It had been two years now, two rather uneventfulyears, but the glaringly clean and plain hallways still made him feel…

NervousAnxiousUncomfortableVulnerableNakedScaredLonelyTerrified

… on edge? Steve swallowed tightly at the thought, blinking in surprise every time his thick boots squeaked on the flooring. It was understandable, his therapist had told him, her doe like eyes soft and pitying. It was new missions and adrenaline, it was the old war and watching people die. It was everything he'd suffered through catching up to him now that he had no distractions.

It was because he was unwilling to accept the new time, she'd scribbled into his file – which he was more than capable of reading upside down – it was because he wouldn't accept help and settle into the new age.

Which was a lie.

Steve understood he wasn't back in the second world war, he understood that things had settled, that technology had made leaps and bounds. He was perfectly capable of understanding and accepting. He was, however, incapable of being happy about it.

Everything he knew was gone, corrupted by the new century, so yes, he hated it. Those empty yards of green, where men would train and sweat on, were replaced by solid white floors and polished gym equipment that smelt of nothing but leather. The old styled bunk beds he'd hated to love, the ones where you'd look to the side and see twenty other men, were replaced by private rooms you got with signing your life away on the dotted line.

Even the dog tags, those shining chunks of metal he used to personally return to mourning families had disappeared – replaced now by sparkling badges and titles sitting on polished desks. It had stopped being about earning respect and making a name on the field, and instead about your title and what it put in your bank account.

Bucky would've despised it all. Peggy too. Not that he could blame them.

"Ah, Captain Rogers? On time as always, I see."

Steve turned at the new voice, a weakly polite smile on his lips. "Coulson, it's good to see you," he nodded once, both hands shoved into his pockets. It hid the slight trembling in his fingers. "I didn't want to keep anyone waiting."

"Don't worry, you never do," the greying man promised, his own lips twitching up in a genuine smile. Before the silence between them could grow even remotely uncomfortable, his eyes were sweeping out to the area behind them. "Well, since you're here, we might as well get started? After you, Captain," he allowed, graciously stepping back and waving towards the open door.

Another nod, another dull smile and then he was through the door, his handler following close behind like a shadow. Steve took one look at the grey colour scheme and the lack of windows – how angry would the board be if he made a hole in the side of the building, let some natural light in? – before he forced his body into the nearest seat.

"You lot really don't like windows, do you?" Steve joked lamely, smile falling into a sharp grimace.

Coulson gave a sympathetic wince. "I'm sorry, Steve. I know you dislike only having one way out, but this is a secure room and we need one for the material today," he apologized bluntly, eyes drifting towards the folders, both the ones in his hands and the ones already on the table. "It's sensitive."

Ah, right. He was here for a reason – for a mission.

Steve adopted his classic stern expression, the one that made men cower back. "Right. The mission," he reminded the room pointlessly, leaning back with as much ease as his tense shoulders could feign. "It seems important. Who's in the team?"

"No team. No backup," Coulson frowned. "This is sensitive, Steve, I really can't stress that enough," he gave a sigh, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he hefted up a beige folder. "We're hoping to deal with this discreetly. You are how we'll manage that." That wasn't surprising, the more secretive the mission, the more often it was him and him alone dealing with it. "Three days ago, one of our consultants were taken by an unknown terrorist group."

Blue eyes clouded in concern, worry gnawing at the smooth skin of the soldier's forehead.

In the agency there were few people he liked, and none of them were the soldiers he worked beside, unable to befriend someone who constantly tried to one up him when there were lives at stake. Instead he'd grew close to those who hid behind the scenes, those who never had anything to prove to him. It was medics and intelligence officers mostly, like Cho and that young intern Parker, sometimes the odd consultant here and there…

Steve closed his eyes, rubbing a hand across the bridge of his nose. "Who?" he demanded, pinching the skin.

There was a warm hand on his shoulder, the heat a small comfort. "No one you know," Coulson promised, giving a soft smile as he looked down to the folder – showing that while the soldier didn't know the consultant, the handler did. "You haven't met this one."

"I haven't?" Steve frowned, leaning closer and hoping to catch a peek at the words on the paper. "What's their specialty? When do they come in?"

The folder was inched away from his sight. "Thursdays, on occasion, and there's nothing he doesn't specialise in," the suited man shrugged, pursing his lips to hide the humour. "It's a long story – but he's intelligent, useful, and important to more than just our agency. He, uh…" There was a sigh, and the man slapped the folder against his open palm. "Let's just say he's a public figurehead? If we don't get him back, someone is going to notice soon."

On occasion? What…

Steve couldn't help but frown for the umpteenth time, raising a hand to try and hide the action. "Right," he tried slowly, biting back irritation. The agency could at least act like they trusted him. "You want me to go get him out then? Minimal injury too, if he's in the public eye?"

Coulson chuckled, a rare sound paired with a common smile. "Well yes, we want you to go in and help him, but getting out is something he'll manage on his own, believe me. We're going to give you a case, and we want you to pass it on. He'll be able to get home once he has it."

This wasn't going to be the average mission, was it? The blond soldier rubbed his eyes, confusion littering pain behind the blue irises. "Right. You want me to break in, give him something and then find my own way out?" he demanded, looking up with a gleam of frustration. "Coulson, couldn't a team manage this better than I could? What about Romanov?

The greying man almost looked guilty, but the expression flickered away before the other could get a hold on it. "He doesn't play well with others," he admitted slowly. "You might be the only one capable of keeping a levelled head while dealing with him."

Steve pointedly held out a hand. "Who is this guy?"

The folder was squeezed tighter in the other's grip, like he was trying to keep it away from the soldier. "We've been trying to let you adapt to the times, at least before throwing things like this at you…" Coulson tried to explain, throat moving in a swallow. "We weren't sure how you'd react at first, seeing as you technically have ties to him. We weren't sure if it would be similar to letting you take two steps forward, before dragging you back one."

Blue eyes flashed in suspicion, the hand lowering to rest innocently on the table. "Is there something you're not telling me?" Steve asked slowly, his stare daring the man to lie to him. He might not fully understand how the rules and times had changed, but if it had something to do with the military he was a quick learner – or as it seemed, a natural in the area. The other man was wilting under his look, shrinking back slightly at the level-headed glare and patience. "Coulson, you know how I work. If you don't tell me what – "

"It's Howard's son."

Steve stiffened.

For once their assumption had been right. It was two steps forward, and one step back.