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The water was cold. It was the last thing Steve remembered before he'd... before the world went dark.
He remembered shivering violently, trying in vain to unfasten his seat belt as frigid cold water rushed into the cockpit, enveloping his shoulders rapidly. The biting cold of the artic horrid. It burned him to the bone, robbed him of feeling in his extremities as frostbite began to take its toll. It had hurt so much to breathe, the icy air slicing like glass in his lungs. It was too dark too see, even with his improved senses. Up to his neck in water, Steve was so overwhelmed by an overwhelming primal panic that had seized him. He had been slashed out, shot at—nothing compared to the fear he felt then. Death staring him in the face and Steve being unable to look away. It was his time; no amount of fighting it would change his fate.
And yet, Steve struggled fruitlessly with the last of his energy as the water crept up his chin, sending wave after wave of terror through him as it lapped at his mouth, finding its way inside when he didn't close it in time. Steve gasped, whipping his head and sputtering. The water rose higher still, up to his eyes, forcing its way inside his mouth and nose and rushing to fill his lungs when he couldn't hold his breath any longer. He coughed violently, the cold assaulting his senses.
Steve screwed his eyes shut, pain splintering throughout his entire body, the last of his breath pushed out by water. Before the world went dark, he tried to picture what Peggy and Howard would do without him. Would they look for Steve? Continue the fight in his honor? Move on to the next Brooklyn kid looking to be a hero? He thought of his promise to take Peggy dancing… he wheezed as a sob tried to expel the water unsuccessfully from his lungs.
There was no comfort in these thoughts, only fear and longing.
In this last moments, Steve resigned himself to his fate finally. The world went numb all around him.
When he opened his eyes, Steve saw only darkness. His heart hammered, blood rushing to his ears and the space behind his eyes like the wind howling through an empty corridor. Panicking, he struggled against his bindings, rending padded cuffs like they were rags as a scream ripped itself free from his chest. There were sharp rattling sounds echoing around him, amplifying his fear. Steve hollered once more, hysteric as he tried to free himself. He could feel it, the frigid water rushing into the HYDRA dropship, burning him to his bone; he could hear the roaring of the frozen ocean, his own screams. He felt as though he were drowning, on the cold air and the frigid water—his own fear and the darkness.
He was dying all over again.
"NO!" Steve cried out as he started violently upright, throwing the bed back into the wall with a loud crack. Dust and debris rained down upon him and another bang sounded off. Light filled the room thereafter, but Steve was paralyzed, mind trying to process the scene before him.
There was a nurse, standing in the doorway with the most frightened look on her face. "Captain," she exclaimed, sounding breathless.
At seeing her, Steve’s mind seemed to click back on. He managed to get some kind of hold on himself. Shaking, he looked around the room, fully taking it in for the first time. Instead of darkness, instead of the metal interior of the ship—he was in an infirmary, legs tangled in sweat-drenched covers in a way that was reminiscent of a child in the aftermath of a bad dream. The room he occupied was ordinary: standard beige and white, pristinely clean and with two rows of beds pushed to either wall. There was a radio on the nightstand between his bed and the other, quietly buzzing some jazz song.
Steve bent double, barely able to get his shaking under control as he raked his hands through his damp hair. How... how did I get here? Looking to the window, to the dreary landscape that sat beyond it, Steve disentangled himself from the sheets and stood on weak legs. Brooklyn sat beyond the glass, just as he remembered. Did they... find me after all? He thought as through blind panic came hope. Peggy... Howard? Did they...? The clouds rolled over the buildings, ushering in ever-darkening storm clouds. Steve couldn’t help but be taken back to the many days he spent ducking through vendors’ stands with Bucky, trying not to get wet because getting wet meant getting sick and he did enough of that on his own…
The sky was so dark.
Steve didn't realize he had fainted until his eyes were fluttering open to the feel of a cool, wet cloth being pressed to his forehead. He was back in bed, the nurse sitting beside him idly leafing through a magazine as she wiped the sweat from his brow. He couldn't make out anything on the pages, but his eyes lingered on her hands, on the dark red nail polish and the sparkling diamond ring that danced when she turned the pages. His voice found him before his words. Steve groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. His head was pounding like a metronome, the worse migraine he'd ever had.
"You're awake then?" The nurse said softly, paper crinkling in her grasp as she folded it closed. Her voice soothing, accent distinctively… British? Steve clenched his eyes shut, flashes of black eyeliner and auburn-colored curls coming to mind as he tried to put a face to that voice. "The nurses said you weren't ready to get out of bed." She continued, the bed shifting underneath her as she positioned herself closer. "You... poor thing." She added wistfully, and Steve felt his breath hitch when the woman's knuckles brushed against his cheek.
Letting his arm fall away from his face completely, Steve hiccupped as he was greeted with the hazy sight of Peggy Carter sitting above him, forehead wrinkling in concern. The first thought he had was—well, actually, he didn't think of anything at all. He just looked up at her, gaping. I died... the ship, the ocean. I drowned… How? You found me, Peggy?
Peggy let out a startled sound when his hand closed around her wrist tightly, unintentionally hard. She startled when he yanked her toward him, but didn't fight against the hold on her. Instead, she smiled. "Steve... it's okay. I'm here, I've got you," she cooed quietly, voice straining somewhat in pain.
Steve searched her eyes frantically for what felt like an eternity before he finally let her go. Her hands moved to his face immediately, shaking and cold from the cloth that had slipped off his forehead. Peggy's thumbs brushed away tears Steve didn't even notice were streaking down the sides of his face. "I'm here... I'm here, Steve. You made it back." She assured. Slowly, Steve moved to mimic Peggy's actions, clumsily swiping kohl-colored tears off her cheeks as he looked at her in awe.
"Peggy..." Steve choked, pulling her into his arms. He was awash with emotion. As memory after memory surged through his mind, Steve could barely believe that he was alive.
Slowly, Peggy disentangled them. "Oh, Steve..." She sobbed in great relief, wiping her eyes again and attempting to calm herself.
Steve reached out to take her hands in his own when his eyes found that ring once more. The realization made him disoriented. "How long..." Steve whispered.
Peggy watched him closely. Absentmindedly, she began to fidget with her ring before dropping her hands into her lap. "I..." Looking away, as if searching for something to say, Peggy looked back at Steve and into his eyes morosely. "It’s been a long time.” I moved on…
Steve couldn't help but notice the way she seemed to age right before him then. Spun-silver began to spill forth from the crown of her head and weave its way into the curls that framed her face—which, itself, was beginning to show the signs of age as wrinkles made themselves known in the creases of her mouth and eyes. She was beautiful, regardless, but something about her looked… detached from the old Peggy.
"How long...? How long was I out?" Steve asked again, feeling dread settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched her rearrange silver strands behind her ear.
“Twenty years," she said softly, "Steve, it... it's 1962."
Reading through the reports, there was no denying it; Steve had been legally declared dead for twenty years.
And…
The allies had won the war with Germany, having had moved onto a conflict in Vietnam by now—Peggy didn't let him read any more about it than that. She told him not to fill his head with doomsday talk, telling him that wars were the least of his concern when he wasn't even fit to stand without assistance.
Steve didn't ask any more questions about it, letting his curiosity be piqued by other things such as the shifting social climate, televisions in the homes of regular families, and the popularity of Elvis.
Steve had been placed under Peggy's primary care after being discharged, the brunette having named herself his legal guardian. It was awkward initially, being so helpless despite no longer being that sickly, Brooklyn punk, but Peggy had insisted. Her home had become his for those first week.
Her husband had been agreeable. It was almost eerie to look at him, James. He was platinum-blond with blue eyes, traditionally handsome and tall. He was the straight-laced type, but had a boyish charm that had been only slightly dulled by his advancing age. James was a Patriot too, with such respect for Steve—even though he liked to joke about him from time to time. He and Peggy had only one child, a son named Harrison. Steve didn't get the opportunity to meet him as he was already away at school.
Lying awake in Harrison's bed, Steve pondered on the time past as he stared at posters on the bedroom walls of bands he'd never heard off. Twenty years... it was enough to make anyone dizzy.
Eventually, Steve had been moved to a place of his own. Peggy had protested, willing to board Steve for just about forever, but had been assured by her superiors that it had been the right decision. Steve was curious who Peggy was taking her orders from these days when it was clear she didn't work for the military anymore.
The change of scenery was jarring, but no less welcome. This way, Steve was able to try and care for himself without Peggy fussing over him, although being under observation 24/7 was a pain in the neck. His nerves still were mostly shot and his body felt like one continuous ache; it wounded his pride to need assistance for mundane tasks. Many, he came to realize, required that extra point of precision that his extremities just hadn't recaptured—like using a can opener or buttoning his shirts—but, this was the cost of resuscitation he supposed.
Steve was awake for two weeks before his body finally acclimated, thereafter he was slated for weeks of stress-testing to make sure he was fully functional. Peggy was with him every step of the way. Time crawled into the next week, day after day of tests being performed in almost the same manner by the same people over and again. Steve, when looking back on this time in retrospection, would be hard-pressed not to compare it to when he was touring the U.S as Captain America. Preforming in front of live audiences, practicing songs and dances when he’d rather be doing something more worthwhile with his time.
Reprieve from the monotony came during the next month. Early in the morning, shortly after being unplugged from the various monitors and set upon the facility until his next bout of tests, Steve had wandered into what he’d later come to know as the armory. His eyes scanned the walls and he couldn’t help but tilt his head at the odd tech that littered the many shelves. He’d seen some strange weaponry that HYDRA got up to in their day, but he still couldn’t wrap his mind around some of the glowing bits and bobs that presumed themselves to be guns. Finishing his survey of the room behind the large table that called home to the center of the space, Steve stared down at the schematics of … his shield? On blueprint there were the exact dimensions of his vibranium shield, everything down to the minutest detail. These weren’t like the original blueprints, however, they held assessment of any potential damage from submersion and how age had affected the metal in any way.
So, they found that too?
Steve looked around curiously, glancing between the report and the walls and wondering if it was tucked away somewhere in the room, when the door was pushed open and he was left to look guilty. The technicians stopped dead in their tracks in the doorway, staring at Captain America like two schoolboys as one carried his shield—now stripped of its red stripes—and the other dropped his clipboard to the floor. The three of them exchanged a long look before they were interrupted by Howard Stark pushing past them, “we don’t have all day,” he fussed, taking the shield from his assistant, “look alive or find someone else’s toys to go play with.”
They both snapped into action at the threat and quickly moved towards the table. Howard shook his head before moving to join them—only to stop himself at seeing Steve. The brunet’s eyes lit up upon recognition and at that, Steve crossed the room with speed that would not have been capable prior to rehab. Howard accepted the blond’s rough hug in such a state of shock that he nearly dropped Steve’s shield. Motioning for someone to take it, he quickly wrapped his arms around Steve’s broad back and returned the gesture, patting his shoulder hard and brotherly. “Good Lord, Rogers, I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you for another month!” He exclaimed, voice tight from being squeezed.
Steve laughed and pulled away to look at Howard’s well aged-face. “You look like someone’s dad,” he joked, ignoring Howard's statement in favor of examining his face, much to the man's dismay. The engineer stepped back, rubbing his beard and no doubt mumbling something under his breath about his gray hairs. “It’s good to see you, Howard… really good,” Steve said with such awe that the assistants looked at each other warily and then at long last excused themselves. Not even noting their escape, the blond hugged his friend once more. “I thought you’d drunk yourself into the ground,” Steve was absolutely unable to hold back his delight.
Howard blustered at the suggestion, punching Steve hard on the arm when they separated. “Never you mind, Steve, the old lady’s got me on a diet,” the brunet rubbed his beard thoughtfully before adding, “and besides, I never drank that much.”
Steve’s eyes glimmered with his glee, “you drink like a fish, Stark.”
“Drank,” Howard corrected, smiling broadly before looking up and realizing that they were alone. Smoothing his tousled hair, the brunet stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded towards the door, “you might as well let me buy you a drink—all this accusing me of being a lush is making me miss it.”
Steve clapped him on the back happily, “of course, we wouldn’t want you sober and thinking straight now would we?”
The lounge is the first of many fancy places Howard took Steve in the coming weeks. Every night he and Howard spent together were as equally fun as they were a sore reminder of all the time Steve missed since he crash landed into the arctic.
Watching the brunet drain tumbler after tumbler, getting progressively more inebriated as his stories grew progressively more risqué, Steve couldn’t help but wonder if he should intervene. Howard never used to drink this heavily before; he had never gotten so drunk that he could barely sit up in his booth, or say his own name without stumbling over every letter. Instead, Steve had let the man drink his fill and then let Jarvis take him home while the blond hailed a cab back across town. Eventually, he did ask Peggy if Howard’s drinking problem had gotten bad after he died.
“He was depressed for some years, Steve…” She had said ruefully, casting aside a manila folder and pulling her legs off of her desk before standing and approaching Steve where he sat on the couch in her office. Joining him on the other cushion, she sighed and kicked off her heels. “He would have been a recluse had I not kept watch on him—he was looking for you for you all these years. It can’t have been easy, exploring the ocean for twenty years.”
Steve looked guilty, “I had no idea…”
Peggy took his hand, turning and pulling her feet up onto the couch. “Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes, Steve. What’s done is done. Neither one of us wants you fussing over it.” When Steve’s expression didn't brighten, she smiled at him, “It’s nice to know that you haven’t changed a bit, Steve, but we have. For better or worse. The drinking thing, the worse of it was years ago. Anything you see now, it is nothing in comparison to before—and that’s okay. Howard’s okay and so am I.”
Steve offered her a plaintive smile then, squeezing her hand back.
“Are you okay, Steve?” Peggy asked expectantly.
The blond felt something stir in his chest and he knew couldn't tell her the truth. Not now. Even if Steve wanted to try and voice his feelings, something about her question made anxiety twist his insides into a tightly-knotted coil. He glanced away, darkness creeping into the corners of his eyes. After a beat, Steve forced himself to exhale, trying for a sigh instead of a gasp and succeeding somewhat. Feigning casualness, he shrugged his shoulders, smiling a little broader as he pushed panic away, “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t leading Howard down a dark path of debauchery.” He joked, deflecting her.
If Peggy noticed this, she made no mention of it, instead she jumped up at the sound of her assistant buzzing her. “Your eight o’clock is here, Mrs. Carter,” the secretary informed.
Peggy quickly toed back into her shoes. “Send him in,” she informed as she made her way back to her desk. Making herself decent for professional company, she shooed Steve away, “it’s of a very sensitive nature—if you would.”
Steve laughed as he pulled up the door behind him. As soon as he left the building, he threw up in the nearest alley.
Evaluation was right around the corner when Steve received an invitation to a gala at a WWII museum in D.C.
It was odd, naturally, that there was a museum for something that, to him, happened no less than three or so months ago, but Peggy insisted. Her higher-ups wanted to see how he interacted in large groups. “They want to show you off to the president, Steve,” Peggy explained plainly, fidgeting with Steve’s tie as John entered the room and rolled his eyes at the two of them. The brunette promptly stuck her tongue out at her husband, returning to the task at hand and ignoring the way the other man threw his suit jacket onto the couch to get wrinkled as he sat down to read an excerpt from the newspaper.
“Make a good impression,” she said as she retrieved Steve’s own jacket off the back of the couch. Smoothing her fingers across the polished buttons, she looked pensive before handing it to the blond, “Our agency isn’t big, but we’ve got a better purpose. We need all of the support we can get.”
SHIELD was what she was referring to, hers’ and Howard’s pet-project. Steve was being completely honest when he said he was still sketchy about the details of it, but SHIELD was a sort of homeland security agency and the two of them were doing everything in their power to get it established. How parading Steve around dinner party was going to do that was anyone’s guess, he thought.
“The way you baby him, you’d think the guy never held a gun, let alone saved our country!” John laughed much to Steve’s embarrassment. “Do you miss Harrison that much? I could’ve had him brought down for the party, y'know!” John quipped.
It was Peggy’s turn to roll her eyes, “by all means, if you miss him, you should have.”
The gala turned out to be quite the production, a welcome home party of sorts.
Steve was showered in praises and rewards; he was hugged and marveled at, his hands shook and his picture taken so much he thought he’d permanently see spots.
The president greeted him eagerly, eyes wide with reverence as he took Steve in. “You’re an American hero!” He exclaimed.
Steve didn’t recognize most of the people at the gathering; the others that he did recognize were becoming caricatures of their former selves, aging and graying. His Howling Commandos looked especially humorous, age curbing the tough edge they'd had during the war. Merrily, he drank with them and listened plaintively as they traded stories of their lives since the Allies won. In the midst of their celebrating, they shared a moment of silence for their fallen comrade: “Barnes was a good man,” they all said, sharing their condolences with Steve and toasting to Bucky.
The party had begun to wind down by half-past midnight. As the moon hung high overhead, many of the guests began to find their coats. Steve explored the museum alone, head bowed in thought as he passed monument after monument. There was an exhibit for him, for Captain America and his Howling Commandos; the president beamed when he showed it off. Steve bristled on the inside, grief finding him as he glanced over Bucky's epitaph. Regardless, he thanked the president for his consideration; complimenting the memorial until he was red in the face.
Steve had been wandering for almost half an hour before he found Peggy again.
In a sea of people, the blond found her besieged by a group of affluent-looking women. The conversation must not have been particularly stimulating as Peggy nursed a champagne glass and looked everywhere but at the young lady talking to her presently. The girl was beautiful, with jet black hair and sleek Italian features. Given her lack of social graces, it was safe to assume that she was no more than seventeen, putting decades between her and the women who surrounded her. Her dress was reminiscent of something a showgirl would wear: sparkling, form-fitting, low cut, and boldly colored red. She looked more suitable for a costume party than a function meant to honor soldiers, but no one dared to object when her stunning figure was such a great display as it was.
"You gotta admit, the wine's good here," She giggled shrilly, Brooklyn-accent thick and laced with traces of her Italian heritage. She was giddy and clearly drunk, the sherry in her glass swishing around as she teetered on high heels. "Remind me to tip the waiter, Margie," she said with a wink in Peggy’s direction.
The older woman looked unimpressed. Whether she was irritated by the nickname or the woman herself Steve couldn't tell. "It's not meant to be had like juice, you know," the brunette retorted rather snidely. The girl didn't pick it up, senses dulling with every sip, she continued to remark on the quality of the drinks and the scarceness of the food. She was almost in her own world.
Steve approached them cautiously as to avoid startling the girl when she looked already ready to trip over the air around them. "Ladies," he greeted genially, nodding at them politely. The other women were charmed, to say the least, by his introduction, many on the verge of swooning. However, one by one, they seemed to catch the eyes of their respective husbands or dates and excused themselves shortly after.
Peggy smiled at Steve and returned his greeting. The younger woman stared in awe. "Jesus Christ!" She exclaimed to the chagrin of an elderly couple passing by, "y-you’re…! Oh, I grew up with posters of you in my bedroom!" She gushed, "you were my hero as a kid, y'know that?"
Steve laughed, affable despite being taken aback by young woman's assertiveness. He turned to Peggy, "I don't believe we were introduced?" He asked, gesturing to the girl as she hailed over another waiter.
"This is Maria," the Brit began heavily, "I’ve been charged with babysitting her." It was clearly meant to be a put on, if Peggy's mouth scrunching up in the corner was any indication.
Maria hiccupped as she hooked an arm around Peggy’s, “more like I’m babysitting her!” she laughed, “the poor woman’s clearly not had a good time in ages! She’s barely touched the wine at all!” As the girl spoke, she jostled Peggy and the older brunette was hard-pressed not to spill her champagne between them. Hastily, Peggy switched the glass to the opposite hand before altogether relinquishing it Steve.
“Some of us have work in the morning,” Peggy deadpanned, squeezing Maria’s arm back to try and quell her swaying from side to side.
Maria only giggled, “I hope I’m not this way when I have kids!”
They talked for a short while longer, it was mostly Maria telling Steve her aspirations of going back to Italy to see her extended-family and then looking to Peggy like a hopeless child when she wanted the older woman to make any comments. Eventually, Peggy was rescued by John, who by then looked like he had had his fair share of polite company and alcohol.
“Excuse me,” John said, shouldering, almost quite literally, into their conversation. “Could I—” before he could stop himself, his eyes trailed up Maria’s form indulgently. Momentarily, he was transfixed by the red sparkle of her gown and the deep tan in her skin before he finally glanced up and locked eyes with Peggy, who had crossed her arms and scowled at him. “Uh—care for the last dance, Mrs. Carter?” He asked, trying and nearly failing to make up for his blunder.
Peggy rolled her eyes, but she offered her hand nonetheless. “Only if you keep your eyes where they’re supposed to be, Mr. Carter.”
John smiled as he walked Peggy towards a clear space in the crowd, visibly relaxing as his wife rested her head against shoulder. “Just my eyes?” He teased.
Steve felt a hand on his forearm, drawing his attention from the dance floor to the girl beside him. “Hey…” Maria murmured, “I’m not feeling too well. Do you mind helping me—” she looked a little green around the gills, hiccupping into the back of her hand miserably, “hail a taxi?”
It’s a month later and Steve’s fully active in SHIELD. The agency is scrambling to find a suitable team for him, but Peggy’s over the moon because getting Steve onto their roster when a handful of other agencies wanted him was a hard won battle. She doesn’t care if they send him out to save the world, or just out to get coffee, he’s SHIELD’s now and that’s all that matters.
“I do believe we’re one step closer to saving the world, Mr. Rogers,” Peggy announced joyfully, spinning her chair around to stare out across the assortment of bullpens that sat below her office.
Her enthusiasm was infectious. Steve smiled as he approached the window. Standing alongside her, he peered down at the dozens of personnel going about their day leisurely and wondered how they could be so indifferent when he and Peggy felt such a sense of importance. We are all going to change the world, Steve thought.
Steve’s spec-ops team was a small one, but he’d trained them personally and was beginning to trust them with his life. They were by all accounts kids, the oldest being twenty-three, but they were useful for what they were intended for. Steve called them his Pups and doted on them just as much as he demanded excellence from them. They weren't his Howling Commandos, but Steve respected them. Missions flew by in a breeze with his Pups at his back. Steve felt like himself again when he was back in the field; shooting and being shot at had never been a more welcome diversion.
Howard was thrilled to see more and more of Steve, the blond coming by the armory often. Mostly to restock ammunition, to check on the repair status on their weaponry, or to pick up any prototypes SHIELD wished to be tested in combat—but there were plenty of personal visits too. Steve looked forward to these meetings as well, Howard drank significantly less while at work, and the blond spoke at-length with him until the paper work was done and Steve was cleared to catch a cab home or catch the first plane out.
Things seemed normal. No, not seemed—things were normal. Steve could sleep at night for once, not plagued by the darkness and the cold.
He was alive, Steve had found himself thinking as he led the charge for his team, bullets spraying all around him. Even though the pungent smell of death and gunpowder hung heavy in the air and clung to his clothes, he'd never felt more alive.