Author's note: Agent Hill has a little problem with LANGUAGE. Sad Steve does not approve.

Unit one: Shopping for Furniture and Shit like that

Learning Targets: Student will:

—Cross the street against traffic

—Keep moving when entering automatic doorways

—Independently navigate a large department store

—Select appropriate household goods without panicking over prices

—Keep his goddamn mouth shut and not argue with the instructor

—Not attract attention by acting like a huge freak

Hill drives way too fast and makes liberal use of her horn, but at least now she is driving in the right direction, south toward central Brooklyn, winding down narrow streets, veering into oncoming traffic to avoid stopped cars and pedestrians. Steve is too busy clinging to the armrests to spend much time enjoying the view.

Finally she swerves over into a right turn lane and slows down enough that he figures out where they are. The buildings all look different, fancier, cleaner, but if they turn left at this intersection, they will only be two blocks from his old neighborhood. Maybe he can ask her to take a detour?

He takes a surreptitious glance at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out if it's ok to ask, and sees that she is glaring furiously out of the windshield at a truck backing out in front of them like it has just stolen her boyfriend. Suddenly she lays on the horn hard, making him jump and hit his head on the roof of the car. He thinks she might apologize, but she continues to ignore him completely. She pushes a button on the door that makes the window roll down by itself, sticks her head out and yells, "Get outta the fuckin' way, you moron!"

So that's a no, then.

The truck stops halfway out in the street, so Hill jerks the wheel to the left and swerves around it, then whips back in front to make the right turn, while Steve hangs on for dear life. Halfway down the block, she cuts off another car and swoops into the last parking space along the street. Almost immediately she shuts off the ignition and leaps out of the car, but it takes him a little longer because he has to unfold his legs and pry himself out of the seat. By the time he is out of the car, she is already standing on the other side of the road with her arms folded and her face set in an annoyed expression. Or maybe that's how she always looks. He can't be sure, because she has looked that way from the moment he met her.

He takes a step out into the street to follow her, and then jumps back at the sound of a horn, just in time to avoid being run over by a yellow cab. More cars follow, an unbroken stream, trapping him on the wrong side of the road. No one stops, even when he takes a tentative step out into the roadway, and he has to step back again so his foot doesn't get run over.

While he waits for the traffic, he glances up at the sign above the door that she is standing in front of, and freezes. Raymour and Flanigan? Oh!

He is walking down this same street for the umpteenth time with his ma, his small hand in her bigger one. Like always she stops in front of Raymour and Flanigan and stares longingly in the window at The Chair (MY Chair, she called it, although she would never own it). Navy blue with small white diamonds almost like polka dots, plush armrests, curved wooden legs. . .

On the first of every month, she stuffs a crisp $10 bill in a milk jar behind the stove for the Chair fund. By the end of every month, most of that money has been pulled out again for doctor's bills and asthma meds and also laundry soap and needle and thread to repair his clothes ("I gotta fight back, Ma!" "Stevie, I wish you understood there are other ways to make a point."). And then she gets sick and dies, and he ends up using what's left of the money to help pay for her funeral.

"Hey, Rogers!" Hill's voice is suddenly very close to his ear, and he jerks back in surprise to find that she has come back across the street to him. "There you are," she says with a smirk. "Come on, let's go."

Somehow, with her next to him, they easily make it across the street, stepping around cars and behind cars and between cars that never even seem to notice them. As soon as they get to the curb, he walks a little faster, determined to finally be able to open a door for her, but there is no handle on the outside, so how is he supposed to. . .

Suddenly the door opens by itself and he stops in his tracks, gaping at it. How did it do that? Is there someone inside opening it? Some kind of pulley? Maybe a rope—?

Hill brushes past him, grabbing him by the arm and towing him inside just before the doors close again. "The door's automatic. Gotta keep moving," she says tightly.

He lets her pull him while he turns back to gawk at the doors. No one is touching them, there is no pulley, but suddenly they swish open again to admit someone else, a mother and small boy, who don't even seemed to notice that the doors open by themselves.

The pair walks past into the store, and Steve turns his head to follow them, but then he is distracted by the view in front of them. Raymour and Flanigan's has at least doubled in size since the last time he was here, and every inch is filled with gleaming, sparkly merchandise. Rows and rows of tables and chairs as far as the eye can see. Shelves lining the walls floor to ceiling, stacked with dishes, towels, and linens. There is an entire section that seems to contain only picture frames, each one fancier than the last.

Hill still has him by the arm and she's towing him toward the tables and chairs now. "You're gonna need something to eat on. Choose one," she orders flatly.

"Choose a table and chair?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Chairs. As in more than one. Yes. Go," she confirms impatiently.

So many tables and chairs, all much nicer than anything he has ever eaten from. He wanders down the aisle, gaping at them all, before finally stopping in front of one that is absolutely perfect. Simple varnished cherry wood, almost a square but with rounded corners. Slight decorative edge without being frilly. Comes with two sturdy chairs, in case he ever has company (seems unlikely, but who knows?).

A tag hangs from the edge of the table. He picks it up and flips it over, and almost faints at the price. "Holy sh—Uh, wow, that's—this table is six hundred dollars!"

Hill, who has wandered away with her arms folded and a long-suffering expression on her face, just shrugs and says, "That's not bad. The chairs are only like a hundred each."

He drops the tag like it's hot and hurries to catch up with her. "Six hundred dollars isn't bad?!"

"Seems like a reasonable price to me."

"I can't—" he starts, and then lowers his voice and starts again. "I can't afford that. I can't afford any of this stuff. Let's go somewhere else."

Her mouth tightens, so he has annoyed her again even though he has no idea how. She rubs the bridge of her nose. "Captain Rogers, you've got seventy years of back pay plus interest. You can afford whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I thought Fury debriefed you, but apparently he didn't tell you that either."

He blinks. "Where is the money?"

"It's in an account for you. I'll show you later. I promise you, you have enough. Go nuts."

"Oh. In that case, I want that table." He surprises himself with the certainty in his voice.

"Great," she says without a hint of enthusiasm. She hold up her hand, and suddenly a saleslady, wearing an understated pantsuit, blond hair pulled back into an elaborate bun, appears at his elbow.

"Welcome to Raymour and Flanigan," she says in a voice that purrs like a cat. "How can I help you?"

Steve turns around to greet her, because that's what you're supposed to do, but Hill cuts him off. "He'll take this table and chairs, and we need a bunch of other shit too," she says brusquely. "So can you get some other salespeople over here?"

Steve opens his mouth to apologize, but the lady takes it in stride. "Certainly, ma'am." And then one of those little black rectangle things appears in her hand (what are they? Everyone seems to be carrying them. Maybe a mirror?). She holds it up to her mouth (so maybe a radio?), says a few quiet words, and almost instantly they are surrounded by people who are dressed much better than he is, all apparently eager to be of service.

Hill leads the way, pointing out things "they" want to purchase while the salespeople hurry after her tapping away on their little rectangle things, and sometimes pointing them at tags until they make a soft beeping sound. Steve quickly finds himself at the rear of the group, watching anxiously. Is it possible that he really has enough money for all of this? He doesn't think Hill would lie to him, but obviously there are lots of things they haven't told him yet. Maybe Fury hasn't told her the whole truth either?

They move out of the "tables and chairs" section into the kitchen section of the store. Rows and rows of dishes line the walls and fill every section of shelves, such an overwhelming array of choices that he can't even see straight. He has never even been in a store like this, and now he is expected to suddenly know what he wants to purchase?

"Steve!" Hill calls to him over the salespeople's heads. "What kind of dishes do you want?"

"Oh, um. . . I guess something. . . plain?"

"Not red, white, and blue?"

He thinks maybe she's teasing him with that one, so he shakes his head. "Just white."

She snorts. "Ok. These ones." She points at a set of dishes, plain white with a row of beading around the edge. He remembers with a pang that Bucky's mom had a set of dishes exactly like those that she kept in a cupboard, for "someday". He thinks now that maybe that "someday" never came. Where did those dishes end up? In a box somewhere, or did Bucky's sisters provide her children or grandchildren to pass them down to?

When he starts paying attention again, he realizes that Hill has told them to box up eight place-settings for him. "No no no!" he protests. "I don't need that many!"

"How many then?" Hill snaps.

"Just one or two."

She gives him an irritated look, then says to the saleslady, "Four settings. And a couple of serving bowls, salt and pepper shakers, butter dish, and a gravy boat."

"No gravy boat. Why would I need a gravy boat?"

"To serve with the meat and potatoes, big guy," Hill says drily. "All right, moving on to silverware."

She heads that direction, with the salespeople diligently following her like ducklings, but Steve is suddenly distracted by the next section over, which holds row after row of gleaming pots and pans, the kind of pans his mother always drooled over in Marshall Field. She always walked away backward with an expression of such longing on her face that he promised himself that once he finally got a paycheck, he would buy her a set of pans like that. But of course that day never came. He got a job at the store on the corner right after high school, but she was gone before he got his first paycheck.

"Which ones do you want?" comes Hill's voice from next to him. He didn't even know she saw him wander off. He knows exactly which ones he wants: stainless steel, shiny, chef's quality, but a quick peek at the price tag and his stomach gives a lurch. Better go for something cheaper.

He tears his eyes away from the beautiful pans and scans down the row. "Those ones, I guess," he says, pointing at the lower quality ones at the end. Still scary expensive, but maybe he can afford them and still buy food to cook in them.

Hill's lips twist and she gives him a sideways glance. "Ok," she says finally. He isn't sure what the problem is, but he moves on. Behind him, he can see Hill conferring with the saleslady, so he takes the chance to give her a hard time for once.

"Let's keep moving," he calls back to her, heading out of the kitchen section into the bathroom area.

"Whatever, dude," she says with an impish grin, but a second later she's back in front of him, pulling blue towels off the shelf and stacking them onto the arms of one of the salesmen.

"That's too many."

"Ok." She stops, but as soon as he moves past her, he can see out of the corner of his eye that she has loaded the poor guy down with at least twice as many as he had previously. He's about to protest but decides it's not worth the effort, especially because he has noticed a whole shelf of irons and ironing boards on the next aisle. The irons all have cords, so they don't need to be heated up in the fire like his mother's. He lifts one and finds it surprisingly lightweight. There is an opening in the top to add water, and when he turns it over, he discovers that the bottom is shiny with small holes for steam to come out.

"You want that?" Hill asks in an incredulous voice. Her lips twist up in a little smirk. Is she making fun of him?

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm just surprised you—well, never mind. He'll take one of these, I guess," she says to the saleslady, who points her little rectangle at one of the boxes until it beeps. He's not sure what that means but he thinks maybe he just bought it, and he didn't even look at the price tag. Still, it has to be cheaper than six hundred dollars, doesn't it?

Hill is already moving on to the next aisle, but he doesn't bother to follow her too closely. It's easier to let her make most of the decisions anyway, so he wanders away, back toward the furniture department, where rows of sofas and chairs are spread out in an apparently haphazard arrangement with narrow, winding aisles between them. He passes a godawful gold and purple sofa, skirts an end-table made from shiny chrome, and then he sees it: The Chair.

His mother's chair.

Well, almost. The shape is right, the tiny diamonds like polka dots are right, but it's dark red instead of navy blue.

He approaches it and carefully sits down. The seat gives just the right amount under him. The armrests are exactly the right height. Too bad it's the wrong color. His eyes slide closed. He could probably sleep in this chair. In fact, he suddenly realizes he's tired enough that he may fall asleep if he sits too long.

A shadow falls across his face, and he opens his eyes to find Hill standing over him with her arms folded, eyebrows raised. "You like that chair?"

"Um. . . yeah. But—"

"But what? Do you want it or not?"

"Well, I was thinking of blue, but I don't see one."

Hill snaps her fingers, startling him, but she is gesturing to one of the salespeople, a Japanese man who reminds him of Jim Morita. "Do you have this chair in blue?"

The salesman taps on the rectangle thing in his hand. "Yes, we have one in the back," he says in unaccented English.

"Great, he'll take it. Put it on the card with the rest." She turns away from the man, obviously dismissing him. "C'mon, time to go."

Oh, already? Steve wants to talk to the salesman more, find out his name and where he came from. He wonders if Jim lived long enough to see his people casually accepted in American society. But Agent Hill has already started walking toward the exit, so he struggles his way out of the chair to follow.

"How are we going to get all this stuff back to my apartment?"

"They're going to deliver everything tonight. They'll set it all up for you.".

"I can assemble everything. I don't need them to set it up for me."

She laughs. "Ok, fine, whatever, big guy."

He frowns. He doesn't see anything funny about being able to assemble his own furniture. So he gets in front of her and says, "Why's that funny?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you laugh at me?"

"Oh good grief." She shakes her head, lips pursed. Finally she flings up her hands and says, "All right, I'm sorry. Of course you can assemble everything if you want to. What do I care? It's your shit."

Is she annoyed with him again? If so, why? And why does he care so much about whether what is essentially some random woman doesn't like him? He's being ridiculous, and he knows it, but at this moment, this woman is almost the only person who even knows who he is. He's drowning, and she is his only lifeline. A very tense, angry lifeline, but at least she's something to hold on to.

He hurries ahead of her, takes advantage of a break in traffic to cross the street on his own this time, and manages to get to the car quickly enough to open the door for her. He's pretty proud of himself, but she just grunts at him and doesn't even make eye contact as she slides into the seat.

"What time is it?" she asks abruptly as he squeezes into his own seat, then doesn't give him time to try to figure out an answer. "I'm starved. Let's get some lunch."

"Um, ok."

"What are you in the mood for?"

"Ma'am? I'm not sure what you mean."

"What do you want to eat?" she rephrases impatiently. "There's teriyaki, or Indian, or Thai. . . Mexican. . ."

Steve frowns. He has never had any of those foods before and has no idea what they might taste like. What happened to hamburgers and french fries?

"Well?" she demands, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel.

"I—I've never had any of those," he admits, and she lets out a breath of a laugh.

"All right, then I guess you're getting Pad Thai because that's what I want. You allergic to peanuts?"

"No, ma'am." At least, he's not anymore.

Pad Thai smells unfamiliar, exotic, but delicious enough that his mouth starts to water while he sits with the bag perched on his knees in the passenger seat. Whatever it is, it couldn't be any stranger than some of the things they were forced to eat in the army.

When they get back to his new building, he jumps out and opens the door for her, but she doesn't get out, just reaches out and plucks the bag from his hand.

"Your code for the front door is 0704," she says while untying the bag and extracting one of the containers. She sets it down on the passenger seat and holds out the bag along with the key to his apartment. "Here you go. Apartment number 314, remember?"

His stomach gives a lurch. She's going to leave him here alone? "You aren't coming in?" He awkwardly tucks the bag under his arm and takes the key. It is warm from her pocket.

"No, I've got to go."

"Oh. Ok." He chews his lip while looking back and forth between the building and the key in his hand. He still has his other hand on the open car door. "0704?"

"0704. Fury wanted it to be easy for you to remember."

"Ok." He can feel the knot tightening in his stomach. She's really going to drive away and leave him here alone.

"Ok. I'll be back tomorrow morning at 7. Make sure you double check it's really the delivery guys before you buzz them in. Oh, and here's some money for dinner. There's a store on the corner. Do you think you can get yourself there and back?" She shoves a bill into his hand and he just blinks at it.

"Ok," he repeats stupidly. "I mean, yes ma'am."

"Rogers? You can let go of the door now."

He looks down at his hand where the knuckles have gone white. "Yes, ma'am," he says automatically. He forces the fingers to unclench and pushes the door shut. "See you tomorrow."

He shoves the key and money into his pocket and turns toward the building. 0704, he repeats to himself. Why would that number be easy for him to remember? 0704. Don't forget that number or you'll be locked out forever. 0704.

When he gets to the front door, he turns to find her still parked by the curb, eyebrows raised expectantly, which only increases his anxiety. His hand is slick with sweat, so he wipes it on his pant leg before trying the code. Miraculously, the door buzzes and when he pulls on it, it opens easily. He turns with a surprised grin toward the street, but Agent Hill is already pulling away. She didn't even wave goodbye.

June 27, 2012

From: Deputy Director M. Hill

To: Director N. Fury

Subject: Progress report, day 1

What the hell, Fury?! You didn't tell me the apartment was completely empty and you hadn't told S. ANYTHING! The guy seems scared out of his mind. He needs his momma and I'm not exactly the warm fuzzy type. What am I, teaching kindergarten here? I'm telling you again to send Coulson or somebody else, because I'd probably have him blubbering in the corner by the end of the day tomorrow. Hell, he looked like he was about to burst into tears when I left him there today.

I'm not going back there in the morning. Send someone else.

M.

From: Director N. Fury

To: Deputy Director M. Hill

Subject: Re: Progress report, day 1

Saw the expense reports for S. new furniture and supplies. Looks like you're handling this just fine. Report to his apartment tomorrow at 0700 to continue the debriefing.

F.

From: Deputy Director M. Hill

To: Director N. Fury

Subject: Re: re: Progress report, day 1

Fuck you. You're a piece of shit, you know that, right?

M.

This message has not been sent. Are you sure you want to delete it?

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From: Deputy Director M. Hill

To: Director N. Fury

Subject: Re: re: Progress report, day 1

Noted.

M.