Days Gone By – One shot
This story is dedicated to my good friend Schmo, whose love for Captain America makes mine pale in comparison. This one's for you, Schmo!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Avengers. They and all of their glory belong to Marvel.
"The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young."
Oscar Wilde
He straightened his tie in the motorcycle's tiny rearview mirror, being sure to sweep every strand of windblown hair back into its rightful place. He'd shaved extra carefully and closely that morning; even going as far to iron his clothes and put on some of that cologne Tony had given him on the anniversary of his "Thawing Day," as the eccentric billionaire had dubbed it.
"Seven hundred and thirty days you've been up and about with the living, Cap'," the man had said, reaching up to clap him on the shoulder a little harder than was necessary. "It's about time you started smelling like the twenty-first century."
Steve sighed quietly, experiencing for a moment the mixed feelings which accompanied thoughts about Tony Stark. Tony was more brash and immature than his father Howard, certainly, but there was no denying their striking similarities both in manner and in sense of humor.
I'll tell him that next time I see him. It'll be worth the look on his face.
But he knew taking advantage of a strained relationship between a deceased and a living son was a little over the line. Being a man of morality, Steve only entertained the notion and relished the opportunity for long-sought revenge; to finally get back at Tony for all the cracks about his costume and his manner of doing…well, everything actually. Almost every action he performed, every word he uttered, every reference he made was seventy years out of date. He was a relic from a difference age and it set him apart in a way which was not flattering or convenient.
Something else, then.
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Steve turned and faced the building he'd spent so many hours traveling to reach. He checked his watch – he preferred the familiar device to the sleek, sophisticated boxes made of plastic literally everyone seemed to have. He hardly even touched the one S.H.E.I.L.D. had given him; it occupied a permanent residence on his dresser back at the mansion. At least when he wasn't out on duty.
Good, I still have time.
Sliding his sleeve back over his wrist, he began to advance towards the low, wide structure. It was moderately sized, about three stories tall and expansive in girth. With a nicely kept garden and its worn, brick exterior, the place almost looked inviting - almost, but not quite. It had an air of sterility, of the regimented orderliness which only comes from careful pre-planning. Kind of like a school.
The building occupied the outskirts of an also moderately sized, out-of-the-way community. It was a quiet place, Steve could tell that much just from driving through. It was a nice change of pace from New York City, but he found himself already noting the absence of the constant noise generated by people and cars. Here it was replaced with wind and wildlife.
As he approached the doors, he almost threw out his leather-clad arm to open them. But they parted by themselves, pushed by an invisible hand, reminding him again of his chronological age and where he had come from. There was a lot Steve still had to get used too; advances which had been gradual improvements and changes for others were a complete slap in the face with the future for him. Sometimes he found himself wondering if he'd ever truly acclimate to this era of technology.
He recalled the conversation he'd had with Natasha not even three days before as he passed underneath the archway forged of steel and iron, not the wood or stone of which he was so used; he walked softly on the carpeted entry, unconsciously half-expecting it to be tile or something of the like.
"Natasha," he had approached her because Clint was out doing whatever Clint-liked-to-do and the two brainiacs among them were absorbed in something in the laboratory, not they could have helped him anyway. Thor he immediately excluded as a possible resource, as the self-proclaimed god was an even newer comer to the Earth than Steve was in many respects.
"Natasha, could I ask something of you?"
She was sitting at a table in the public conference room. The Russian – though she loathed the be called out on her nationality – looked up from the field reports S.H.I.E.L.D. delivered every morning via email, promptly and consistently and at six o'clock. Those reports were everything that needed fixing, everything that was done, and everything they were planning to do. Those reports were what determined their day's activities and, in a way, were the days themselves.
"Yes." Sharp and to the efficient, her responses always were. No beating around the bush. It was also an affirmation; Natasha Romanoff did not give out her assistance freely. Her answers were never posed like questions. You either had her help or you went without.
Steve took this as his go-ahead. He explained what he wanted done, what he wanted to do, clearly and meticulously. He gave his motive, and he was about to provide even more when his teammate held up her hand to stop him.
"I'll talk to Fury," she slid back from the table, standing erect. It might have been Steve's imagination, but he could have sworn her usually icy gaze melted a bit, her tone warmed just barely. "I can't promise you anything. These things usually don't work out the way you want them to."
Steve blinked, unfazed. "Could you get them to try? There's no way I can do this without their help. They have the resources and means to do it, and quickly. I wouldn't even know where to begin."
The red-head nodded. "They'll do their best." She turned to leave, but before exiting the room she threw one more piece of sage advice over her shoulder. "Don't get your hopes too high. Then nothing will ever be able to dash them."
Too late, Steve had thought.
And now, seventy-two hours later, he was standing in the lobby of the place 'they' had helped him find. It paid sometimes to be optimistic. He approached the front desk with as much confidence he could muster, although he had to admit the middle-aged receptionist who was eyeing him up appreciatively as he drew closer really didn't encourage him to keep his mind on the task at hand.
"H-hello," he said, more embarrassed than flattered. He cleared his throat awkwardly, getting ready to speak, but the woman didn't seem to notice.
"Good afternoon," she smiled, her thin red lips spreading wide; wide like a Cheshire cat. "I haven't seen you in here before. New resident?"
"What? Ah, no. I mean – I don't know…are visiting hours still operating?" He stumbled over his words but the woman whose clip-on name tag read "Janet Templeton" didn't seem to mind. She was too old and coming on too strongly. True, he'd experienced this kind of attention before, but a lot had change since then. He had changed.
"You have fifteen minutes from the looks of it," she batted her eyes obviously. "But if you wanted to stick around for a little…longer…I don't think there'd be any objections."
He grimaced but tried to make it look like a grin – he never had really mastered the art of navigating the social graces which were required around women; his previously grotesquely frail body had deprived him of any opportunity in which to hone his familiarity. They were usually the chorographers of the proceeding; he just took their queues and went along for the ride.
"My name is Steve Rogers," he said, trying in every manner possible to indicate he wasn't interested without offending the try-hard seductress. "I called ahead? I came here to see –"
"Eleventh door on the right," Janet replied after a quick glance at what Steve now knew was a computer screen. She did not appear to have picked up on his signals.
I guess I'll have to stop being so subtle…
"Don't be afraid to take your time!" she called after him as he walked away, prompting him to increase his speed, but not enough so that she knew he was attempting to escape her advances as quickly as possible. He glanced backwards and caught her tiny wave before rounding a corner.
I'm not used to this, damn it!
The hallway had almost a mute quality about it; the carpet muffled his footsteps and had been recently vacuumed. The walls were decorated with the sort of generic, slightly out-of-date wallpaper one would find in a hospital. It smelled of second-rate cafeteria food and medication; stagnate. The light was not harsh, but still bright enough to give the area a clinical feel. Steve suppressed a shudder. He hated the feelings this place was giving him.
He progressed down the hallway slowly, glancing up at the numbers above the doors every now and then to be sure he didn't go too far.
Four…six…nine…
He almost missed door with "eleven" spelled out in numeric lettering above its head; it was tucked back in the recesses of a nondescript alcove.
Here goes.
He crossed over the threshold, steeling himself for whatever he would find inside. Steve had thought about this moment every day since he'd learned of how much time he had slept away. And for a long time he was afraid of it. But now there was no turning back; he could remember the past with as much fondness as he wanted, but now was the time to come to terms with the present and face the future.
"Who's there?" he froze. The quiet, soft little voice had emanated from the bed in the corner.
He began moving again. "Hello," he stepped further into the room. "…Peggy."
She seemed smaller. Her skin was wrinkled and folded over itself like crumpled plastic wrap, but despite her wispy white hair and melted features, Steve knew it was the woman he'd just barely touched love with all those years ago. He could see she was still beautiful.
This beautiful woman whom, under different circumstances, could have been his most magnificent adventure; but what could have been was stolen right out from under them. They didn't even have the chance to say a proper goodbye. A fleeting kiss in the back of a car and an emotional farewell via intercom. Steve had wanted more.
"Who are you?"
The question caught him off-guard, physically stung even.
"Why are you in here?"
He smiled sadly, realizing - realizing that while he remembered her with perfect clarity, time and age had erased his face from her mind. She did not recognize him. He had known several other elderly people, back in the day, who were also afflicted with this disease of recollection. They had pictures of sons and daughters and friends on their bedside tables, people they had known for all of their lives, but once confronted with them in person they were like strangers.
It has been seventy years. I think…I think I'll start from the beginning.
"I'm Steve Rogers," he reached out and touched her papery hand, grasping it gently in his fingers. "And I came here to see you."
Her withered face was blank for a moment, still marred by lack of recognition. Then, unexpectedly, her eyes lit up and a pleasant smile graced her lips. Peggy held up a ravaged hand, one finger extended - the hand which had once fired bullets both at himself, Nazis, and HYDRA operatives - a hand which had proved to be strong and steady in the face of adversity and fear.
"I knew a Steve Rogers," she spoke fondly, quickly making the transition from apprehensive to welcoming. Something about this young man made her trust him; it was practically instinct, like second-nature. It was something her tired mind couldn't comprehend. Peggy raised her gaze so it was level with his. She was scrutinizing, grasping at a memory long passed. "You remind me of him."
"Really?" Steve felt a particular warmth spreading inside of his chest which he hadn't felt for a long time. He drew a chair to her bedside.
She remembers me.
Albeit, not in manner the he would have hoped; but upon reflection he concluded it was almost better this way. She would keep on thinking him dead, not knowing of his pain and his loss. He could tell from the black-and-white photos on her wall she had lived a full life after the war. There was a smiling man in a tux, Peggy herself wearing a pretty dress – a wedding. There were pictures documenting the life a small, grinning child, as well as a collection of grandchildren. Imaged of a lovely house in the woods, perhaps in this very town, were visible here and there.
She did not need to know his life, once thought lost, was now irreconcilably empty. Peggy did not need the burden of his pain. Not at her age, not ever.
You lived your life without me. I'm happy you did.
But he could not help envying the man in those pictures, the one standing so stalwartly by her side decade after decade. He imagined for a moment the child was his, watching it grow up through the eyes of a father. He would never have that, not with Peggy. Steve was, however, so happy she had possessed that love, lived such a long and fulfilling life. He only wished he could have done it with her.
Peggy continued on, not noticing the glassy, emotional nature of her visitor's eyes. "He was a wonderful man, a brave man. One of the bravest I'd ever met," she raised an eyebrow. "He fought in the war, you know."
She brushed some stray hair away from his forehead, like a mother would do to a son. "He was very handsome. You look so much like him…"
His throat tightened and he looked at his shoes. He didn't want to cry. He didn't know if it would make Peggy upset or not.
Still, Peggy reiterated the story he sensed she must have told many others. "He gave everything for his country. He was so brave. But…," she faltered, like a record skipping a track. Peggy ruminated for a moment. "He's gone now – gone before his time, just like so many of the others. Such a loss."
"They were great men," Steve added. Bucky's face flashed in front of his eyes. They were great men, yes. But even with all his strength he could not save them all.
"Young man, because of men like them, me and you are here today," her tone held a slight air of admonishment, as if she were used to dolling out this phrase on a regular basis on those less grateful. But Steve couldn't be farther from the opposite.
They sat together in silence for a long while. Steve was happy just to be in her presence. It would be the last time, he knew. His time as an Avenger was too precious to spend visiting her on a regular basis, and doing so would be dangerous in the long run. He wasn't a relative of hers, and eventually word would get out of the young man constantly visiting Peggy Carter. Questions would be raised, questions he didn't have the means to answer. It was inappropriate.
And it was for these reasons he was silent, reveling in the peace which had settled between them. He could only guess as to why Peggy maintained her own quiet vigil. They were two old souls, communing in a way neither of them understood. It was about twenty minutes later when Peggy withdrew her hand and looked at Steve with eyes once again clouded.
"Who are you?"
"I-" he fumbled for the right thing to say. Then he found it. "I'm just passing through, ma'am. I'm sorry – I must be in the wrong room." He got up, bowed his head, and left. But before he did, he turned around, and looked at her one last time. She was now engrossed in the window, and whatever apparently fascinating sight lay behind it.
"Good-bye," he whispered. Their final farewell. It was just as wonderful as he had hoped it would be.
(A/N) So a while I back, right after I saw the Avengers, I was scrolling around on Tumblr (I don't have an account because my email won't let me) and I saw an open prompt; "Steve goes to a nursing home and finds Peggy, who by this point has grown old." I can't remember who asked for this, and since I don't have a Tumblr there's no way for me to share the finished product. I'm sorry if someone else has already filled the prompt, but in my opinion the world could always use more Steve Rodgers stories.
A little bit of research had to go into this. For example, I needed to know where the Avengers live (a mansion in New York provided by Tony Stark). And yes, the public conference room is and actual thing, funnily enough; I looked up a floor plan of the place. I even had to look up the parts of a door!
This is supposed to be set at an unspecified date in the future after the team defeated Loki; that's why Thor's mentioned. He's supposed to have come back to Earth by or now or something, I dunno. Also head-canon dictates Steve is a wonderful little ball of old-fashionedness. I honestly think he'd be embarrassed by all the attention we fangirls give him (and his wondrous backside) so I tried to kind of stick that in there.
Anyway, before this gets too lengthy, thank you Tumblr-person for giving me this idea. If you ever find this story, I hope you enjoy it (:
Signed ~ Vots