#the riveter

You never thought you’d enjoy the smell of smoke. 

The memories you recall of it tell your brain that it should be unappealing and acrid, something that should make you want to get away from it as quickly as possible. 

But here, with Steve, in the spring air of rural New York, it smells good. 

He stands near the grill as he minds the steaks that he’s cooking for the two of you, covered with premade seasoning from a bottle that Steve grabbed on a second trip to a grocery store.

You slept for twenty-four hours, he had told you when you woke up. Before that, your last memory was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich–with Steve’s perfected peanut butter-to-jelly ratio–and going to bed. 

On the second day at the cabin, you woke up to the smell of something sweet and the sound of sizzling from the kitchen. Steve kissed you breathless, relieved to see you. 

“Bruce had told me you’d wake up eventually, but…” he shrugged, “I got worried. He said your body was probably just recovering from everything that happened in the past week.”

“Bruce?” you inquired. You knew somewhere in your mind you should know that name, but it didn’t ring any bells in the haze of sleep that still lingered. 

“Dr. Banner,” he elaborated, pouring coffee into a mug, “You met him in Tony’s lab.”

His face came to mind then; graying hair and small stature, a white lab coat, and wireframe glasses. 

“Oh, right,” you nodded in recognition. “I wish my body had found a different way to recover,” you muttered, taking the mug of coffee he hands you. “I think I’ve done enough sleeping.” 

You took a sip and he smiled at you, a strange fond look in his eye. 

You loved it when he looked at you that way, but you also find it so damn sappy.

“What?” you asked, half annoyed and half endeared. 

“Nothing, I just…” Steve shrugged again, “I said something similar when someone asked me about sleep.” 

He turned back to the stove and you sat at the table, smiling secretly to yourself as you continued to drink your coffee. 

In the days that you’ve been at the cabin, Steve has used it as an opportunity to show you some of the new things this era had to offer. Shortly after waking up, Steve had you sit on the couch while he closed the curtains. 

“What are you doing?” you laughed as he scrambled around, setting down different snacks and placing a large bowl of popcorn in your lap. 

“I’m giving you the whole movie theater experience,” he explained.

He had told you about movie theaters before; large, dark rooms with screens as big as walls showing a film as the sound surrounds you. 

“This is better, though. We can pause and talk as much as we want.” 

With the volume turned all the way up, you watched as blue text showed across the screen, then a loud crescendo of music startled you. The bowl shook in your lap, sending some pieces of popcorn onto the floor by your feet. 

You read the opening crawl, understanding the underlying theme of war and a battle between good and evil occurring. Then, you saw a large vessel glide across the screen, shooting lasers while a smaller ship tried to escape. 

Enthralled in the film, you mindlessly started grabbing pieces of popcorn to eat as you watched the story unfold. There was the occasional need to pause to get more food, go to the bathroom, or stretch, but whenever Steve asked if you wanted to stop, you refused. 

“I have to know what happens!”

He smiled at you and scooted closer, draping an arm over your shoulder. 

During the second film, he took the bowl off your lap, much to your protest.

“Shh, just watch,” he told you. 

You huffed, annoyed that he would tempt you with food then take it away. 

Not even a minute later, you understood as you jumped up and gasped, your hands covering your face as you tried to hide your shock. 

“Pause it!” 

Steve complied.

“Are you kidding me?”

He laughed and shook his head. “It’s true, sweetheart.”

“This whole time?! This whole time Darth Vader–oh my god, I’m such an idiot! Vater, that’s literally father in German!” 

Steve laughed and laughed, a hand on his chest as his eyes shut from how much he was enjoying your reaction. 

As you were still reeling from the reveal, shifting your weight from one foot to another, he reached for you, pulling you into his lap. 

“I love you,” he said gently, pressing his face close to yours and kissing your cheek. 

Your skin went aflame and you turned your head to peck his lips once. When he tried to lean in for more, you turned your attention back to the screen.

“Play the movie.” 

He showed the world of sports the following day, having you tune in to your first baseball game. You witnessed the sports fan side of Steve come out as he whined about bad calls and cheered loudly when his team–the Yankees–won in the 10th inning. 

“I used to be a Dodger fan,” he explained to you, “But I woke up and they told me the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles. I was pissed.”

“Why are they called the Dodgers?” you wondered, “Shouldn’t they, you know, not dodge the ball?”

Steve laughed and kissed you, a smug look on his face.

You huffed. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He looked taken aback at your accusing tone, the idiot. “Like what?”

“Like I said something funny. I wasn’t joking, I’m actually serious, why are they Dodgers if you’re supposed to catch the ball?”

He laughed even harder, clearing his throat when he saw your unamused look. 

“I know you’re not joking, sweetheart,” he soothed, taking your hands in his. “It was just a cute question,” he explained, then answered your question properly, “They used to be called the Trolley Dodgers, then it was shortened to Dodgers.” 

You hummed. “Okay. So why did they leave Brooklyn?”

“I don’t know,” he rolled his eyes. “Some bullshit move by the guy who runs the team. And I hate the Yankees.” 

You snickered. 

His head whips around to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. “What?” 

“It’s just baseball,” you shrugged. “But…it’s cute. You know, seeing you like this.” 

Ever patient, Steve answered all the questions you had about baseball. You understood why it was engaging; it was a slow-moving game that required precision and tactic. That game in particular ended at around two in the morning, though it was easy to stay awake. 

Having super-soldier metabolism meant you got hungry more often and needed food beyond the typical three meals a day. During the war, it was easy to forget your hunger–especially when you were always working and food was strictly rationed. 

Now, with so much food at your disposal, you and Steve needed to have a constant rotation of snacks between bigger meals. Every day, the two of you have woken up in the middle of the night to quell your grumbling stomachs. Sometimes you opted for eating out of an ice cream tub, other times you ate instant foods like ramen and macaroni and cheese. 

One night, at 4 AM, when your eyes were beginning to drop shut after finishing some leftover pizza, Steve rattled your brain awake. 

“This is nice.”

A simple sentence, but somewhat strange. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, rubbing your eyes to try and keep yourself alert to hear what he had to say. 

“It’s nice that you’re here,” he clarified. “I’ve been doing this alone for the past two years.” 

You imagined him at his apartment in D.C., conjuring up a scene in your mind since you never actually got to see what it looked like: Steve alone with only the light above the kitchen table on as he ate a meal surrounded by empty chairs, in a silent room. 

Did he play music while he ate to make himself feel less alone? Or maybe he turned on the TV? 

“Hey,” he said, cupping your cheek and wiping away a tear there with his thumb. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying. 

“Better late than never, right?” he offered in a cheerful tone, but his eyes gave away his own sadness. 

For the most part, it was nice to catch up with him. You grew accustomed to his habits and preferences as a New Yorker while teaching him about your home. The two of you learned about your upbringings and who he was before you encountered his file during Project Rebirth. 

In a way, he became more tangible to you. The images of his childhood changed from medical records and a candidate report to moving images conjured up in your mind.

Being in the cabin also allowed you some space to catch up with the modern age at your own pace. Tony had plenty of books on different topics of science and state-of-the-art technology all over the property, which you loved tinkering with. You got up in the guts of the car he gave you and Steve for the week and reveled in the way things have evolved in the automobile industry.

You found yourself looking forward to going back to Stark Tower to talk more tech with Tony, but you weren’t eager to leave quite yet.

“Sweetheart, can you get me a plate?” Steve asks, pressing his tongs into the steaks. “I think these are about ready.” 

Snapping out of your dreamy, reflective state, you stand and go into the kitchen to rummage through the cupboard with the flatware. 

After you step out to hand him the plate, you begin to take out some of the leftovers from lunch: mashed potatoes and a spring salad made from the vegetables you picked from the farmer’s market. Steve comes in and sets the steaks on the dining table and washes his hands before helping you set up, grabbing the pitcher of water and some bottles of beer. 

There’s a comfortable silence as the two of you eat, the simple pleasure of each other’s company not requiring either of you to talk. 

To Steve, this is paradise. 

It’s what he’s wanted for as long as he could remember–though in his 1940s imagination, things weren’t nearly as high-tech, and this would’ve all happened in an apartment in Brooklyn. 

And Bucky would have been there, too. 

He remembers while in the hospital after Sam told him about your detainment, he asked about Bucky’s whereabouts. 

“He disappeared, there’s no trace of him.”

Closing his eyes, Steve sighs. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“They’re the two most important people in my life,” he answers right away. 

Sam is quiet, then he speaks, “You know…you don’t always come home with the whole squad. You lose a man, you lose two, there’s always a part of you that feels empty or incomplete. But sometimes that makes your bond with your other squad members all the more meaningful.” 

Steve opens his eyes and looks at his friend, understanding. 

You were here. That matters just as much as losing Bucky. 

He wouldn’t lose you. Not again.

He cherishes every single moment with you and dotes on you to no end. He has a hand on you at every possible moment or remains as close as your comfort will allow. 

You were a lifeline to him, the source of his peace and baseline for sanity. He was in mourning from the moment he woke up to the moment he saw you again. 

If something were to take you away from him now, he would go berserk. 

Nights prior to you were spent restlessly, staring at his ceilings as car lights passed by his window and the projection of moonlight slowly moved before the sun rose. He supposes he would get three hours of sleep at most. 

In bed, he holds you tightly, akin to a child clinging to a teddy bear. It’s the only way he can feel secure now, the only way to keep the nightmares at bay. 

They haven’t occurred since the two of you arrived at the cabin. He had to do a double-take when he checked the time—he had slept for twelve hours. When his shock subsided, he looked down at you and smiled, pressing a kiss into your temple and squeezing you once before making breakfast. 

You’re wrapped up in his arms again now, trailing your fingers over his hand and up and down his arm as he kisses your shoulder, eyes dropping closed and body settling against the mattress. Comfortable. 

Secure. 

Happy. 

Then…cold. 

He blindly searches for you, rousing when he reaches as far as he can and his fingers wrap around the edge of the mattress instead of your body. His heart jumps and he blinks urgently to try and get his bearings. 

Where are you?

His whole body electrifies as he sits up, looking at the bedroom door and finding it closed. 

The wind blows and the hinge of the balcony door squeaks as it’s nudged open. Steve feels a chill then looks toward the noise and source of the cold. 

Throwing the blankets off his legs, he gets up and pads his way to the door, opening it further and finding you sitting on the little bench there, looking over the lake and at the clear, starry sky. 

Stepping around the side of the bench, he sits next to you, lip quirking up at one corner to smile when you look at him. 

“Are you okay?” he checks. 

“Mhmm,” you nod. 

He doesn’t want to pry, but he wants you to know he’s here to listen. If there’s anyone who could understand exactly what you’re going through, it’s him.

Reaching over to take your hand, he squeezes it. “You’re not alone.” 

You look down and squeeze back. “Not anymore.” 

When your eyes meet his again, they water suddenly, and tears spill over your eyelids. He’s quick to cup your face, wiping away every tear as fast as he can.

He doesn’t want you to cry. 

“That woman,” you say in between sobs. “The Black Widow.” 

“Nat?” he wonders. “What about her?”

“I know her.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I know her,” you say again, breathing in slowly to try and even out your voice. “Not well, but…I know her. I worked with her in the past, in the Red Room, where she was trained.” 

Steve doesn’t know much about Natasha’s past, only what is in her SHIELD file. “Red Room” rings a bell; an extremely intensive, regimented facility where she and hundreds of other women train to become the world’s most deadly assassins, just like their namesake. 

You were there?

“I saw her face, I couldn’t quite place it. Then she gave me the suit and I knew. And the Widows, they’re so intelligent, only the best of them all. She had to have known me.”

He had a feeling once he saw that you were connected to Bucky; Natasha had known of the Winter Soldier the minute she heard Steve’s description of him. There must have been some connection between the three of you, but he never would have thought that you trained her. 

“I’m sure I terrified her as a little girl,” you continue, sobbing again. “And she helped me…she’s helping me now, Tony gave me her clothes.”

Steve realizes you’re speaking out of guilt. It becomes more apparent when you add on to what you had just said.

“And Bucky…I’m sorry.” You place your hands on his wrists before sliding them up and grasping his palms. “I’m so sorry, I know I’m responsible for what happened to him. I just don’t know what I did.” 

You’re pleading with him; begging for forgiveness that you don’t need to ask for. 

“I should’ve known, I should’ve stopped it and helped him, I–”

Heart breaking, Steve shushes you and pulls you into his chest. 

“Stop,” he says, voice catching as he begins to cry himself. “It’s not your fault. I know you wouldn’t have if you had known–”

“It’s my fault, I know it is.”

“No, shh,” he tries to soothe you with a hand cupping the back of your head. “Sweetheart, it’s…”

It’s not okay. But he can’t put the blame on you. 

He settles on telling you that he understands. “I know you would’ve stopped it if you had known.” 

Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he closes his eyes, silent tears falling as his chest constricts. He supposes it was foolish of him to think things would automatically go back to how they were before, only the trauma of the war plaguing the two of you as you try to piece your lives together. 

As he holds you now, it dawns on him that there are demons living in your mind that disappear in your consciousness; they sneak up on you and attack, they break you and hurt you and leave you crying, riddled with guilt and fright. 

He wants to get rid of them. Of course, he does. What kind of person is okay with the love of their life struggling on their own with the pain of the past? 

How could he even begin to help when neither of you have all the pieces of the puzzle? 

Could Tony do something? Could he call in a favor? 

Maybe. 

The next question chills Steve to the bone: Could he handle the truth of it all? If someone could unlock those corners of your memory and they all came flooding out, could he reconcile his love for you with the reality of what you may have done against your will?

Yes.

- - - - -

“Do you want to go for a swim?” Steve asks. 

Peering over the top of your book, you see he’s looking straight ahead from where you sit on the porch bench. Your legs were draped across his lap, facing toward him as you read as the morning air warmed into the afternoon. 

You turn your head, blinded by the sunlight as it reflects against the surface of the lake. It’s a beautiful day, warm but not uncomfortable or sticky. 

“I can see if Tony packed a swimsuit in that luggage he gave me.”

Steve gives you a crooked smile and moves your legs so your feet land flat on the wooden deck. He stands, stripping off his shirt and providing you with a generous view of his physique. 

It occurs to you then that beyond kissing and holding, the two of you hadn’t reconnected in other ways. 

“I’ll meet you in the water,” he tells you, throwing a wink your way. 

You can’t help but roll your eyes, only to bite your lip as you watch him walk across the lawn to the end of the small dock and dive into the water. 

Ignoring the heat in your face, you get up and scurry upstairs to rifle through your luggage. When you stumble upon an article of clothing with a unique texture, you think you’ve found it–or…what appears to be left of it.

Growing up, you never saw a swimsuit; nobody in your town had one. But you had seen more modest ones in a British magazine that Peggy showed you during the war. It was something she had kept tucked away most of the time, but she took it out when she wanted to reminisce on simpler times. 

You still remember the image: three beautiful girls with their hair perfectly curled and styled; one with a ponytail, one with pigtails, and the third with her hair kept back with a headband. The photo was taken as they were laughing, mouths open and hands pressed to chests or raised delicately in joy. They lounged on towels with an umbrella propped behind them to give shade. The suits flattered their figures and covered nearly everything, only exposing their arms and legs.

While those suits were pretty skimpy for the 1940s, this one makes your eyes go wide. It’s practically a pair of undergarments–and those too have gotten skimpier in their own regard.

Undressing yourself, you struggle with the top and heave a sigh of relief when you finally get it tied properly. You shimmy into the bottoms, which you scowl at in the mirror. They barely cover your bottom, though there is a high waistline. 

As you look at your reflection, you trace your fingers over the dark, jagged scars that litter your body. You’re self-conscious for a moment; you don’t remember how you got most of them. There are a few exceptions: ones on your arm from repairs that went poorly and distinct circular ones from when the serum was injected into you. 

You take a deep breath, shaking whatever apprehension you feel out of your head and going down the stairs to the back door and onto the porch. 

From here, you can see Steve floating on his back, looking up at the sky. Eager to join him, you jog over the grass, feeling the blades tickle the soles of your feet. The wooden planks of the deck squeak gently underneath the weight of your steps and you sit at the edge when you reach the end. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

Your question jars him and you giggle as he flails for a moment before beginning to tread the water as he turns to look at you. 

He smiles for a moment, then his eyes glide down over your body. His face falls as he stares, no doubt at the blemishes littering your skin. 

Your chest squeezes, heat rising underneath your skin that makes your muscles tighten as you curl into yourself to hide. You feel your lungs inflate with a strange combination of embarrassment and pride–you feel humiliated that he’s staring but refuse to sit there and subject yourself to it. 

Getting up with a huff, you march back up the dock, ignoring Steve calling after you. As you walk over the lake, you hear him splashing and becoming a little more breathless as he keeps urging you not to leave. 

The screen door slams behind you and your feet slap against the stairs as you retreat into the bedroom. The hot air of your emotions escapes through your nostrils with every breath, especially when you struggle to untie the top of the bikini. In your rage, you throw it across the room and the bottoms follow after. 

You find yourself walking to the shower, your brain directing your feet before you can really think about your movements. Shutting the glass door, you turn on the hot water and stand under the spray as it strikes your skin. 

The heat makes your scalp tingle, giving you something to think about to banish the thoughts of the way Steve looked at you. Your head feels heavy, bowing as your eyes close. A breath echoes against the tiles–your breath, you realize–coming in short gasps and sobs while your hands wrap around yourself to make your body as small as possible. 

A short time later, your eyes open when you hear the door click and then shut again. You wait for Steve to say something, but his voice never comes. Cold air invades the shower cubicle as he opens the glass door and then shuts it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I…I didn’t mean to…” 

He lapses into silence and you close your eyes. You can feel his body, close to you but not crammed in the rather spacious area. 

“Can I touch you?”

Your spine straightens a little. You don’t refuse him, but you don’t nod either. 

You feel his skin on yours; a fingertip, tracing a line down your shoulder. Your muscles stiffen for a moment, then relax. 

His touch trails down until both hands hold your waist on either side. When his lips press into your shoulder, your legs nearly buckle, your body melting into his hold. 

He doesn’t stop, holding you up as he traces down your back, mouth ghosting over the scars he sees there. Steve takes his time, not only savoring the taste of your skin and the smell of your body but also reacquainting himself with you. Making up for lost time. 

There’s a swelling in his chest, a fierce fire that blazes and spreads throughout his body; he knows it well. He first felt it in 1944 in the backseat of a Jeep, in a garage in London. You, illuminated by dim lights coming in through the windows while the canopy of the Jeep kept the two of you concealed. 

Your coveralls and his dress greens on the floor, taken off in a flurry of desperation and desire. 

He wanted you then; he’d be damned if he made you believe he didn’t want you now. 

He commits the image of your back to memory, a new map of who you are, even if neither of you may ever find out how you got them. On his knees, as water runs down your skin, he doesn’t care about the lack of knowledge. He doesn’t think he ever will. 

His hands move to your hips. “Turn.” 

It’s almost a command, but his voice moves up as he says it, making it sound like a question. 

You tremble as you move, facing him. His heart sinks when he sees your face, eyes red and slightly swollen.

“What is it?” He rises to his feet, cupping your face but not before tracing up your figure as much as he can. His thumbs swipe your cheeks, attempting to remove tears he can’t see because of the water falling over both of you. 

You gasp, a broken sob coming from your throat as you reach for him, hands framing his face as you look at him almost in disbelief. 

“I missed you.” Your words are choppy as you cry. “Steve, I–”

He cuts you off, covering your mouth with his as he presses you into the tiled wall. He feels warm and dizzy and knotted in the stomach, butterflies erupting in every cell of his body. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, bringing him impossibly closer. 

Your lips part, giving his tongue space to dart into your mouth and brush against yours. His hand cups your thigh and brings it up to wrap around his hip, opening you up for him. 

Reaching between your bodies, his fingers blindly graze over the wet, needy flesh between your legs. Your hips roll forward and you bite his lower lip, making him groan against you. 

Rubbing your pussy with more pressure, Steve enjoys the sounds that spill from you, the impulsive touches and scratches you lay on his skin as he builds an orgasm for you and keeps himself at bay. He adjusts his hand, seeking out your clit. 

Unable to prevent it, he chuckles to himself. 

“Why the hell are you laughing?” He doesn’t need to see your face, he knows how you’re looking at him from the tone of your voice. 

Opening his eyes, he smiles, giddy like a schoolboy. “Remember the first time you showed me how to do this?” He laughs again, “You said I was looking at your pussy like it was a novelty.” 

Your eyes are distant for a moment and then they light up. You smile too, seeming unable to stop it as you look at him. “And you said it was.” 

“And then you laughed at me.” 

“Shut up, Rogers, I told you back then that I was laughing because it was cute.” 

Rolling his eyes, he kisses you once, soft like the breeze lifting a flower petal. “You were my first.”

You run your fingers through his hair, pushing back the pieces that fall forward. His fingers begin to move against your nub, making your eyes close and your head roll back in bliss. “I like being your first.”

He presses his forehead to yours, “I’m glad I found you.” 

He stops his movements, hand pulling back to wrap around his length and giving himself a few tugs. When he’s ready, everything goes still in anticipation of the feeling of being connected to you again; loving you, pleasing you, being yours. 

You sigh and say his name as he pushes in, pulling back and looking into his face while he slowly fills you up. He knows it’s familiar, that he’s been here with you before plenty of times, but there’s something new about this now. Something that makes him relish this moment with you, fills him with hope for everything that lies ahead for both of you. 

He loves you, and he tells you and shows you as he fills you up and mingles his breath with yours and kisses you in desperation. There are no words to express what he feels; he’s on Cloud 9 and he never wants to come down. 

He wants to stay with you, anywhere you go, and never part from you. He wants the promise that he will never lose you again, no matter how irrational and unattainable it is. 

Your moans come more frequently, your nails clawing at his skin, wounds stinging under the hot water. He curses, thrusting into you faster and harder to bring you over the edge. 

His name echoes in your voice against the tiles, reaching his ears and bringing on his own orgasm. Knees nearly buckling, he summons all his strength to keep both of you upright through the paralyzing pleasure.

Fuck, he loves you.

He doesn’t know how long he remains within you, nosing at your neck while you graze your fingertips over his shoulder and through his hair. 

“Steve,” you mumble against his shoulder. 

He hums.

“I want to lie down with you.” 

- - - - -

Bundled in blankets and one of his long sleeves, you cuddle into Steve as you watch an animated film on TV, lying on your side with his body right behind you. 

It takes place in China and follows the story of a girl who joins the army in place of her father. She’s determined to succeed, crafty in her execution to establish her place among male soldiers. 

“I like this one,” you tell him, watching a training montage as the captain of the unit sings a song about his expectations for his soldiers. 

“It’s a good one,” Steve agrees, hand trailing up your side before wrapping his arm around your middle. 

You entwine your fingers with his, bringing his hand up to your lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

As the song ends and the scene changes, Steve squeezes you closer to him. Pressing a kiss into your temple, he smiles when you giggle, then kisses you again and again. 

“When we get back to New York, I’m gonna marry you,” he swears, echoing his sentiments from his private quarters in the London SSR headquarters when he first asked you to come back with him. 

You hum a laugh. “Sounds like a plan, Rogers.” 

Your neck cranes to look at him and receive a kiss on your lips. When you turn back, he buries his face in your hair. 

For a moment, he lets it sink in that you’re here, you’re real, he has you back. The two of you can finally be together. 

Now, he just has to find Bucky. 

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Steve tag: @twittytelly

You’re certain the agent questioning you is as frustrated with you as you are with him as the Secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross, stands behind him and scrubs a hand down his face.

They’ve brought in five different people to read off the same list of inquiries about your time with Hydra; a person with something called a polygraph test; and now, a new investigator and Ross.

All the answers they got were the same. You knew your name, your date of birth, and how long you worked in the service of the US Army before your disappearance into the ice.

What you couldn’t tell them were the details of what they really wanted to know.

What were you doing from 1945 up until four days ago when Steve found you?

What was your role?

Why were you kept alive? How are you alive?

You could answer that. But at this point, the question was just procedural to make sure your stories were consistent.

Everything else got a variation of I don’t know and I don’t remember. You truly didn't–the polygraph test revealed that. All of that information was stashed and locked in a corner of your brain that you couldn’t access.

You said that over and over again for the past ninety-six hours. Why didn’t they believe you?

Because they have one reason not to.

Witness accounts placing you next to the Winter Soldier–who suddenly disappeared after the helicarriers fell–and Hydra agents that were captured confessing that they had worked with you.

You’re certain they questioned Steve about his knowledge, but you were confident they couldn’t accuse him of anything.

Sam and Agent Hill had got off scot-free.

Secretary Ross had told you they questioned Natasha in front of the Defense Council of the United States and now she’s disappeared.

“That just leaves you, miss,” he says, making a show of looking at the witness and Hydra agent testimonies. “Our intelligence team is sorting through Hydra’s and SHIELD’s files. Once we find yours, I’m sure your memory will run a marathon when it jogs up to the information.”

He leaves the room and you clench your fists.

- - - - -

Steve is fuming.

He spends all of his waking hours juggling thoughts of tracking down Bucky and getting you released. Part of him had hoped that they would release you on the third day after realizing you truly don’t know anything. He doubts you would tell them about your life in the past seventy years before you told him about it. But today, the fourth day, his frustration increases by the second.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He stops his pacing through his D.C. apartment and takes out the device, hoping for a notification that you’ve been released and he can pick you up.

It’s Tony.

Just checking in after the Hydra fiasco. You doing okay, Cap?

Steve furrows his brows and wonders why Tony took so long to message him. If he was so concerned, wouldn’t he have messaged him the day after it happened?

Doing fine. Just finishing up some business here before heading up there.

The reply comes quickly, What business?

Steve tries to figure out a subtle way to hint that it’s important and he has to stay without giving away that it’s about you.

Is it about Secretary Ross and your girlfriend?

How did–

How do you know about that?

I know everything. *Genius*, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, remember?

Steve rolls his eyes.

Right. But yes, it’s about that. They won’t release her.

Tony takes a second to respond, and Steve isn’t sure how to understand it. Let me see what I can do.

- - -

A few hours later, Steve hears a knock on his door. Looking through the peephole, there’s a mix of surprise and a feeling that he can only describe as “Oh, God, here we go.”

“Tony,” he says as he opens the door.

“Cap,” he nods in response.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to help you break out your girlfriend. Well, not ‘break out’ more like bail out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I scanned through the Hydra files that Romanoff released. There’s not a single word about her in any of them.”

Steve’s brows furrow. How can that be?

“Now, I know what you’re thinking and no, my tech did not miss anything. It’s far too precise because it’s mine.”

“How can you be sure?”

Tony tilts his head. “To be frank, I can’t be. But, Secretary Ross has probably got a team of humans looking through those files and we all know how faulty humans can be.”

Steve doesn’t respond.

“Anyway, I’m thinking Ross has been holding your girlfriend for this long because he’s holding out for something about her. But you and I are gonna go down there right now and tell him he’s got nothing and as such, must let her go.”

“Since when did you become a lawyer?”

“I didn’t, but I’ve talked my way out of enough things to know what to do.”

Despite still being unsure about this, Steve figures it’s better than nothing. He grabs his jacket and keys before following Tony out of his building and to the Pentagon.

- - - - -

You barely have the appetite to eat the sandwich in front of you.

It’s the same one they’ve given you for lunch and dinner since your arrest. You know what it’ll be: stale bread, limp lettuce, mushy tomatoes, and sour meat.

The door opens and your head lifts slowly, ready for someone to snatch the plate away and question you again.

Instead, it’s Steve.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jump up from your seat and leap into his arms. When he buries his nose in your neck, you feel a little self-conscious; you hadn’t been permitted to shower for as long as you’ve been here. He doesn’t seem to care, holding you even tighter when you try to pull away.

“You okay?” he checks, cupping your face and examining you closely.

You nod, pushing your face into his chest. Here, enveloped in him, everything feels better.

“Come on,” he coaxes you with a hand gliding down your back and landing at your waist, rubbing comforting circles there. “Let’s go home.”

He takes your hand, leading you out of the holding cell and interrogation room, through the detention ward, and out into a bright open hallway, lit by the sunlight pouring through the windows.

Your eyes sting and you whimper slightly at the pain, using your arm to shield your eyes as they adjust. Blinking away the blur, your eyes settle on a man who looks strangely familiar from the side.

When he pivots to look at you and Steve, he smiles and a sharp gasp leaves your throat.

“Howard?”

Steve squeezes your hand and you look at him before looking back at the man.

He looks down and takes off his sunglasses. He frowns a little, then smiles gently, almost in a forgiving way.

“No. No, sorry to disappoint,” he says with a shake of his head. You can’t tell if he’s serious or joking. He folds the arms of his glasses and places them in the breast pocket of his blazer. “I’m Tony, his son. My parents…” he pauses, “They died a little over twenty years ago. Car crash.”

A chill runs down your spine and you shiver visibly.

“Anyway, lovely to meet you,” he says, his mood seeming to change in the blink of an eye as if you didn’t bring up a traumatic memory.

Tony offers his hand for you to shake. In a surprise gesture, he brings your hand to his lips and kisses the back of it.

“Howard did the same thing when he and I first met,” you say fondly.

“He told me he was a gentleman when it counted. And he told me a lot about the two of you; ‘Captain Rogers and the little miss.’”

You smile, happy memories of working with him in the weapons room coming to mind.

Something feels strange about the knowledge of him being gone, though you can’t quite put your finger on it.

“I’m sorry to hear he’s gone,” you manage to say.

“Well, time heals all wounds,” Tony shrugs then looks between the two of you. “Shall we?” he says, gesturing to the exit.

Steve looks at you, “Ready to go?”

There’s something beneath what he’s saying. He’s not just asking you if you want to leave this place–because of course you do.

By the way his eyes fall on you, you know he’s also asking Are you ready to start our life together?

You smile. “Yes.”

- - - - -

“Tony, you passed the exit,” Steve says flatly, annoyed.

You weren’t paying attention. You were focused on the car. It really looked like something from the future: clean stitches on the black leather interior, a screen in place of a radio, heated seats, a quiet engine, and quick acceleration.

Everything you built into Schmidt’s car, only a thousand times better.

“Huh? Oh,” Tony replies, throwing a confused look at the two of you in the rearview mirror, though it’s easy to tell that he’s faking it. “We’re not going back to that tiny apartment you had.”

“It wasn’t tiny.”

“Well, whatever. I have an upgrade for you back at the tower, Cap. Somewhere you two lovebirds can settle in together. Privately, of course. Large, open space, stocked kitchen, California king bed, sound-proof walls…”

“And you didn’t think to tell me about this plan to take us back to New York?”

“Trust me, Capsicle, it’ll be great.”

Arriving at the airport, Tony leads you down a different terminal from the general public–not after garnering some excited points and eager looks from passengers. Some point out Steve, particularly a little boy wearing a shirt with the image of his shield on it.

“Still quite the celebrity, I see,” you remark. “Do people know you used to dance, too?”

Steve shushes you, cheeks turning red as he smiles.

“You two are disgusting,” Tony interjects with a smile, flashing a badge at the security guard.

He unlocks the door and you see a hangar with an aircraft. It’s smaller than the other planes on the runway, but it looks fast.

“You brought a Quinjet?” Steve asks.

“Don’t see a point in traveling an extra ten minutes when I could be using that time more wisely. Like bailing out the little miss.”

Your heart flutters from being referred to with that nickname again.

The back hatch of the Quinjet opens and Tony goes up the small incline. Steve stands by you as you get a look inside: it uses the space remarkably well; there’s storage along the walls and seats that fold up. Though you can’t see it, it looks like there’s even more space within the wings of the jet.

“I had the same reaction,” Steve reassures you. “It’s a far cry from Howard’s plane.”

At the mention of his name, you feel goosebumps ripple up your arms. You let out a small gasp, then cover it with a laugh.

“You’re right.”

You enter the jet as Tony takes a seat in the pilot chair, flipping switches, and turning knobs.

“If either of you wanna get a quick nap in, you can pull out the cot. Cap knows where it is.”

“You can sleep in this?” you wonder in surprise.

“Quieter than the average jet and more than twice as fast. We’ll be in New York within the hour,” Tony rattles off, flipping a switch that closes the back hatch. He tilts the steering wheel up and you feel the vehicle lift.

Startled, you reach for Steve and he steadies you with his hands on your waist.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, “I gotcha.”

Tony communicates with the call tower, chattering indistinctly before he gets the clear to take off.

The jet moves so quickly and you adjust your arms to wrap around Steve’s waist as he reaches up and grabs one of the handrails suspended from the ceiling.

“Tony, warnings would be nice!” he shouts.

“Sorry, a little too eager to show the little miss what I’ve been up to.”

“Trust me, she sees it!”

When the jet levels, you’re shocked when you look out the front window. The world is moving so fast and it doesn’t feel like anything.

“This is incredible,” you say, detaching yourself from Steve and walking towards the second pilot seat.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Tony replies. He begins to describe all the technological aspects of the jet, answering your questions and sharing his secrets.

“Maybe one of these days Capiscle will teach you how to fly it.”

“Let’s just work on getting her to New York, Tony,” Steve replies, having not moved from his spot the entire trip.

“Well, why don’t you take a whirl now?” Tony offers, “We’re about to land.”

He walks you through it, telling you how to adjust speed and orient the vehicle so it can land perfectly in the launch bay.

“Coming up on the tower now.”

It’s tall, half of it glass and the other a classic looking skyscraper with a concrete exterior and smaller windows. A portion of it extends sideways to have room for a helipad and an outdoor patio.

“Alright, now, easy does it…” Tony guides you.

Your landing is a little bumpy, but he congratulates you nonetheless.

“You’re a natural. Could use some improvement, but we all do.”

The three of you exit the jet, you and Steve following Tony down the launch bay and into the building. Distantly below you, you can hear the sounds of the street: loud cars, sirens, what sounds like a train, and social gatherings.

Tony takes you to an elevator. It’s quiet, too, and the ride is smooth and quick.

You wonder how many times you’ll be shocked when a vehicle is fast and practically silent as it takes you where you need to go.

When you exit, you’re taken to a small atrium with what looks like a keypad and a door. A small window is on one wall, bringing more illumination into the space in addition to the lights in the ceiling.

As you approach the door, the screen lights up with an image of Steve’s shield.

“It’s fingerprint activated. Just put your four fingers or your thumb on the screen,” Tony explains. “It’s only calibrated to Steve’s prints but we’ll get yours sorted out ASAP, little miss.”

Steve uses his thumb and the door audibly unlocks and slides open.

The lights turn on as you enter, casting a cool light into the room and you freeze.

You’re certain Tony meant well with this design. It looked sleek and modern, but still cold and uninviting. The walls were exposed concrete, a little too reminiscent of the holding cell you were just occupying hours prior…

And something else.

The room feels suffocatingly frigid all of a sudden and your temples sting. Bringing your arms around yourself you shiver, and Tony conveniently mentions that there are heated floors and centralized temperature control.

Showing you another screen on the wall, he turns the thermostat up by two degrees.

“But, I also figured you two are old school, so there’s a fireplace there for more coziness. Gas, of course. There's a valve next to it. But if you need any help, you can ask Jarvis. He can also do things like dim the lights, lower the shades, lock and unlock the door, you name it.”

Tony walks the two of you through the kitchen and living spaces before leading the two of you down the hallway. The concrete walls remain a common theme throughout the place, the monochromatic color scheme still leaving you with a chilly, displaced feeling.

Stealing a look at Steve, he doesn’t look very bothered. He listens intently and you can tell he wishes he had a notepad so he could write all the information down. Knowing that he seems perfectly fine with the space, you decide to dampen your reactions, fidgeting with your fingers and keeping your limbs locked in close to your body.

When Tony brings you to the bedroom, there are softer colors that feel a little more welcoming, but it still holds that air of something uninviting and almost foreboding. You know automatically you won’t be able to sleep here.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, looking at both of you. “Any changes you’d like to make? Just say the word and I can make it happen.”

Steve looks at you while you look between both of them.

“It’s nice,” you say quietly, your neck stiff as you punctuate your sentence with a nod.

“You alright, little miss?”

“Mhm,” you nod more vigorously, but you don’t think it makes your discomfort any less subtle.

Tony looks thoughtful for a moment before he states there’s something else he’d like to show you. You walk through the apartment again and back to the elevator.

Another quiet ascent as you move back to the upper floors of the building.

The new space is illuminated with blue; sleek, gray walls reflect the light and cast a catalytic glow. It reminds you of the cube Schmidt used to power his weapons. That bright white and azure signal something big has been created in this space, and the next big thing is waiting to be started.

Steve leads you out of the elevator, but you barely make it more than three steps into the room.

“This is the lab, it’s where the magic happens,” Tony gestures around. “Lots of fun stuff. You got screens.”

He taps his knuckle onto a clear slab of glass twice and it lights up. ”It’s equipped with the fastest search engine known to man. But it’s not a standard-issue yet. Sometimes I don’t feel like sharing.”

He goes on and on and on about all the different features of the lab. You try to keep up, but the movement of the robotic arms distracts you, the light bothers you as your eyes continue to fail to adjust. You jump as some items fall off a desk and a man groans.

He’s not particularly small, but he makes himself so. Donned in a white coat and wire-framed glasses perched on his nose, his hair is a dark gray with a few silver strands curled loosely and styled out of his face.

“Oh, hello,” he greets awkwardly, rubbing his hands together and adjusting his coat. “Cap,” he nods to him, waving.

“Dr. Banner,” Steve greets back.

“Banner, come meet Cap’s girlfriend.”

You cut a quick look to Steve before straightening out your clothes.

Narrowing his eyes at you, Steve watches closely as you introduce yourself to Bruce. You’ve never been one to care too much about appearances. Peggy dressed you that night at the bar, and one of the first things you told him when you began discussing going to New York with him was he’d better not expect you to suddenly start wearing dresses.

“I’m gonna wear pants everyday, dammit. And the women of New York can shove it if it really bothers them.”

Keeping hair out of your face you were conscious of, but for purposes of being able to see.

But clothes?

“Little miss, let me show you around a little more. There’s something I think you’d like.”

You look at Steve again and he nods to you, a silent question of, “What do you want to do?”

You point in Tony’s direction and follow him. Bruce pipes up next to him, “She’s a shy one.”

Steve exhales briefly and sharply. “Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s…it’s too much for her. She grew up in a village, not a city. And knowing Tony and how he’s…” Steve trails off, failing to find the word.

“Tony,” Bruce finishes for him.

“Yeah, and all this,” Steve motions to the room around him. “It must be a lot for her. She’s only been…’awake’...for less than a week.”

His heart sinks further as you nod with an uneasy expression on your face. He should have told Tony he would take you to New York when you were ready.

“I think I should take her out of here,” he thinks out loud.

“What do you mean?”

“Bring her out of the city, just for a little bit.”

“You know, that might not be a bad idea,” Bruce agrees. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off you as his friend continues, “You know her better than I do, and I can tell she’s very out of her comfort zone right now. If this is unusual for her, going to a quiet place might be just what she needs to really absorb everything.”

“Should I try to talk to her about it?”

Even now, after knowing you as well as he does, Steve still doesn’t know how to approach delicate subjects with you. His first instinct is to protect, enact vengeance on those that hurt you.

But he knows it’s not enough to accomplish his ultimate goal: to heal you–and himself–so the two of you can move forward with your lives together.

In his periphery, he can see Bruce shake his head.

“Just be gentle. Keep things light, show her some of the good you’ve discovered while you were waiting for her.”

Waiting for her.

Steve’s heart tugs at how long he’s waited for you. The right partner, as he told Peggy.

And he realizes, the whole time from when he woke up to up until five days ago, he was waiting for an opportunity to see you again. Biding his time going on missions and living in a time-warped haze, catching up with the times; waiting for one outcome or any other.

The discovery and thawing of your body. Meeting his end and seeing you on whatever awaits humans on the other side of life.

Waiting.

As you wring your hands nervously, a gesture that Steve knows too well, he pats Bruce on the shoulder in thanks and approaches the space where you stand as Tony rambles on.

“How’s it going here?” he checks in, keeping it casual.

“It’s good,” you say quietly, “It’s impressive, the lab, the tower…”

Your eyes wander up and around and your breathing turns shallow and quick before you swallow and look at him again.

“It’s…it’s—”

“It’s okay if it’s a lot,” Steve tells you gently, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “The world’s different from the one we knew, I know.”

You nod. “I know, but–”

“Maybe you lovebirds need a weekend away,” Tony suggests, his voice soft as he looks around. “Or more than a weekend. A week. Longer. You can stay up at the lakehouse.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Steve agrees, placing an arm around your waist and bringing you close to him.

You turn to look at Tony and he gives you a thumbs up. “I’ll make your apartment homier for you two. For man and wife, not just…what did Romanoff say?” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “Not just for a widower.”

You look back at Steve, and he smiles at you, drawing you close to him with a hand on your hip. He gently squeezes there, relishing the feeling of your body in his hands again as you lean your head on his chest.

Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head and smiles at his friend, “I think that’s a great idea, Tony.”

- - - - -

You and Steve embarked on your journey less than an hour later, affording you a chance to freshen up before leaving the city as the late afternoon turns into evening.

Steve packed a bag of his clothes and essentials, while Tony sent you with a suitcase of some of Nat’s items.

“I’m sure she won’t mind,” he said. “While she’s gone, someone may as well get some use outta these.”

Driving up was enough to get you to calm down, especially when Steve showed you his phone and the Bluetooth connection to the radio so you could play music. He showed you all the artists and genres he was catching up with, everything from BeeGees and disco; to rock music and AC/DC; and Backstreet Boys and pop.

As you looked out the window, you marveled at the tall buildings that surrounded you on both sides. The last time you were in New York was 1943.

You remember your surprise at the hustle and bustle of the city, but it seems like life only got faster as time continued. Buildings got larger, lights got brighter, and people got more impatient.

When Steve stopped to top off the gas tank just before leaving the city limit, you browsed through the snack aisles, looking up and down at all of your choices.

The colors were bright and overwhelming, making you feel unsettled again until you moved into the aisle with fruit and grains. A man bumped you, knocking you into the shelf as he grumbled that he had places to get to.

You breathed in slowly, grabbed an apple, and headed to the checkout counter.

The cashier had a vacuous look in his eyes and a deadpan tone, rolling his eyes as you fumbled for the right amount of cash to give him. Steve came up next to you after, placing a bag of granola onto the counter and flashing a card to the man.

After your transaction, Steve ushered you out and into the car.

“I think I’m a little too slow for New York,” you mutter, buckling your seatbelt.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he replies with a smile, reaching across the console and patting your knee. “You’ll catch up. Takes some time.”

Once Steve drove out of the city, it suddenly felt easier to breathe. You no longer felt closed in by skyscrapers or rushed by honking cars.

You sat back and ate your apple, relaxing in the slightly reclined passenger’s seat. Steve seemed comfortable, occasionally reaching over again to hold your hand for a few minutes at a time.

About an hour into the drive, he mentioned that the two of you would need to stop at a grocery store and asked you to think about what you wanted to eat while you were away.

He pulls into a parking lot, the building and sign unassuming but when you walk in, you’re met with another space that overtakes your senses. You try to breathe slowly, following Steve as he takes you to the meat aisle and places a few trays of steaks into the cart and a tray of burgers.

“Now that I don’t have asthma anymore, I can stand by an open grill,” he remarks, a joking lilt in his voice.

You swallow and give him the best smile you can manage.

Wrapping his arm around your waist, he squeezes your hip. “We’ll be quick. Is there anything else you want?”

You turn your eyes to the refrigerated shelves, blinking quickly as you try to focus on the options in front of you.

Your eyes land on a package of bratwurst and you recall the dish Dr. Erskine cooked for the two of you when you were able to get your hands on more expensive ingredients during the war.

The plastic feels strange against your fingers, the texture foreign as you lift up the package and grab a second one before placing them in the cart.

Steve then takes you around to pick up some milk, eggs, and cheese, along with some frozen foods.

Leading you to the next aisle, you’re overwhelmed again by all the bright packages of different chips and sodas. A few paces down, a worker restocks the shelves, the crinkling sound scraping against your eardrums. Above you, a beeping sound plays and a man’s voice comes through the speakers, garbled by the old sound system. The music starts again–the music that had been playing this entire time and had faded into white noise–seeming louder than before. You look up and the harsh lighting stings your eyes.

Suddenly, everything that you had managed to become desensitized to reaches your senses: the hum of the cooling systems, the chatter from other shoppers, the meat slicer behind the deli counter, the beeping of the ovens in the bakery.

Recalling your dream–memory?--from a few days ago, you could look at Zola with a gaze that could kill. He had called your abilities as a super soldier a blessing.

Now, it was a curse.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice sounds above everything else. His hands cup your jaw, making you see only him. “Breathe in with me.”

He takes an exaggerated breath, making a show of his shoulders rising up as he inhales.

“Breathe out.”

You watch his chest sink and feel your own deflate, your heartbeat still in your eyes but less dizzy than you were a moment ago when you didn’t even realize you were feeling that way.

“Let’s go pay,” he says quietly, “We’ll leave after.”

“But…but we’re not done–”

He chuckles once, placing his forehead against yours. “Yes, we are,” he whispers before kissing your nose.

He’s gentle, offering you his arm to hold while he pushes the cart with the other.

You watch the man at the end of the conveyor belt bag your groceries and turn to Steve as he taps on the keypad.

“We forgot to get vegetables.”

“We’ll stop at a farmer’s stand on the way,” he promises. “We’re getting out of here.”

Embarrassed and guilty, you look down.

As much as you want to argue that you’re fine, you can handle ten more minutes gathering what you need, most of your energy is spent ignoring every piece of stimuli around you that isn’t Steve.

“Let’s go,” he verbally nudges, voice still soft as he leads the way out of the store and into the parking lot.

“Go sit inside,” he says, nodding towards the passenger’s side door. “I won’t be long.”

You wait as he loads the groceries into the back, feeling the weight of the car shift as it supports all the bags of food Steve purchased for the coming days.

You stop fiddling with your fingers long enough to buckle yourself in.

As you squeeze the base of your right finger with your thumb and forefinger on your left hand, you see Steve’s hand covers yours.

“You okay?”

You purse your lips and blink back tears. “I’m just…” you begin, face heating up at the sound of your watery voice, “I’m sorry I can’t handle it. I’m such an inconvenience–”

“Hey,” he says, cupping your jaw and gently turning your head so you can look at him. “You’re not. Not to me.”

His thumb swipes a tear that falls and he continues, “I know it’s been a lot these past few days. It just takes some getting used to, and I know because I’ve been there. And I’m gonna be here next to you every step of the way, sweetheart.”

Ignoring the discomfort in the way that you overextend your body, you throw your arms around his shoulders.

“I promise I’m not letting either of us be alone ever again,” he swears, cupping the back of your head.

He kisses you once, then a second time before you settle back in your seat.

The rest of the way, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Just before approaching the property, Steve keeps true to his word and pulls over so you can shop at a farmer’s stand.

You pick your fill of fruits and vegetables–some you’ve never seen before–feeling nostalgic as you place them into a cardboard box given to you by the owners of the farm. When Steve comes to ask you for your opinion on which tomato is best, your heart tugs as you remember shopping with your first fiancé.

It’s strange; it’s not that you miss him. You cherish the memories of the time you spent with him, sure, but you don’t wish he was there instead of Steve, nor do you wish Steve had been in his place–even if there was a world where he did survive.

You realize that in a cosmic way, this is how it was meant to be. You and Steve, together. Through everything.

And it suddenly becomes apparent that he knows it, too.

It’s why he had been so patient this entire time. He could easily walk away, abandon everything and leave you to your own devices.

He doesn’t just say no, he outright refuses to.

Steve calls your name, asking if you’re okay.

Standing on your toes, you press your lips to his. You smile at the surprise he seems to feel, his delayed return of affection a clear sign of how unexpected it was.

“You okay?” he checks again, neck, cheeks, and ears flushing red.

“Yes,” you nod. Then, you look at the tomatoes, giving them a squeeze before deciding which ones are best.

Another few miles down, Steve takes you to another roadside pit stop to pick up a few more snacks and some beer.

The property is closed off, a brick wall running along the perimeter until you reach an iron gate. From what you can tell, it’s massive.

But do you really expect anything less from Howard’s son?

The gate opens automatically as the car approaches, the driveway illuminating in Tony’s signature blue lights. As the sun sets across the lake, you can see the cabin in the distance.

It’s large, but still barely taking up the entire area. As you move deeper into the space, you realize you could walk and explore for hours without seeing any kind of barrier.

Steve pulls up right at the front porch, exiting the car and running over to your side to open the door for you. He takes your hand, leading you up the steps to the wooden deck.

You pause briefly, looking at how the receding sunlight reflects against the surface of the lake, rippling under the breeze. You hear the din of crickets and the occasional whistle from a nearby bird.

For a moment, everything is still; no SHIELD, no Hydra, no Project Insight, no Pierce, no Rumlow, not even the busy sounds of New York can reach you here.

It’s just you and Steve.

You turn back to look at him, grateful for the patient look he gives you. You know he’d give you as long as you need to feel normal. Even if you didn’t know what “normal” would look like in this new world, you know he’d love you whether you stayed the same or changed.

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Steve tag: @twittytelly

Sometimes you remember a face.

Blue eyes that are gentle when they look at you, blond hair soft between your fingers.

Hands that move slowly over your skin as if you’re a glass vase and he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you too tightly.

It confuses you, brings tears to your eyes.

You long for him, though you don’t know who he is.

“Why do you cry Kapitan?” a voice asks, English spoken through a German filter.

“I feel I know too much,” you reply.

“Come, come,” he says in fake reassurance. “You are so blessed with such a knowledge that I could never achieve.” His hands come on your shoulders, meant to resemble a father’s but it’s wrong.

“If it were a blessing,” you grit, “You would permit me the luxury of having my memory wiped like the soldier.”

He sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Alas, I cannot. Wiping that part of your memory risks you losing too much of your precious intellect,” his hands press gently into the crown of your head. “You are a precious commodity to Hydra. The Captain of the soldier. We will need that when our New World Order arises.” His smile is artificially sweet, making a bitter taste flood into your mouth. “Besides,” he traces down your temple, “the memories of your precious Captain America will keep you company. And you will need them in your long, lonely life.”

Captain America, you wonder, then your head hurts, making your eyes shut tightly and your neck stiffen.

Why does it hurt to think of that name?

He backs away and shouts a command. Your muscles tense as you feel the cold engulf you.

You gasp, sitting up in the cot and pressing your palms into your eyes. You feel the sting of the ice on your skin, shivering despite the warmth of Steve’s jacket around your shoulders.

You feel something heavy being draped over your shoulders and a hand rests in the crook of your neck, grabbing your attention.

Steve’s friend, Sam, squats in front of you.

“Take a deep breath in for four.”

He counts as you inhale.

“Hold it; one, two, three, four, five, six. Now breathe out slowly.”

You exhale until he counts to eight before instructing you to breathe in again.

After five rounds of the exercise, your muscles relax and you tighten the blanket around you, trying to keep the warmth in.

“Thank you,” your voice comes out quiet and brittle.

He nods once, then asks in a hushed voice, you think to not startle you, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head.

“Alright,” he replies, folding his hands and resting his arms across his knees. “Just remember you’re safe here with us.”

Looking into his eyes, you find honesty and comfort; perhaps that’s what drew Steve to him.

“Thank you, Sam,” you say again, trying to fully convey your gratitude but you’re certain it’s not enough.

“You can rest some more,” he urges you gently, hand pressing into your shoulder with reassurance. “There’s time, and we have a long day ahead of us.”

Nodding, you lay on your side, adjusting the blanket as an extra measure to keep out the cold.

You don’t sleep much, it comes and goes. Eventually, you give up and go to the makeshift meeting room where everyone is preparing–with the exception of Steve.

Natasha, the redhead, answers your question before you even ask it.

“Steve went to go get a suit.”

She rifles through a black hard-cased trunk before pulling out a black piece of fabric.

“Speaking of which,” she begins and beckons you over with her hand. “Let’s get you suited up.”

Steve catches Nat as she leaves, donned in a blue skirt suit, blonde wig, and an electronic face mask in her hand.

He catches the end of a comment about you, something about “he’ll like what he’ll see when he gets in.”

Sam appears to be tinkering away at his wingsuit but pauses to throw him a knowing look reminiscent of the look Bucky would give him whenever Steve saw a girl he had a crush on.

Stepping into the meeting room, Steve drops the backpack he stashed his WWII suit in, the first one you made for him. You sit at a table, your red bandana tied into your hair where it belongs, listening as Agent Hill debriefs you.

The sound of the bag hitting the floor catches everyone’s attention; Hill greets him with a nod of her head while Fury appears from behind a plastic curtain where he was redressing his wounded arm.

Steve just looks at you, watching as you turn in the swivel chair and jump up, rushing into his arms and throwing yours around his shoulders.

His hands land on your hips and the suit you’re wearing feels familiar under his palms, kevlar-like material tight against your skin. When memories of propelling Nat up into the air to reach higher places flash across his mind, he realizes it’s her Black Widow suit.

He takes a half-step back, eyes scanning down the front. There’s a notable change: the red hourglass belt buckle is replaced with a small, rustic silver star that matches the one on the chest of his suit.

“I told Nat I’m not a Black Widow, so I can’t wear the red hourglass,” you explain quietly. “But I’m with you, so I made the star.”

“I think it’s great,” he compliments, heart feeling light as he looks at you, forever elated that you’re here with him again.

He squeezes your hips once and presses his lips to your forehead.

“Captain Rogers, if you’re done gawking,” Fury speaks up, “We have a debrief to finish.”

Heat spreads from his neck all the way up to his ears. Your arms loosen around his shoulders, palms running down his chest and you pat him once.

“It never stops, I guess,” you mumble, stepping away and taking your seat at the table again as Hill picks up from where she was interrupted.

For a moment, Steve reprimands himself. How stupid could he be to think that once the war ended, everything would stop?

Even if he hadn’t gone into the ice, he would have still been with the SSR. Still been needed.

Just like he is now.

It never stops.

Someone will always need him, but that’s why he will always need you.

As you navigate the neighboring forest near the Triskelion, following Agent Hill’s lead with Steve and Sam behind you, memories of awaiting the order to infiltrate the Hydra Base in 1945 play across your mind. You remember Peggy’s calming voice and Howard fiddling with his hand-held machine.

Suddenly you feel cold as you remember standing next to the Winter Soldier by a dimly lit street.

You gasp as you trip over a fallen tree branch, Steve’s quick reflexes allowing him to catch your arm before you collide with the ground.

“Are you okay?” he checks, a gloved hand cupping your face.

You catch your breath and nod, embarrassed that you’ve delayed the operation. Steve says you can take more time, but you insist that you’re well.

He walks substantially closer to you the rest of the way.

Entering the Triskelion is easy enough; guards are unwitting and unprepared to fight Agent Hill, Steve, and Sam. Some even yield to them, but Hill still strikes them unconscious to prevent them from raising an alarm.

Once the four of you reach the control center, Steve simply says “Excuse me,” to which the SHIELD agent just puts his hands up and makes way for all of you to enter. Sam and Hill take care of them and Steve looks over the control panel before taking off his helmet and turning on the PA system.

When he speaks, you’re entranced, unable to look away and latching on to every word he says. You never did really get to see him on missions during the war; you imagine this is the way he spoke to the Commandos when seriousness was necessary as they took down Hydra bases throughout Europe.

When he finishes, Sam compliments him along with a friendly joke. Steve humors him with a laugh before putting on his helmet, saying they need to get down to the hangar bay to infiltrate the helicarriers.

“Sam and I will give you updates with each helicarrier we disarm. Keep an eye on the council meeting too,” Steve reminds Agent Hill.

He steps to you and you just look at him for a moment, taking in his appearance: the blue suit, the helmet, the shield.

You throw your arms around him again, this time pressing your lips to his in longing and worry.

“Come back to me,” you whisper, your fingertips tracing over the white star on his chest.

You never thought you’d see it again.

“I know how to find you,” he promises.

- - -

As chaos ensues outside and on the security monitors, you anticipate being called to action one way or another, though you know Steve will have something to say about it.

When Agent Hill spots Rumlow going up the stairs to intervene at the council meeting where Nat and Fury are, you clench your jaw.

“Falcon.”

“Yeah?” Sam acknowledges over the comms.

“Rumlow’s headed to the council.”

“I’m on it.”

You don’t recall exact moments; those memories are locked away in a corner of your brain that you can’t willingly access. You can’t explain the feeling that possesses your body to act, but it makes you walk out of the control center, telling Hill you’ll be back.

It takes a moment to get yourself oriented to the building, but once you enter the stairwell, you find Rumlow just a few flights above you. He looks down and breaks into a sprint, spurring you to act quickly.

Balancing yourself on top of the safety rail, you leap up and grab the bar of the next flight up. You repeat your movements until you’re able to swing your legs over, feet colliding with his side.

He grunts as he slams into the wall, the sound echoing in the stairwell as you stand in front of him, blocking his path to the doorway to reach the floor where the council room is located.

“Step aside, Kapitan.”

You scoff. “You’ve never been able to give me orders, Rumlow.”

Standing tall and preparing to fight, you challenge him.

Always more brutish than he is clever, Rumlow pulls out his handgun, but you kick it away quickly with an easy swing of your leg. It clangs against the railing on the opposite side of the stairwell before plummeting down, landing on the bottom floor with an echoing clatter.

You brace yourself as he reaches into his utility belt, ready to counter whatever he has in mind. When he throws his hand down and smoke erupts from the floor, you cough and reel when he strikes you in the side.

In your daze, you hear the sound of the metal door opening and run towards it, refusing to give up.

When you enter the room, you find Sam on the floor and Rumlow taking off his Kevlar vest.

“Order only comes through pain. Are you ready for yours?”

“Man, shut the hell up.”

You watch intently as the two men strike each other, observing every punch and kick and you’re frightened.

Rumlow is a much better fighter than Sam.

When Sam gets knocked down, you tap yourself in, on the defense against every single one of Rumlow’s attempts to strike you.

“You know what happens to traitors in Hydra?” he taunts, his arm swinging down towards your shoulder but you block him before jabbing him in the abdomen.

He grunts before his next words come out breathily, “The asset makes child play out of them.”

“I know, you idiot,” you grit as you kick his kneecap.

He cries out in pain, collapsing to the floor.

“I’ve dispatched him for all of it.”

You swing your leg high, aiming for his head but he grips it, restraining your movement between his hands and yanking back, causing you to lose your balance.

When he maneuvers himself on top of you, he makes a comment about how he’ll enjoy beating the life out of you. He never gets the chance; you see the blur of Sam’s body lunging at him, knocking him off you.

You sit up, watching as they struggle against each other on the floor and Rumlow’s hand goes for his belt again as he gains the upper hand.

Seeing the glint of a large blade, you act quickly, running towards the pair of them and gripping Rumlow’s forearm to prevent him from driving it into Sam’s torso.

You twist his arm, overextending it and he gives a pained shout as you slam your hand on his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. As you kick it away, Rumlow strikes your neck. You fall to the floor, hearing the sounds of the two men fighting again underneath the ringing in your ears.

Steve’s voice comes over the comms. “Charlie lock.”

He did it.

“Okay, Cap, get outta there,” comes Hill’s voice in response.

There’s silence for a moment, then you hear him again. “Fire now.”

He didn’t confirm he exited the helicarrier.

“But Steve–”

“Do it!”

“Steve…” your voice comes weakly as you stand, finding Sam and Rumlow fighting with the window looking out towards the helicarriers behind them.

The large aircrafts reorient themselves, directing their cannons towards each other and firing.

Sam’s body being thrown through a glass partition captures your attention and you see Rumlow jump onto the desk while Sam reels back from the impact amongst the shards on the floor.

“You’re out of your depth, kid,” Rumlow spits as one of the helicarriers careens towards the window.

“Sam!” you shout.

He gets up and runs towards you, grabbing your hand and leading you to the opposite side of the floor. You don’t look back as you hear the sound of the aircraft smashing into the building.

“Romanoff! You got that chopper in the air?” Sam shouts into the comms.

“Sam, where are you?”

“I got Y/N here with me, we’re in the Northwest corner of the 41st floor!”

“We’re on it, stay where you are!”

“That’s not an option!” you shout, hearing the room crumble behind you and feeling the floor cave in with each step you take.

In the window ahead, you see a helicopter hovering and you urge Sam to move faster. Deviating from your straight line, you sweep up a computer monitor from one of the workstations and throw it at the window for the two of you to easily jump through and land safely on the floor of the chopper.

Nat touches your shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you wince, relaxing your neck and resting your head on the floor.

She checks on Sam and you bring your hand to your ear to activate your commlink. “Hill, where’s Steve?”

Laying back, Steve sighs at the feeling of the sun on his face and the smell of the summertime grass and flowers.

New York City. Brooklyn. Cars are a distant din in the background but in the center of Prospect Park, there’s a different kind of bustle.

Kids run around and play, other adults have gatherings of their own.

You with a book, your hair tied back with your red bandana, and donned in a pretty white dress.

It’s a Sunday; both of you will have to report to the SSR for work tomorrow. You’ll be happy to get lunch with Peggy, Steve will keep tabs on any threats to the current balance of post-war life.

“Steve,” you call to him, voice echoing strangely.

He ignores it, smiling at the sound of you but keeping his eyes closed.

“Steve, I know you’re awake.”

There’s that strange echo again. Your fingertips brush against his forehead before running down his face. It sends a tingle through his whole system, bliss settling into his mind and he wants to be here forever.

No work, no war; just you and him in this park forever.

“Steve, open your eyes. You have to wake up now.”

Steve jolts awake, music playing softly. He breathes heavily as he tries to orient himself, hearing music playing softly from a speaker and realizing he’s in a hospital room. His body aches, but with his accelerated healing, he’s certain he’ll be out at the end of the day, by noon tomorrow at the latest.

Looking to his right, he sees Sam, face full of concern after watching him startle as he woke up.

“On your left,” he says, voice gravelly and filtered with a chuckle.

The other man laughs, sighs in relief, and scoots his seat closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright, all things considered,” Steve nods, looking around.

He’s surprised you’re not here. He inquires about you, “Is she in the cafeteria?”

He hopes you’re eating, looking after yourself in addition to looking after him.

Sam purses his lips, an uncertain look coming over his face and Steve assumes the worst.

He begins to sit up but his friend places a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from disconnecting any tubes and wires. “Sam…”

“She’s okay,” he reassures him. “It’s just…”

He dives into a brief retelling of how the two of you fought Rumlow. As irritated as Steve is that you went against what he said, what Sam finishes with drives more anger into him.

“When we landed, the Secretary of State had her arrested for her affiliation with Hydra.”

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Steve tag: @twittytelly

Sunrise, April 4, 2014

The sky is fading from dark indigo to a lavender, before finally becoming a peachy orange in the wake of the sun.

Steve breathes evenly as his feet strike the ground, arms moving in controlled swings at his sides.

When he was growing up, running recreationally was not something that people did, much less for a sickly, weak asthmatic like Steve. It was an activity reserved for the strong, able, and enlisted.

After waking up and settling into a lofty apartment in New York provided by SHIELD, Steve spent many early mornings after sleepless nights sitting by the windows in his living space. He’d see dozens of people jogging up and down the street, returning to their apartments, and later emerging in their work attire.

With grief-ridden dreams that keep him awake and restless in his home, Steve took on the hobby to better use his energy, and it continued when he was asked to move to D.C. to be closer to the SHIELD headquarters.

Not that it helps, but that won’t make him stop.

He can’t stop; instead, he pushes himself harder, literally running away from the visions that haunted him in the night.

You’re there, right in front of him. Safe in his arms and he’s determined to keep you from slipping away.

Something forces his arms open and suddenly you’re swept away as if a swelling wave took you and carried you off.

Shutting his eyes briefly and shaking the image from his head. Running even faster, he sees a man ahead of him, jogging leisurely and Steve knows he’s going to pass him.

“On your left.”

Overtaking him, Steve continues his run, turning around a corner to go down a path to lengthen his route.

As the morning progresses, the orange fading into yellow as the dark blue sky continues to recede, Steve sees the man again.

“On your left.”

He passes him but is still within earshot when the man replies, “Uh-huh. On my left. Got it.”

Shaking his head and feeling the corner of his lip pull up slightly, Steve keeps running.

When the sun is up, Steve senses that it’s soon time to stop and grab something to eat. He picks a spot at the other side of the reflection pool as his finish line, spotting the man a third time.

He looks over his shoulder, seeming to sense Steve’s presence.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you say it!”

“On your left.”

“Come on!”

Sprinting to the designated tree, Steve tags it and leans against the trunk, catching his breath. As the city begins to come to life with the hustle and bustle, he watches; cars crowd into the streets, government officials and public servers ascend the steps to the Capitol Building, and street vendors park their carts at corners of sidewalks to start business for the day.

Behind him, Steve hears labored breathing and groaning. Turning back, he finds the man he overtook three times on his run sitting at the bottom of a tree.

His dark umber skin is sprinkled with perspiration, which is also evident on the collar of the crewneck sweater he wears. His browline is fairly stern, scrunched in the center from--what Steve assumes is--body aches as a result of the run.

A sense of worry comes over Steve and he pushes off the tree to walk over.

“Need a medic?” he half-jokes, having taken notice of the air force emblem printed on the man’s sweater.

“I need a new set of lungs,” the man quips back, “Dude.” He pauses briefly to catch his breath. “You just ran, like, thirteen miles in thirty minutes.”

“Guess I got a late start.”

“Really?” he scoffs. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap,” he waves his arm in a circle before closing his eyes briefly. When he opens his eyes and finds Steve still standing there, he smiles, “Did you just take it? I assume you just took it.”

Deciding to change the subject, Steve points to his sweater. “What unit you in?”

“Fifty-eighth pararescue,” he answers before using his thumb to point behind him--a sort of metaphorical gesture, Steve thinks, “But now I’m working down at the VA.”

He holds his hand up, bending his fingers as a motion to ask Steve to help him up.

“Sam Wilson,” he introduces himself.

“Steve Rogers,” the blond replies, grabbing his hand and pulling him onto his feet.

“Yeah, I kinda put that together,” Sam says as he stands, doubling over briefly before straightening up. “Must’ve freaked you out, coming home after the whole defrosting thing.”

“Takes some getting used to,” Steve says somewhat dismissively, not quite wanting to go into it. “It’s good to meet you, Sam.”

He begins to turn away, but Sam speaks again, “It’s your bed, right?”

Facing him again, Steve asks for clarification.

“Your bed, it’s too soft.”

Nodding once, Steve agrees, “You’re right. Among other things.”

They talk about their mutual struggles in adjusting to society and, for once, Steve feels like he isn’t being held in a lofted position. He’s met other soldiers--it comes with working for SHIELD, he passes them in the hallways all the time--but they always treat him as if he’s a celebrity.

Granted, he is in a way, but he doesn’t want to be treated like one. He’s not Tony.

In this conversation with Sam, there’s no ulterior motive. He’s not trying to get an autograph or photo, he’s not fishing for a story about Steve’s glory days on the WWII battlefield.

Sam makes him feel like a human in a foreign place and needs help adjusting.

That’s who he is and how he wants to be treated.

When Sam suggests he listen to Marvin Gaye, Steve takes out the notebook he keeps in his pocket, clicking the pen and writing down the album title.

“What kinda music does he sing?”

“He’s a classic, man. R&B, soul, funk, some jazz in there,” Sam rattles off. “The good stuff,” he promises.

Nodding his head, Steve scans over the other items on the list.

Bucky would’ve loved to hear about Steve Jobs; you would have loved Leia and Padme in the Star Wars films.

Now that people dress up for Halloween, Steve thinks the pair of you could’ve been Leia and Han Solo, while Bucky could’ve been Luke.

Quite frankly, it’s a little strange how much that actor looks like him; all Bucky would need is a blond wig.

“You okay?” Sam checks on him.

“Yeah,” Steve shakes his head to snap out of it. “Sorry--”

He’s interrupted by his phone beeping, a notification from SHIELD.

MISSION ALERT.

EXTRACTION IMMINENT.

Meet at the curb :)

With the addition of the smiley face, Steve knows who to expect.

“Alright, Sam. Duty calls.” He offers his hand to shake. “Thanks for the run. If that’s what you wanna call running.”

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

They laugh, and Steve is grateful.

One thing he learned quickly after waking up is that good, trustworthy people are hard to come by in this day and age.

But he’s certain Sam is one of the rare ones.

9:07 AM, April 5, 2014

With a simple flash of his ID, Steve is granted access to the Smithsonian, his attempt at unwinding after returning from a mission and arguing with Nick Fury.

When Nat had made the joke about needing to go to the museum to “pick up a fossil,” one could say she was only half-kidding.

His heart aches at the realization that the two of you would get along well.

He never stops wondering where you are, what had happened to you on the Valkyrie. He feels an incredible amount of confusion and disorientation at the thought of it.

Processing the information of waking up in 2011 when the plane went down in 1945 was a whirl. Not long after he was summoned to battle aliens, something that was complete fantasy when he was growing up.

Among those aliens resided gods, apparently; one of his new teammates and his brother who brought the whole fiasco to Earth in the first place.

Then there was a man who had attempted to recreate the serum that made him “the world’s first superhero” only for it to go terribly wrong.

There were two master assassins, one of whom was tasked with killing the other only to form a friendship.

Lastly, there was the self-proclaimed “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.” The son of one of his closest friends.

And yours, too.

Sometimes, the reality of interacting with them grounds Steve, but overall, it feels like he’s walking through a dream. Other times he becomes so far detached from reality that he wonders if the war was a dream, something his mind fabricated as part of some strange coping mechanism.

Then that made you fiction, too.

Though, seeing a painting of his stoic face as he ascends in an escalator with other museum-goers, he’s thrown into that strange sense of cold cognizance.

It was real.

You were real.

This strange world around him is real.

The Avengers are real.

And he’s one of them, fighting a battle seventy years ahead of his time.

Ducking his head down, he shoves his hands in his pocket and prays that the baseball cap he put on is enough to keep his identity concealed.

He breezes by the exhibit panels that recount his birth and childhood, and he doesn’t bother reading about his recruitment.

He stops at the wall with a placard about Erskine, face softening in grief as he looks at the man who hand-selected him.

When he turns his head to look at the next wall, Steve has to breathe in slowly to keep his emotions steady.

A grainy, black-and-white picture of you standing with your hands folded between Erskine and Howard and in front of the many switchboards and the capsule from Project Rebirth is tacked to the wall. There are two other photos: one of you working with your hair tied up with the bandana that Steve keeps with him at all times, and the other of you standing in front of him with your arms crossed, smiling as he smiles back with his hands in the pockets of his dress greens.

He doesn’t know who took that photo or when, but he’s grateful for it.

His eyes scan down to the description of you and your role in Steve’s life; it recounts your mechanical background, your capture then rescue, and your mission with Steve to the Hydra base to save Bucky.

“After being rescued by Agent Carter and Howard Stark, she would capture the eye of Steven Rogers, and the two fell in love. Reports say she remained at his side whenever she could, even at the final attack at Hydra’s headquarters. She was seen boarding the Valkyrie with the captain, but her body was never recovered at the site of the crash.

Just as Captain America is considered one of the many representations of men in WWII, Y/N Y/L/N, or ‘The Riveter’ as she was known by Rogers and other soldiers, is a representation of women during that same era.”

Reaching further into his pocket, Steve’s fingers wrap around the circular shape of his compass. He takes it out, bringing his other hand up slowly to unclasp the top and reveal your picture.

It’s slightly worn at the edges with the passing of time, but he only cares about the image of your face.

His thumb is still too big as he traces the shape of your lips, closing his eyes and invoking the memory of them pressed to his.

His moment of mourning is cut short as a family approaches, young kids coming up to the walls to have a turn at reading.

Steve pivots away, closing his compass and shoving it back into his pocket where it settles next to your bandana.

Walking past the mannequins donned with the Howling Commandos uniforms and the original suit he wore that you designed, Steve turns to the glass panel dedicated to Bucky.

From the speakers above him, he hears a man narrate: “Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.”

When the narration goes on to say that Bucky was the only Howling Commando to die in the field, Steve feels a weight settle in his chest. Nobody should have fallen from the train in the Alps that day. And nobody should have ever found him and taken him from the Valkyrie. The guilt and grief feel heavy on his shoulders, dragging him down with the idea that he’s the only one here, the only survivor of his found family and this is not how it should have been.

Head bowed, his ears detect a familiar voice coming from a small screening room nearby. Following the sound, Steve ducks into the darkened area, a bright screen showing an interview with Peggy. She looks different; Steve makes note that the time stamp says “1953”--eight years after the war ended.

He finds an empty seat in the front row, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees so as not to block anyone’s view if they sit behind him.

She answers some questions about the SSR and what it was like to be a woman in the army. Steve’s ears perk up at one particular question.

“What was your initial reaction when you heard about Project Rebirth?”

“Well, I thought it was lovely in the same way that Peter Pan is lovely or the Knights of the Round Table.”

Steve smiles at the clear sarcasm in her voice.

“So you were a little skeptical at first, then.”

“Yes, I was. But then I met Dr. Erskine, and Howard Stark, and Y/N Y/L/N. Then, of course, Rogers. And I must say my opinion changed somewhat after that.”

The interviewer says your name to indicate his next question is about you. “Another woman in the army,” he points out the obvious. “What was it like having her there?”

“She was a breath of fresh air,” Peggy sighs, laughing as her eyes move up and away for a moment, then she looks down. “She was one of my greatest friends and a dear friend of Howard’s, too.”

“And Captain Rogers?” the interviewer fishes.

“I think you already know,” she replies cleverly.

“I do,” he admits, “But only on a superficial level.”

Her red lips curl up at the corners and she looks down, mouth pursing as she appears to think about what to say about Steve’s relationship with you.

“There’s not too much to tell. Despite living in close quarters--literally--they kept things quite private between them. Steve often would be in the war room while she would be in the garage or weapons room with Howard. If there were moments to spare, they would spend them together. During those moments, they were fiercely protective of each other. She was always making sure he had everything he needed in order to stay safe whilst on missions, he openly protested against her joining the mission to infiltrate Hydra’s headquarters in 1945.”

“‘He protested’?” the interviewer wonders, “What does that mean?”

“Well it had been a long night for all of us, she and Howard had stayed up late to make sure everything was prepared for all available men. I had seen him go back to his quarters, but she did not. I went to check on her--she was down in the weapons room.”

As she recounts what she heard, Steve remembers the conversation with you.

“They were arguing, as lovers do. Steven had told her he did not want her to come; he had just recently lost his friend, Sergeant Barnes, so he did not want to risk losing her, too. She insisted on coming because she wanted to keep Steven safe.” She pauses, pursing her lips again and looking up, eyes glistening with tears. “Even..despite the loss I felt, that Howard felt too, I don’t think she would have wanted it any other way.”

“Why is that?”

She shakes her head, smiling widely. “One of them should not be without the other.”

Inhaling through his nose, Steve blinks away tears, getting up and leaving the room. Locating the nearest exit, he breathes in the fresh air and looks up at the sky.

Here he is now as Peggy said he shouldn’t be: without you.

And his whole body hurts.

“Hi,” the receptionist smiles. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh,” Steve stammers, “I’m here to see Peggy? Peggy Carter?”

“Oh, what a change,” the woman smiles. “Ms. Carter doesn’t have a lot of family to visit her. Can I get your name to enter into our visitor’s log?”

“Steven Rogers.”

The woman’s fingers freeze over the keyboard, smiling brighter. “Oh, Captain Rogers! She’s been talking about you, she’ll be so happy to see you. And those daisies!”

Steve smiles politely, clutching the bouquet a little tighter.

“Come follow me this way,” she beckons him, coming out from behind the desk and beginning to walk down the hallway that leads to Peggy’s room.

He doesn’t see many other residents today, but a pair of nurses walk by and they greet him.

When they approach the correct room, the receptionist turns back to Steve, speaking in a hushed voice, “So, I want to warn you, we’re doing a lot of memory care with Ms. Carter. She has Alzheimer’s; she knows about you, though, and how you were rescued. She’s been hoping to see you, but you should know that...that’s what she’s going through right now.” Steve nods and the woman turns back to the door and knocks lightly. “Hi Peggy,” she singsongs. “You have a visitor.”

Steve steps into view, standing under the doorway and smiling as Peggy’s face lights up.

“Steve!” she exclaims joyfully, voice gravelly with age but still with that signature British lilt. “And you brought flowers!”

The receptionist offers to take them from Steve to find a vase, which he takes her up on, handing the bouquet to her as he steps into the room. He finds a chair in the corner and pulls it up next to her bed before sitting.

“I was so happy to hear the news about you,” Peggy gushes. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Well,” he shrugs, “My ma didn’t raise me to burn bridges. Most of the time.”

She laughs lightly. “How are you holding up?” she asks, genuinely concerned for him. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Yeah. But not a lot, though.”

She face doesn’t move, but there is understanding in her eyes. There’s the obvious reason why he isn’t sleeping: being thrust into a new world, going on missions, and fighting new-age terrorists. But Peggy, ever astute, sees beyond that, knowing exactly what’s keeping him up at night. “I think about her all the time,” she remarks sadly.

It’s enough to make Steve slightly less alone. “That makes two of us,” he shakes his head. “I thought if I just...threw myself into this, I could get back the time I lost, but...I was lying to myself. I lost far more than time.”

She laughs this time, shaking her head. “You’re always so dramatic. What would she think, seeing you this way?”

Steve’s eyes sting at the mere thought of you being here to comment on the way he’s living his life now. “She’d...well, she’d--”

“She’d tell you to get off your arse,” she laughs. “Go, see the world. You’ve saved it.” Her eyes wander up in thought, “We’d rather mucked it up.”

“That’s not true,” he denies. “Knowing you helped found SHIELD is half the reason I stayed.”

She reaches for his hand, bringing it to rest in hers on the bed. “The world is changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best. And sometimes our best is to start over,” she dissolves into a fit of coughs, eyes closing and head rotating so that she’s flat on her back and Steve turns to find something to help.

Spying a glass of water, he picks it up and turns back, handing it to her.

When she opens her eyes again, there’s that same look of recognition. “Steve? Steve, you’re alive!”

He swallows the pain he feels, mustering a smile as he places the glass in an empty spot on her bedside table.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

“It’s been so long,” she sobs, beginning to cry from happiness. Then, she asks for you. “Where is she? Did she come with you?”

Steve’s face falls, heart dropping to the floor as he takes Peggy’s hand. “No, she’s not,” he says sadly. “Peggy, she...”

Her eyes are eager to hear about you and Steve swallows his sentence before coming up with a new one.

“She couldn’t come today,” he lies shakily, “But she told me she promises to see you as soon as she can.”

“Well what on Earth are you doing here without her?” she chides. “You two could hardly be more than arm’s length from each other.” She squeezes his hand. “Tell her I can’t wait to see her, whenever she can tear herself away from her work. Is she working with Tony?”

Gulping and fighting tears, Steve smiles. “Yeah, something like that.”

10:46 PM, April 5, 2014

Steve pulls into his designated parking spot in front of his apartment building, kicking down the stand of his motorcycle and turning off the ignition.

Tucking the key into his pocket, he swings his leg over to dismount before walking into his apartment building.

Stepping carefully to avoid his footfalls being too loud--the quiet hours of the evening have just begun, and he doesn’t want to disturb his neighbors.

As he reaches his floor, the nurse who lives just down the hall from him emerges with a laundry basket, talking on the phone.

She smiles as he walks by, which he returns, avoiding her gaze as he waves to acknowledge her.

She’s pretty, Natasha’s often egged him on to ask her out. But after one date with Lillian in Accounting, every look at a woman, every thought of pursuing a date with anyone leads to a sinking feeling of guilt in his chest. He feels like he’s betraying you; he’s been zealously clinging on to every memory of you, even the ones he’s fabricated on his own of what should have been his married life with you.

“My aunt, she’s kind of an insomniac.”

He laughs with her, then makes a bad joke about sleep being overrated. “I should know, I did it for 70 years.”

“Well, overrated or not, I hope you have a restful night, Captain.”

“Thanks.”

He turns to his door before she speaks again, “By the way, I think you left your stereo on.”

“Oh…” Steve tries to be dismissive, “Thanks...again.”

She smiles before heading towards the stairs.

Eyes fixing on the door, Steve turns his head to listen more closely. Sure enough, he hears trumpets and Kitty Kallen’s voice playing on the other side of the wood.

He would never be so careless to leave a record playing like that.

Quietly retreating up the hallway and down the stairs, Steve exits the building and circles around to where his apartment is. Finding the window with the fire escape, he leaps up and catches the bottom rung of the ladder hanging above the sidewalk. He climbs up, keeping himself low and doing his best to be quiet so none of the residents will raise an alarm under the suspicion that he’s a burglar.

Ascending to the window in his dining area, he slides the bottom pane up and climbs through. Sneaking through the kitchen, he tries to listen for any voice that could give away who is in his apartment.

Ducking down, he scoops up his shield from the floor and fastens it onto his arm.

As he turns the corner to the living room, Steve’s eyes just make out the slumped over shape of Nick Fury, donned in black, eyepatch still fastened around his head.

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” he says, only partly joking as he relaxes against the wall.

Nick groans as he sits up, Steve assumes it’s from fatigue. “You really think I’d need one?” There’s no opportunity to reply to the rhetorical question before he continues, “My wife kicked me out.”

What a strange thing to tell me, Steve thinks, solely based on his impressions and little knowledge about Nicholas J. Fury.

The man is an expert in espionage, he wouldn’t randomly give out personal information like that.

“I didn’t know you were married,” Steve eventually remarks sympathetically, looking down.

Shifting his gaze to the side, the director shrugs. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“I know, Nick,” the captain replies, stepping around the corner and lifting his arm up to switch on the lamp in the corner of the room.

Immediately, Steve knows there’s more to this situation when he registers the crimson color staining Nick’s face.

Nick brings his hand up to his lips before tugging the chain hanging from the lamp to shut it off. He looks down, typing on his phone then showing it to Steve.

EARS EVERYWHERE.

Looking around, the blond begins to understand what’s happening.

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” his boss speaks again, drawing his attention back to the conversation. “But I had no place else to crash.”

When Nick turns the phone screen back to Steve, a chill runs down his spine.

SHIELD COMPROMISED.

Understanding the code now, Steve plays along. “Who else knows about your wife?” he asks pointedly.

“Just,” Nick begins, groaning as he gets up from the seat and still typing on his phone. “My friends.”

YOU AND ME.

“Is that what we are?”

“That’s up to you to decide.”

Formulating a response about Fury’s “wife” in his brain, he’s never able to vocalize it.

The sound is sharp, something different from the sounds he heard on the battlefields, but he knows it nonetheless.

It comes once, striking Nick in the back and he shouts as his muscles lock. Then it comes two more times and he falls to the floor in a heap of black clothing.

Stunned and confused for a moment, Steve springs into action, hooking his hands underneath Fury’s shoulders and dragging him through the apartment into the kitchen where there’s more cover.

As he pivots to stand at attention to assess what’s happening, the director grabs his arm.

“Don’t trust anyone,” he chokes out, handing him a flashdrive.

Before Steve can ask any questions, a banging at his door catches his attention and he presses his body against the wall in an attempt to conceal himself.

“Captain Rogers?” a feminine voice asks.

Through the wall panel of shelves, Steve sees his neighbors, the nurse, in her pajamas poised with a gun.

“Captain, I’m Agent 13 of SHIELD Special Service.”

“Kate?” he wonders in disbelief.

“I’m assigned to protect you.”

“On whose order?!” he demands.

She rounds the corner and enters the kitchen, face going lax in shock. “His.”

Placing her weapon on the floor, she checks for a pulse and radios for help.

The responder on the other end asks if they can see the shooter, Steve looks out the window, spotting a flash of silver as a figure retreats across the rooftop of the neighboring building.

“Tell him I’m in pursuit.”

Standing in the window of the operating room, Steve wants to turn away from the surgery the doctors are performing but he can’t.

Head held still by his guilt, he watches a team of medical professionals move around the table, using various tools to cut, remove, snip, and sew. All the monitors are alive with numbers and lines that don’t mean anything to the captain but he still tries to discern information from them.

Maybe if he looks hard enough, he can figure out why he failed to protect someone again.

Bucky.

You.

Now Nick.

He hears the door open but his eyes still don’t move. In his periphery, he senses a person standing next to him, but it’s not until they speak that he knows who it is.

“Is he gonna make it?”

Natasha.

“I don’t know,” he responds flatly.

“Tell me about the shooter,” she demands, trying to keep her composure but the tremble in her voice is surely giving it away.

“He’s fast,” Steve answers. “Strong. Had a metal arm.”

Feeling nauseous as a lump rises in her throat in recognition, she asks about the ballistics.

“Three slugs,” Hill tells her. “No rifling. Completely untraceable.”

Natasha knew that, but it doesn’t make her any less chilled at the information. “Soviet-made,” she states.

When Maria confirms, Natasha asks another question, “Was he alone?”

That catches Steve’s attention.

“Yeah, he was,” the captain answers.

Before he can further prompt Nat, an urgent beeping sounds and the doctors scramble in the room. Everyone freezes with the exception of Rumlow and Sitwell, who were standing at the back of the room. They step forward slightly, then stop.

Steve’s eyes look back at the monitor; where the lines were once going at different wavelengths and jagged shapes, now they were flat showing no activity.

Turning away from the window as the surgery team declares the time of death, Steve faces away from everyone and reaches into his pocket. Pulling out the flashdrive, he stares at it, beginning to devise a plan of how to retrieve the information hidden on it.