If he only looked at the glistening, shifting reflection of the city and the bridge in the restless surface of the river, he could almost believe he was 22 again. The war not even yet begun, the largest worry looming in his mind whether Bucky would abandon him tonight for some girl he met. In the timeless, churning water, it was still his bridge, still his city. He raised his eyes.
Fury wanted him to pack up, move to DC. "Better for you," he'd said, with that unflagging certainty that shaped his voice, "More work. Fewer Ghosts". And maybe he was right. It sounded right. In DC he wouldn't walk past every diner he'd ever choked down bitter coffee in when he couldn't afford food; past the Dance Hall-turned-CVS where he'd been stood up for his first date; past the empty lot that was the ice cream parlor Bucky took him to afterwards to cheer him up; past the place he'd bought flowers to lay on his mom's grave, and what was it now? A funeral home. How appropriate.
In DC he could blend, another returning soldier, another anonymous spy, another American icon. In DC maybe he could even start over, although he knew better than to hope for much.
It was hard to imagine living anywhere other than Brooklyn. After the aliens, all he wanted was to find a place in his old neighborhood and settle in, figure out what the hell had happened, plan his next move. Then he saw his old neighborhood and, well…
He tore his eyes away from what had become of the Manhattan skyline and turned to walk home. It had gotten late while he was in the park and there weren't a lot of people left on the streets. It was a chilly evening, after about a month of chilly evenings, so the windows in the buildings above his head were shut tight. He could see the warm glow of happy kitchens and bedrooms, the cold static flicker of television sets, but all silent.
Ahead of him, about a block, a woman emerged from a subway station and turned for a minute in the amber pool of light cast by a street lamp, confused. She consulted her phone and spun around again. Her hair was dark, softly curled around her shoulders. Her green dress fell to her knees. From this distance, she could have been Peggy. Looking for him, waiting for him. "Steve, is that you?" When he had discovered how clear his memories of the war still were, after 70 years under an iceberg, he had moved "Sharpening of Memory and Focus" above the "not being able to get drunk" on his list of shitty things about his transformation. He could still hear the exact cadence and emotion of her voice. "You don't have to do this".
Up ahead, the woman had decided on a direction and begun to walk, tentatively. He tried not to focus on her, but just as he made the decision to look away, and maybe turn down a side street, he saw a thin, shadowy form peel itself off the wall of a building in between street lamps and move after her. His gut tightened. The man was staying close to the walls of buildings, carefully out of the light. He passed a bar and the neon signs cast vivid green patterns on his pale skin. Steve walked faster.
Ahead, the woman paused briefly before turning a corner, and he caught a glimpse of her face. She really did look like Peggy, or maybe his mind was playing cruel tricks on him again. The man, somehow gaining ground, passed the corner as well and now they were both well out of his sight. Steve's chest tightened. He let his feet break into a run. If he was wrong, he would just be wrong. But if he was right…
Twenty feet from where he skidded around the corner, the man had grabbed the woman and was holding her against a wall, his bulky forearm resting across her collarbones. With his free hand, he grabbed the purse she was offering him and threw it behind him into the street. He reached for the hem of her dress. She screamed at the top of her lungs but the windows above her head were closed tight against the wind and the noise of the street. A few blocks over, a siren wailed, and beneath them, the A train rumbled.
Steve was there so fast he surprised even himself. He ripped the man's arm away from her chest and twisted, threw all his weight into a kick that landed on the man's square chin and snapped his bald head backwards. The attacker did not so much stumble as plummet backwards towards the street. He landed next to the purse he had thrown, and made to grab it as he scrambled to his feet.
"Leave it", Steve said through his teeth. And he did, spitting blood and staggering away as fast as his dizzy legs could carry him. Steve turned to look at the woman, who was still leaning against the wall. She didn't look like Peggy, or maybe she did. She had the same big, dark eyes, the same warm face, the same gorgeous lips. She was more angular than Peggy, and there were tears pouring down her face. He realized as he looked at her that he had never seen Peggy cry.