Edit [July 21, 2013] - Hi! You may have already seen this fic on another account by the name of Child's Knight. That account along with the email connected to it was hacked and so I'm moving all those stories to this new account (variable 4).
They find him at an out-of-the way cemetery, the grassy plots squeezed in between a church and dog park. The sign hanging on the entrance gate indicates its name, Green Shield Cemetery. A familiar motorcycle sits quietly in the church's parking lot, helmet hanging from a handle and swinging lightly, back and forth with the gentle breeze.
Birds are chirping and the sounds of the city seem far off although they're right in the middle of it. Then again, Brooklyn's always been an odd place, with silent spots where by all means there shouldn't be and peaceful niches hidden easily from those who may ruin them. Perhaps that's why their captain so often ventures back here, searching for solitude or a taste of what used to be. He never invites them when he goes, but they tag along anyway and he never denies them, only acknowledging their presence long enough to remind them to get their own ride.
The two pass through the iron gateway, walking carefully so as not to disturb the serenity of the graveyard. The headstones are laid in neat and orderly rows, some in the form of crosses, others simple slabs of rock standing on grass that's peculiarly green given the gloomy setting of death and mourning. Tall trees create a thin canopy of leaves, creating spots of shade over the ground with sunlight peaking through and illuminating the area.
There are wreaths, and flowers, and Hallmark cards knocked over by a gentle wind all around. It's only as they pass the headstones, reading the names of graves bearing a visitor's gift, do they take note of the date and things start clicking in their heads. The scientist and mechanic share a look, confirming without a word spoken what they'd been speculating in the car ride over, continuing forward with less urgent steps now that they now the reason for the Captain early morning departure. Neither have much to bring this particular date to the forefront of their minds, but with the new piece of information they each remember a woman who had once be the center of their lives. The remembering brings a wave of sadness to the two, though time has lessened the sting that it used to cause.
The first things they see of him are the edges of his shoulders peeking out from behind a towering maple tree and then, as they get closer, a dirty shovel resting by his leg. They stop a couple feet off, the sound of his voice drifting on the wind to their ear, low and just barely more than a whisper.
"– and medicine's come a long way too. You were right not to listen to the docs, the asthma wasn't just in my head and it wasn't your fault. A lot's changed since the last time I stopped by, not all bad though."
He's talking to someone, but the only other people in the cemetery are the two that came in search of their absent teammate. His voice is tired and at the same time content. They make a point not to nose into each other's business, or at least not deep enough to rouse dormant demons, but their unofficial leader rarely leaves an opening for them to prod. He seems exposed now, slumping back carelessly against the rough bark of a tree and talking to air.
"I made friends." And then he chuckles reminiscently, while the eavesdroppers wonder what memories lay beneath that remark. "Just had to play guinea pig, jump out of a plane, and sneak around an enemy base to make them. They're mostly gone now, but they lived their lives. I think I have other friends now though. I'm assuming they're friends seeing as they managed to find me here." Knowing that they've been caught Tony and Bruce step forward until they're right next to the Captain.
"It wasn't hard, Rogers. Don't think there aren't trackers in your stuff."
"That phone you gave me is at my apartment and I removed the bugs you and SHIELD left on my bike. And my helmet."
"Shouldn't have left your wallet unattended at the debrief last month." Steve grimaces but doesn't say anything.
The mechanic leans against the tree, looking down to weary super-soldier and the crouching physicist. A pair of squirrels chatter above, their screeches somehow complementing the rustling of leaves. Two graves sit unusually close to one another, space allowing only for the modest rose bush to lodge. Glancing up and around, the genius notes it as the only rose bush in the cemetery. He reads the engravings on the headstones, knowing already who they belong to, but doing so anyway to solidify his guess.
Sarah Rogers
1898 – 1933
Wife, Mother, Friend
Joseph Rogers
1894 – 1918
Husband, Father, Soldier
"We didn't have a grave for him until my mother died. Wasn't much point without a body to bury, but the man who took care of the place at the time let us have another plot, so long as we did all the work ourselves." His voice catches them off guard, as does his choice of conversation. "Buck and I spent the entire morning setting the headstones and digging the hole. Had some help lowering my mother's coffin from the church, filled the hole, and that was that."
There's silence between the three that has everything to do with wanting to know each other better but not knowing how to get there. How does one step into the shoes of a soldier out of time? Neither of the intellects can really understand how Steve grew up or how his life's been turned on its head. They've both dealt with the crap life's thrown at them, but with Steve it's more what life – and time – have taken from him.
"Your dad fought in World War I?" Tony finally asks, apprehensive and for the life of him he can't think of any other question he could possibly pose.
"Yeah. My old man died fighting the war to end all wars, and then I died fighting the next war."
"What about your mother?" Bruce puts forward, because any farther down that path and the beautiful day may end up completely ruined.
"Quiet, strong, determined. She got wind of my father's death a week after she found out she was carrying me. Worked two jobs and still managed to tuck me in every night and wake me up for school in the morning. She was kind and loving, and never let me feel down about not being like the other boys. Since I couldn't play with the rest without risking an asthma attack or something of the sort, I spent a lot of time with her while she sewed or whatever her second job was at the time. She never got frustrated with me, and even when the Depression hit I figured everything would be fine because I had her."
"How did she…?"
Steve hesitates before answering, his previous ease stunted only long enough for a flash of keen sorrow to cross his face before it's quickly hidden. "Tuberculosis. Got it while working as a nurse and couldn't shake it." He remembers saying similar words while trying to enlist, the coarseness of them in his mouth no different than then. "She was gone before the end of the week."
He opens his eyes, wondering when he'd closed them. It's the first time he's been back here in decades, decades of Mother's days that he shouldn't have missed. Soft petals brush against his fingertips as he fiddles with the rose in his hands, thorns pressing lightly into his palm but causing no pain. Every year he comes and places a rose on his mother's grave, the tradition one ongoing since he was fifteen.
But then he'd finally gotten another chance and shipped out to Europe, promptly owing two roses to Sarah Rogers for the Mother's das he'd missed while overseas. He would have brought two extra flowers on his next visit, but it wasn't reasonable or deserving of her memory to bring another sixty-seven roses on top of that. Steve hadn't planned on dying during the war, or being frozen for nearly seventy years, hadn't expected his life to deviate much from the normalcy that he'd lived his first twenty-seven years in. Then he'd learned now random and unpredictable life was.
So today he planted a rose bush.
So in case he missed another Mother's day he could still say thank you.
So that if he never came back, at least Mother's day wasn't forgotten.
He'd almost missed another rose, released from SHIELD only that morning. Even simple training exercises risk fatalities, especially when performed by assassins, suits of armor, gods, and Hulks.
"How are your ribs?" Bruce's voice is soft, respectful of the setting, and also apologetic. The Hulk hadn't been kind during training, even if he did like the colorful Captain.
"Sore. They'll be fine by tomorrow."
Tony's the next to speak, his voice like Bruce's conscious of their surroundings. "You hungry?"
"I could eat."
"Let's go, I know a place with great scotch and even greater fries."
Saying a silent good bye to his mother, Steve stands, taking his shovel in-hand and following the other two along the path to the exit.
"The rose bush is nice," Bruce comments, idly musing what it would be like to have Steve as a son.
"I like to keep traditions."