ANN: 2015, July 5th. Re-boot via a new editor. Thanks for reading guys. I am so sorry again. I have been struggling with depression for over two years now and am now actively seeking help. Thank you for your patience, kind thoughts, reviews, emails, and for enjoying my work. I have not given up on this work and am going to update as soon as I can:

I am stunned by the reviews that continue to this day for this story. Stunned, awed, delighted, and encouraged that my efforts, even as silly and fanciful as fanfiction, meant something to someone. Thank you for granting such a privilege to me.

Chapter 1: Her Name

AN: 2015 Edition

Well, here's my take of Steve moving on, and getting involved with that certain waitress. Just as a general heads up for story definition sake, I really suggest that you check out that deleted scene between Steve and her in your Avengers DVD extras, or on youtube. (But let's be honest here: we all own the DVDS.)

FIC CONTAINS: Steve/the waitress relationship, as well as Steve dealing with Peggy, as, yes, as noticed in the deleted scene, she is still alive. Will have other Avengers as Steve juggles hiding his normal girlfriend from them and the madness that ensues. There is a constant underlining story line that will take on The Winter Soldier.

Now, for those of you clicking this, I'll be honest: This is a slow burn story. There is lots of development and characters. It's long for a reason, and not just fluff. That I can promise.

Because, really this story was just DYING to be written: When Stan Lee turns around from that table and tells Steve Rogers to ask for Beth's number and he doesn't? My oh my.

I wonder what would happen if he changed his mind later?

The old man's blue eyes clung to him, reprimanding him with the wisdom of a life spent in watching: Ask for her number, you moron—or you'll survive to see an empty life less lived.

Steve doesn't know her name.

He's searching for that particular café in the middle of the destruction site for "The Battle Of New York", and he doesn't know its name either. But he knows that's what he keeps going back into the wasted part of the city for.

At first, it was a little touch-and-go about who could enter the perimeter and who was chased off by megaphones and thick wads of police tape, but Steve manages by. It's no secret that newly formed "super hero" team known as The Avengers are pretty much allowed anywhere they wanted to go, and the persona of Tony Stark, if thesis reporters wanted to get really technical, but this was something that Steve felt he had to do on his own. Not as Captain America. Everyone knows Captain America.

No one knows Steve Rogers.

He crosses the yellow and black police tape, lightly pressing the gasoline pedal on his motorcycle less the rev of the engine attract the attention of exhausted ash-stained faces that lurked from police men, S.W.A.T. teams, construction workers and firemen alike; each leaving and returning to the endless burning fire trucks that loitered through the passive turmoil, stretching on for blocks and blocks…

"HEY BUDDY!" A booming megaphone catches Steve's near perfect entrance, and forcing himself not to act like he was caught in a criminal act, Steve slows down. He turns his head to greet the dirty face of a local police officer with messy black hair and the start of five o'clock shadow drizzling down his throat. "Well, well, well—I thought it might've been you."

Steve's blue eyes widened for a moment as the officer recognizes him. It's been happening more and more lately that he has to be more careful about it, but it catches him off guard every time. Now, people don't notice him like they do Tony Stark. It's not that instantaneous. But every once in a while Steve'll notice someone on the padded seat of the adjacent subway train has been staring at him a little too long, and the soldier would immediately exit the next stop beamed at him from the red letters that flash horizontal from a buzzing box above the sliding doors.

"Hey," Steve says offhandedly, ducking his gaze from the approaching boy in blue.

The man studies him curiously. "So…what's this now, the six or seventh time this month?"

That you've caught me, sounds about right. Steve finds himself smirking just enough to make this encounter go faster. "Sorry Officer. I just can't stay away."

The dark-haired fella grins. "Nahn, get on with it then, you've got by enough, and you don't seem like no looter either. Hell, wasn't it you that threw some looters at us the other day?"

Steve hides the swell of anxiousness inside of him, thankful that the officer doesn't recognize Captain America from the news, but still the pit grow hedidremove quite a few of those looters not too long ago. "Me? No, no sir I think you're thinking of somebody else." Steve thinks fast and rolls his shoulder for show. "I couldn't do something like that. I hurt my shoulder a while ago."

"Really?" The man raises an eyebrow, revising his picture of the young man's practically perfect physique before him. "Back in 82' when you were first born?" He chuckled.

No. Back in 1929 when I was a kid and played street ball with a team that probably included your grandfather.

Steve avoided the question. "It's still okay if I—you know?"

The cop nodded. "Oh, sure, sure, we've seen ya enough—anyway, be careful, ya hear? I don't know what you're looking for, but I hope you find it soon enough."

Surprisingly, the snark in Steve's thoughts can offer up no response. "Yes sir."

He takes a sharp turn and weaves his way around large slabs of fallen buildings; grey and white powered debris that still floats through the air makes it hard for him to breathe. He turns out on another empty street, then another, and further still. Steve knows from his previous war that war-zones take time, even though most of the dangerous matter has been packed up, but the police are still weary of allowing pedestrians back into the site. From the latest report that Bruce had updated Steve on, the site wouldn't be deserted for long. Apparently government issued passes were going on insurance deposits that consisted of health-safety remains of smaller shop owners and their employees would slowly be allow in to check for damage and to start rebuilding. Tony seemed interested in this innovation, but Steve's smile soon leveled out into a frown. All the time he had spent wondering the area before the attack, and it feels like Bruce and Tony are discussing the funeral reimbursements of a lost friend.

Would the city choose to remake it like before? Steve wanted to cringe. Did most people really take the time to painstakingly re-create the past, or would it be covered up glossily like a wound, cemented and pressed, never allowed to breathe or even fester?

Certainly Steve didn't want the citizens that took up prior residents living there homeless or jobless forever—but talk of rebuilding ripped a bottomless hole in Steve's stomach. It reminded him of when he first woke up in the "re-creation" of that 1940's hospital wing, façaded and misinterpreted for what the time was, and not what it meant.

Steve's relationship with the city was an odd thing that he kept mostly to himself, because, in all honestly: Steve couldn't explain it. Not to anyone. Certainly not to himself. But something pulled him in.

Before the attack he would often walk the entire length of alphabet city, doubleback around to Central Park, jog Fifth Avenue, and, at the end of the night, stand dazzled, misplaced and a little saddened at the blinking beautiful theatrics of every Broadway theater sign. He preferred the city during the day—there were less lights, less chaos along the streets and he felt he could walk into a crowd and disappear—from himself, from the world, from everyone—and he wouldn't matter anymore. It was the only time he felt he could be a part of something, the spiking wave of fast-paced pedestrian footfall from immigrants to the wealthy alike that had walked the same pavement from 1910 to 2013. It was perhaps the last familiarity that New York held for him. He had to adjust to that idea—the trollies were subway trains, Wi-Fi had replaced the majority of the radio broadcasting, books were now inside electronic hand-held screens called smart phones. He had to rebuild the entire handmade brick walled universe from his childhood, his adolescence, into a nightmare made out of neon and chrome.

He didn't stop trying, however.

He told himself he couldn't live in fear. Or, at least, he certainly couldn't show it.

So he scoured out what comfort he could find. The public libraries were still in their ancient spots. Joe's boxing arena from the 30's, gritty and dusty, still somehow managed to hold itself into management. Brooklyn, for the most part, still looked just as hard pressed and forlorn as it had from Steve's last memory of it, but yet nothing was left of the shops from his boyhood. Not a single newspaper stand, or picture show, or toyshop. His previous apartment building had been replaced with a shopping outlet, and so he had to find rent in the next best thing: an apartment just south of his past.

It was only when he kept moving that he felt the faintest trace of home. When he stopped, it was as if he wasn't alive anymore. Frozen. Like the lion statues outside of the public library that roared at him with weather stained teeth, emplaced wide eyes that reflected blindness, far past their prime. Steve ran his fingers over the stone of their manes every time he rented a book. He spent a lot of time in there, carrying books back and forth from his living room back to the lions' den. He loved to read—and in a virtual world of invisible connection and isolated headphones, Steve poured over the print, the ink, and explored every dead end detail about World War 2—fleeting over soldiers' names and generals.

At the suggestion of S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve moved on to other major events in U.S. History that stopped any peculiar questions that would slip from the soldier's mouth, such as the 1960's civil rights movements, the rise of terrorism from 89' to 9/11, and the daunting advancement in technology. Slowly, he understood computers. More frustratingly were "HD" television sets, cordless telephones, or mobiles, apple i-somethings or tablets. He knew harnessing technology was absolutely pertinent, but it was the superfluous stuff he didn't need to know, and frankly, didn't want to know.

He didn't understand the American obsession with identity in such a transient, anti-palpable way. Facehead? Tweeter? What happened to physical expression like letters or face to face conversation? Why would he ever set up information about himself for the whole world to see? The last thing this planet needed was another egotist like Stark. But Steve was soon discovering that 'ego' seemed to be the top goal of this new world. People walked around with white buds in their ears that drowned out human speech, fingers aching over mini-computers and cellular phones that sent off impersonal code and messaged to family members down the street. Steve didn't want to admit to seeing all the apathy to the people of the 21st century. It seemed that only huge events shook them to look up from themselves and at the city around them, but it never lasted long. Only those profoundly affected erected memorials, news watches, editorials. The rest of the world moved on with the pages of their monthly calendars, rolled into passing and soon people found themselves bored with staring into the dust that kicked up over the Battle of New York. Once it settled, no one looked back.

Everyone born into the present wanted complete disconnection from one another. From the city, from the social public, the media. The city was all Steve felt he had left and now…

Now they were going to change everything again.

Steve told himself that it was a sign that he had to change as well. Although, even as he walked away from Tony and Bruce's debates about architectural design for the disaster site, Steve didn't see much of a point for serving coffee and barter clothes and broken chain watches to fearful ghosts that wouldn't bother to look in the general direction of where the battle took place.

Steve Rogers shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He senses a decent place to park near the smolder of a thin potted tree and leans his bike against it, stepping off to brush the ash from his hair and face. The tops of these buildings got the worse of the front—the sidewalks broken and stony. The thick panes of the reflective metropolitan glass reflect dully out against the only breathing soul for miles—and Steve finds that he can't stand there for long, feeling silly that the only man that's following him is himself. He picks a direction to walk in and closes his eyes:

"Get your phones here—practically free phones here—" An echo of a street vender calls to him in the back of his mind as he slowly drenches the steps through his memory, searching…

What was he looking for back then? His brows puzzle, and the thought of the café shifts into his memory. The clock that he was trying to draw as he sat there—and—and her. He can picture her so clearly, even after everything that's happened, and he has no idea why. It wasn't her he was looking for. It was the clock behind her. Time. It was time he wanted to watch.

But God, why wouldn't she leave him alone now? All he can fathom is that he doesn't know her name.

She even wore a nametag Rogers, Steve thinks to himself, jaw hardening. A nametag!

"Buy some time! Buy some time here people!"

Time.

Steve sighs as his eye catches the faint shimmer of the tapestry from the café just outside the cave-in of Grand Central Station. He stands before it, the only malleable matter amongst flipped chairs, crushed tables, and wrecked lounge area. He approaches the large window, cracked raw down the middle, and looks inside to find nothing but darkness. He feels strangely tricked—like someone had broken a long lost promise to him and lured him out for nothing.

Steve's shoulders rose and fell with a bitter chuckle. Of course. Of course there's nothing here. What was he thinking? That he'd come back here and—what, she'd just show up? Why? What is the point? He drums his knuckles over the glass as he turns away. He sighs again. Time. Looking around himself, he feels like that's all he has, and yet all he's been stripped of.

Steve stands there until night unfurls slowly across New York City, dimming the blue shadows of the caved in buildings and haphazard ruins of shops into a soft, smoother comfort on the eyes. When a brilliant flash of a white causes Steve's iris's to react—he blinks, startled, and notices the distinct ache in his legs. He glances around quickly to find himself alone as he was when he first arrived. There's no old men playing chess. There's no pigeons fighting for bits of bread, no chatter of distant customers drinking coffee at nearby tables, and certainly there's no young waitress staring at him shyly from beyond the shop window.

Steve clears his throat as he cranes his head to take in the remains of the Grand Central Terminal above him. The archangels that protected the golden clock are broken hard shards of ruined craftsmanship. It's well past ten at night.

Waiting on the big guy? The waitress had asked him, her voice vibrant and visceral as the sting from a slap to the face. Iron Man?

"No," Steve replies out loud, his voice firm. He pauses and it takes him a few tries to continue. "I…I don't know what I'm waiting for anymore."

Well, that table's yours as long as you like, She had smiled at him, long curling honey-coloured hair resting gently over the orange of her blouse, the sparkle of blush on her cheek, the smooth pink-soft lining of her lips. Nobody's waiting on it.

Steve's nostrils flare in resentment of himself. He can recall everything she said, even her clothes, but Heaven forbid he ever asked for her name.

Plus, we've got free wireless, She added delightfully, moving on from him, her light blue eyes kind and warm.

I can't believe I asked 'radio', Steve chagrins internally, resetting himself back into neutral. But still. It was almost as if she heard him—and she didn't laugh. But she looked back, her teeth politely resting as she moved—and…Steve doesn't know why that it means so much that she looked back. But he can't stop it. He can't stop the rush of action he feels. He has to do something. He has to find out—about her? About why he's moving back towards the ruin café that gave him nothing but a place to draw and some over-priced coffee to sip?

The air turns moist and heavy around him. Churning the night, he continues to stare at the empty blocks until he senses there's a wetness around him, soaking into his boots. Rain. He sighs as he walks aimlessly to his bike. Well, Steve thinks as he buttons up his jacket. At least there are two things that haven't changed in over 70 years. Rain and God.

The wind from the gush of rain picks up as it pelts off the shiny metal of his motorcycle, crying silver and black on to the ashy swollen streets. A shiver runs through Steve's body causing his fingers to shake over the handle bars, nearly causing him to lose control. The rain pounds him, and even with his enhanced vision, he already knows that he couldn't fight his way back to Tony's. He grips the bars tighter in startling anger.

Maybe he didn't want to go back there anyway.

He turns his bike slowly towards a bent street sign that's pointing back towards an old burrow district of New York, and he takes off for it. Fury had kept him out of his apartment long enough. It's time he paid a visit.