Steve tipped hot, salty clam juice onto his barley bread and chewed vigorously. He knew Vinnie at the food cart by the tower sold hoagies that tasted better than this, but hot clam juice and heavy bread was better than boiled dandelions and more rabbit.
The Viking bread was tough and stale after five days, and it was starting to go moldy. He'd intended to stretch the bread to last through several days' worth of meals, but real bread went bad quickly. It made him wonder what bakeries put in twenty-first century bread to keep it from getting moldy so fast.
It had rained the night before, and his uniform was damp. His thatch lean-to wasn't completely waterproof, and there had been no position to lie in which avoided all the leaks. His cook fire was steamy as well as smoky, because most everything was wet. Steve sat on a log in his underwear.
He'd spent a lot of time the last few days in nothing but his shorts because there was no one around, and he was starting to smell. He'd tried washing the uniform. It'd been almost dry before the rain came. It would take something important for Steve to want to put the uniform back on now, because without soap and adding three days of warm wet weather, his clothes smelled of mildew and worse.
Steve felt grumpy like a wet cat. He'd been displaced in time for a week now. A positive attitude wasn't usually such an effort for him to maintain, but he was struggling. His jaw was itchy from lack of shaving. Mosquitoes in the area were likely to be serum-enhanced for years. And he'd give any but a few parts of his anatomy for a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and a cup of coffee.
And someone to talk to.
The clam went into his mouth after he was done with the old bread, and he tossed the shell into the fire. It was an hour past dawn, and he was bored. At least the sun was out this morning. That was an improvement.
Steve snapped a stick in half to see that the wood was bright and clean, and then ripped it lengthwise with his fingers. He pounded it between two rocks until he had some sturdy splinters. While he picked his teeth clean of bread and clam, the sun rose high enough to start drying his underwear and his skin. Everything around him was wet with dew and rain, but sea salt was drying on his skin. He was getting tired of clams, but they were available and filling. A good scrub with beach sand every morning and a rinse in seawater was keeping his smell tolerable. Barely.
The warmth felt good on his skin. He was getting a tan. Since the serum, he didn't think that would be possible, but it was slowly happening. He checked just inside the elastic waistband of his shorts. Yeah. His skin was getting darker.
The family of raccoons waddled back by the other way, opposite of where they came from before dawn. Mama coon, and then three little scrappy kits. The babies were getting bold. The clam shells he hadn't thrown into the fire were thoroughly licked clean not a foot away from his bare toes, and then the family moved on.
The breeze blew in the grasses. Leaves on the trees fluttered and made their shushing sounds. A hint of odd noise made Steve's attention prick up.
It was just a bit of vocalization. Or maybe a weak tree limb groaning.
Steve looked around his camp quickly to make sure all his modern gear was out of sight. He'd discovered that his Chitauri glider was submersible, so he kept it wedged under a rock shelf a little ways off the nearest beach. The only thing that looked modern in his camp was his underwear, and he wasn't taking that off.
He kept cleaning his teeth, in case he was being watched. If it was a voice he'd heard and his mind wasn't playing wishful tricks on him, then he wanted the advantage of surprise. Steve continued to listen carefully, especially when the breeze blew.
It was definitely voices. Whispering, sneaky voices. Whoever it was had good stealth skills, because they'd gotten within thirty yards of him and he hadn't heard so much as a twig snap.
His encounter with the Norsemen left him cautious. Was everyone in this time hostile and defensive? Was life so harsh that few people had the capacity for human kindness? He hoped not.
The sneaks behind him had to be Native American people. He'd heard and read things from his youth all the way through adulthood about them. Some tales made them out to be wild savages. Some claimed they were gentle and wise. The most modern things he'd read painted them as depressed drunks. During the war, many had served their country with honor and skill.
Steve reserved judgement. Stories of the Norse had let him down. There was no way to know how a meeting with the locals would go until it did.
Again, the breeze carried hushed voices to him. It was boys. Young boys, not yet men. Several of them. Steve smiled. They were likely up to no good, sneaking around where their parents didn't know. He looked at the very visible plume of steamy smoke rising from his fire. No other people lived near his camp in Brooklyn. He'd checked. These kids had come a long way, maybe more than a day's travel. He admired their intrepid nature.
As Steve listened, he picked up hints of tone and cadence in their speech. They were excited and cautious. He suppressed a laugh. What must he look like, a great big white skinned man lying about lazy in the sun? Their fathers probably worked all day, or hunted, and here he was sitting bored and listless.
The boys weren't a threat. They were curious kids. Steve let them look and wonder what he was doing here and where he had come from. His mind ambled into thoughts of what an adventure their life must be. Decades ago, centuries in the future, a young Steve Rogers had consumed Western pulp fiction novels by the dozens in his sickbed. Tales of the hunt, and of bravery, and struggle and victory. A thin, sickly Irish boy had daydreamed for hours and hours what it would be like to run through the forest, or to swim like an otter in cold rivers. Even sitting around a smoky fire would have sent young Steve into a dangerous coughing fit.
Right in this moment, Steve Rogers envied the boys. They were free, and healthy and capable, and they had their companions and their families to go home to. Long ago, he'd wanted so badly to be them. Now, he found that he still did. A sense of wonder began to burn away his disappointment with his current circumstances.
Being Captain America was a rigid, mostly thankless job. His days were filled with meetings and planning. His evenings were often charity functions, or more meetings. Every other week or so, there was the excitement of a mission, but then it was back to office work, meaningless exercise routines, and an empty apartment.
He had his friends. He couldn't pretend not to miss them. But the boys he heard behind him were pals. Like he and Bucky had been. He could hear it in their tones. Sure, they were sneaking. But they were excited and teasing and laughing. Happy and maybe a little too bold for their own good. They didn't know he could hear them. If Steve was one of the Norsemen he'd met last week, the kids would be in bad trouble, and they'd likely lead disaster home to their families.
But Steve wasn't Norse. He was a sick kid from Brooklyn who'd read a lot of books. He was a bored man with nothing to do and no one to talk to. It was hard to keep the smile from his face and when he failed at that, he did his best to keep his head turned where the kids couldn't see it. Kids weren't the only ones who could sneak.
After a good long while, Steve didn't hear them anymore. He marveled again at how silently they'd come and gone. Without looking to where they'd been in the trees around his little clearing, Steve got up and started moving.
He drank a liter of water and hid his plastic bottle under his bedding. Then, he strapped his large utility knife to the outside of his thigh. He'd copied the rubber holster straps and sheath into a rabbit hide version and wrapped the knife handle in sinew. No modern parts of it were visible, as long as he kept the blade sheathed.
Steve tossed his boots, socks, and disgusting, damp uniform under his shelter. He made sure his cook fire was dying, and then he was ready to go. He smiled and looked down at himself. He was setting out on a mission, but it wasn't like any mission he'd been on in years. He chuckled. He had nothing but a pair of well-worn underwear and a knife that was more of a tool than a weapon. And lots of bare skin.
His feet were getting used to walking around barefoot. Still, the forest floor felt rough underfoot if he stepped on anything except dirt or leaves. Vines and brambles brushed against his skin as Steve set off after the barely discernible trail the boys had left.
He wasn't cocky about his skills. The kids were probably better than him at moving silently through terrain, so he stayed well back. Steve paused frequently to listen. Now that the kids were farther from his camp, they weren't trying so much to be quiet.
Ahead, he could hear their footfalls as they moved fast. They didn't talk much, but when they did, it was with the unmistakable lilt and cadence of Native speech. He caught sight of them twice. There were five of them. They wore typical loin skins held in place with a leather belt at the hips. He saw a few stone knives, a necklace of beads, and they each had a simple spear. They weren't dressed much differently than he was, except that their hair was longer, and they had a little more gear.
Steve kept fighting a smile off of his face. His heart was pumping more from some strange sense of excitement than from exertion. He felt like he was living one of his old daydreams. Like he'd stepped into a storybook. The stuffy, responsible part of his mind reminded him to be sensible and cautious. A larger part of his head was eager to rush ahead and meet these people. To meet their mothers and fathers and elders and sit with them at their fires.
He had to be careful. This wasn't all adventure. There were certain rules he'd already made for himself while he'd had days to think about possible contact with the locals. He couldn't give them any modern tech. Not so much as a section of rope or a knife. He couldn't tell them anything about the future. It was better if they never knew he was from the future. He couldn't influence anyone's decisions. And he could neither fight to defend nor help to save anyone who was dying. All he could do was interact as any average person might.
An average person would be curious, Steve reasoned. An average person would be tired of moldy bread and of having no one to talk to. One of the things he could do was to learn from these people. He could observe. If they would let him, he could be friendly, as long as he didn't interfere or change anything.
While he thought of all this, the boys came to an abrupt stop, and Steve barely noticed in time to stay hidden. He ducked behind the trunk of a broad oak and listened.
"Wun sanne te we?" one of the boys asked in a whisper.
Steve held his breath and stayed absolutely still. It seemed that the boys were doing the same. He waited for long minutes, straining his hearing to pick up on anything at all. A footfall, a breath, a beating heart. There was nothing. It was eerie. He knew they were there. They were the quietest people he'd listened for, other than Natasha.
After a while, he thought he heard feet moving away. Then, he was sure of it. He heard their voices again, distant and retreating. Steve's mind shifted from adventure to tactics. He found that it was a hard transition to make without slipping into a predatory mindset. He wasn't hunting, he reminded himself. He wasn't out to subdue or destroy. He had to use the skillset, but keep a light heart.
For their sakes, he kept his mind open and optimistic. Non-lethal. For his sake, he reminded himself that they had spears and they weren't stupid. They had likely hunted these woods since they were old enough to toddle behind their fathers. Their parents trusted them to be wise enough to be out on their own. Steve didn't think his pride could take the hit if he allowed himself to be skewered by a bunch of kids.
So, he let them get farther ahead. That little pause had caused him to take everything more seriously. He was being as quiet and careful as he could, but he'd still done something to alert them. Probably, he wasn't moving as he should. In combat, he bulled through things and stealth wasn't required except at the beginning of a mission. Steve let the kids get far enough ahead that he didn't catch glimpses of them anymore, and he didn't hear their voices or their running feet.
He saw that part of how they moved was to avoid disturbing the vegetation. It was hard to track them, except for the depressions their feet made. He knew that if they weren't in a hurry, there wouldn't even be that to follow. He paused to look back at his own trail. He grimaced. Here and there, he could see trampled grass and bent twigs. And he'd thought he was doing well. If the kids came back this way…
There was no help for it now. Steve continued on, and his sharp eyes picked a trail for him to follow. It was slower going, and he was watchful for ambush. At one point, he thought maybe he was about to blunder into them and their spears would be at his throat, but it never happened.
Steve wanted to imagine the city around him, especially when he saw a boulder or rock outcrop he thought looked familiar. One hump of stone that he leapt over stopped him. He took a few steps back. His bare feet scuffed leaves away from the surface of the stone. There. And there. He was standing on a jut of rock that he'd climbed as a kid. This exact spot would someday be in the schoolyard of a convent. In his memory, this stone was sunbaked and warm, even on most winter days, if it was sunny out. He'd never been allowed atop it where he stood now, until he'd met Buck. The other kids had kept Steve from climbing up. But, they couldn't keep Buck off it, and then he was with Buck, so…
Steve knelt down and traced his fingers over the vaguely familiar cracks in the stone. He'd thought it was old and weathered when he was a kid. It looked just the same now. He'd imagined it as the elbow of the Earth, shoving up out of the soil. On the proud day when he'd first climbed up, he'd stood exactly here. And Buck had been there. He'd climbed up. On hands and knees, huffing. A few seconds ago, Steve had leapt over the whole of it, his foot hardly brushing by for balance. He looked around. This rock wouldn't see the sun for centuries. A thick stand of evergreens blocked the light, and leaves covered most of its surface. Soil mounded up around its sides.
Time. If there was a sense that could feel time, then Steve was feeling it. Forward, backwards, and forward again. He could almost see the trees growing in rapid, shivering succession, burning, falling, growing again, washed over by a flood, choked by vines, cleared away by fire yet again, tall, taller, taller still, then Gone. Humans. Mud. Crops. Wagons. Streets, buildings rising, timber at first, then fire again, then brick buildings in their place. Carriages and gaslights, then more buildings, the grass and trees gone, crowded out. Noisy, smoky cars, throngs of people, running, yelling, holding umbrellas, wind-swirled coats, glass, steel, buses.
Steve choked a desperate breath. With a heave, he threw himself clear from the rock outcrop and landed away, on his side, gasping. Thorny vines snagged his skin and a tangle of fallen branches flopped against him.
"What the hell?" he wondered weakly between breaths.
His gaze shifted around, looking for any threat or sign that things weren't right. Trees. Leaves. The rock. The sun hadn't shifted in the sky from what he last remembered, but he felt like he'd been holding his breath for a long time. Steve stayed still as he calmed. At this point, if the native boys came back and poked him with their spears, he'd be grateful. Steve felt disoriented and hazy until he had enough oxygen in his blood again.
He should investigate what had just happened. He should look around for anything out of the ordinary, but he didn't want to. It hadn't been a daydream. It had started out that way, but then it sucked him in. That feeling of time. Infinity and insignificance of self. Once it had him, he was powerless to stop it. Just like losing Buck. And putting the plane into the ice. And waking up with everyone he knew dead. Then slipping through a portal. Helpless.
Steve hated time. It was too fluid. It didn't creep along in one direction like he expected it to. He got to his feet and brushed himself off. His leg was bruised where he'd thrown himself on top of his knife, but that was nothing. Stubborn and maybe foolish, Steve strode over to the rock again. He stepped up onto it and stood there with his arms crossed. He felt nothing. Just like as a kid, when he'd stood here with Bucky and felt nothing except pride and sunshine.
That endless, bottomless feeling eased back around the edges of his mind, and Steve snapped his head aside in a rough shake. No. He wasn't going to allow it any further. He owned this place. This moment. Right here. Right now.
He stood there long enough to challenge the feeling to come back. To test his resistance to it. It was there, slinking like a monster in the dark, prodding at his awareness. It wanted him. He knew the sour-sharp tang of fear in the back of his throat. The only thing holding back the awful slide of time was his will. If he wasn't strong enough…
Steve got down off the rock. His sense of adventure in following the boys was severely dampened. He took three steps, then bent over and threw up his bread and clams. Inside him, fear and stubbornness struggled. Anger rose to top them both. He wiped his mouth and looked ahead for the trail he was following.
"What do you see, Heimdall? Can you find him?" Thor asked.
He'd taken a metal cart heavily laden with Jarvis' papers through the bifrost. The scribes were absorbing the information. There was nothing more he could do until they'd had opportunity to understand it and translate it into something that seemed familiar to them.
"Time," Heimdall's voice resonated, the single word seeming stretched and slowed beyond normal speech.
"There may not be time. It is possible that Steven is adrift in the emptiness between Yggdrasil's branches. For years, his body withstood the cold and the lack of life's breath, but the dark emptiness is different. His tissues could be pulled apart until even his robust constitution cannot retain life. We must know where he is, Heimdall."
"Tiiime," the large man repeated.
Thor clenched his fist. He pushed aside his urgency and frustration. There was something, here. Something Heimdall wasn't saying. The trance-like stillness his friend took on when seeing through creation was rarely this deep, as to render him senseless and repetitive.
"Time," Thor said.
As he watched, Heimdall withdrew himself from the far sight.
"Please, friend. Speak to me of what you saw," Thor said.
"Time is. And he was adrift, then washed up on a near shore, not far from home," Heimdall said.
"Not far from home, you say?" Thor perked up hopefully.
"Not far at all. Indeed, within walking distance," Heimdall smiled.
"Then why has he not returned to us? Is he injured, or perhaps knocked insensate?" Thor frowned in confusion.
What Heimdall was saying was highly unlikely. The entire city had been carefully combed for the injured and for the bodies of the dead. If their Captain was so near, he surely would have been found. Thor looked to Heimdall with a crimped brow.
"Time, my prince. Did I not tell you?" Heimdall said.
"For the sake of small green fruits, I am not Loki. I do not delight in riddles. Speak plainly," Thor demanded.
"As you wish. The Captain has fallen through the fabric of time and onto a different fold of it. To ease your concerns, and so that you may ease the anxiety of your Midgardian companions, you may tell them when next you see them that Steven is safe and well. But, beyond our reach," Heimdall lifted a hand out toward the infinity of space from where they stood on the bifrost bridge.
"Time, not place," Thor said.
"Precisely," Heimdall agreed.
"Time and space are linked, are they not?" Thor asked.
"Hmmm. You have learned much from your lady. More than you were ever interested in learning from me as a child, though I did attempt to teach you. Yes, they are linked."
"Perhaps if you had been more female and a good deal prettier, I would have been as eager to learn," Thor said.
His relief at hearing that Steven was in no immediate danger left him light hearted enough to jest for the first time in days. His friends would be very happy to hear what he now knew. He felt an urgency to tell them, but it was best to stay and work on the further problem of how to get Steven returned to them.
"If you can make a path through space, and space time is linked, then can you not also reach through time to retrieve him?" Thor wondered.
Heimdall shook his head.
"It is not so simple. Reaching across Yggdrasil is like reaching across a room to grasp an item. It is a reach farther than my natural arms can span, but with the help of the bifrost, it can be done. Time is the fabric upon which space rests. What you ask is more akin to reaching across the room to drag the floor closer, without moving my position in the room. It would cause wrinkles. Possibly tears. It is not to be done," Heimdall told him.
"Have you ever tried?" Thor asked.
Heimdall smiled faintly.
"As a boy does things in the dark that he wishes others not to know, I have played at it. To no avail. It is a dangerous beast with which to wrestle, to speak mildly."
"Can you not try? If your youthful fumblings in the dark did no harm, then what more would come of attempting to move one man who doesn't belong on the other side of the room to begin with? Is it so harmful to attempt to return him to his rightful place? Might there not be greater harm still in leaving him displaced in the fabric?" Thor reasoned.
"Hah. You speak of 'rightful place.' Even a prince of Asgard cannot know a person's rightful place in the warp and weft of time. Souls have shifted about before, and they will again."
"Heimdall. This is Steven we speak of. You must try, at least until you feel some sense of harm impending upon the effort," Thor said.
"As you are my prince and you wish it, I suppose I am not fumbling in the dark. I will try. You must comprehend that this could harm him. Strong at he is, souls are not meant to be pulled about across time. Most of the few who attempt it perish in the effort," Heimdall warned.
"He is strong. Not only of body, but also of spirit. He would want us to try."
"Very well," Heimdall said.
He turned and strode into the arrow of the bifrost. Thor stood and waited as Heimdall thrust in his sword and the energies of Yggdrasil surged around them. When the path was open, Heimdall closed his eyes.
Thor watched anxiously, switching his attention from the strained furrow on Heimdall's brow to the glowing rainbow path which might bring Steven to them. He waited. And waited. It took longer than the travelling, and sweat began to bead upon Heimdall's face. His mouth parted over clenched teeth, and then Thor could see Heimdall let go of the effort. The arrow began to wind down in its spin, and the rainbow path dissipated.
Disappointment slumped Thor's shoulders. Heimdall looked tired as he withdrew his sword and stepped down from his dais.
"It is as I said. Steven is beyond my reach. His mind is surprisingly aware of his relativity, but he is afraid, and with good reason. Time has not been kind to him. He is far enough displaced that the journey would likely be too much, even for one such as him. Merely the attempt has sickened him and upset his constitution. He will recover, but I strongly advise against further attempts to retrieve him in this way. You must find another path," Heimdall said.
Thor blew out a frustrated breath. He braced his hand at Heimdall's shoulder and gave him a squeeze.
"My deepest thanks to you for trying. We would not have known without at least the effort. Steven will be well, you say?" Thor asked.
"I do not know that he will be well. I am assuming so because he is sturdy and resilient. Whatever unease we have caused him will likely pass with a night's sleep. Go and be at peace with the knowledge that his circumstance is not as dire as you had feared," Heimdall assured him.
"I will. One favor further, friend?" Thor asked hesitantly.
"Always one further. How may I help?" Heimdall asked with a patient smile.
"Is it possible for you to communicate with Jarvis so that the others can know Steven is well and cease their worry?"
"No. The entity you refer to as Jarvis does not exist, except as energy within Midgardian devices. There is nothing to communicate with. I would as soon be able to engage in conversation with a moonbeam," Heimdall told him.
Thor frowned again. In light of what Heimdall had just said, Jarvis' existence was a matter beyond his understanding. For now, that was a mystery he could accept. It was more than enough to learn that Steven was safe and well. Anthony would be pleased when he had the opportunity to tell him.