room span and the jewels glittering around the throats of all the well made up ladies seemed to jump and shift in the peripheries of his vision. At the show’s close, once Clint had drawn heated gasps for his last daring stunt that included launching himself from a high platform and twisting through the air to cut a pineapple clean in two with a long, thin sword with a mean looking curve to its blade, it was time to dance.
Flying three sheets to the wind and not giving a damn about anyone or anything, be they James goddamn Barnes or the goddamn HSFA, Steve danced. He danced with Miss Wanda. He danced with Brunhilde Wilson. He danced with anyone who asked. He even danced with Miss Romanova, though it was closer to her dragging his stumbling form around the dancefloor than any discernible waltz or reel or polka.
Steve danced till his legs shook and his lungs rattled. He danced and he danced and he danced and when he wasn’t dancing, he drank. The alcohol was like a turpentine soaked rag. It smeared across the night’s canvas until faces lost their detail and blurred colours together into vivid smudges.
He hoped it would be enough to drown out the voice that rang in his ear and stamp out the look burned in his mind’s eye.
“Pity.”
It rang as an infernal bell at every turn and Steve vowed in his drunken stupor to hate James Barnes till the day God wiped him from this earth.