Chapter 9: A Nostalgic Gift

AN: UPDATED AND EDITED BY PPMB. OCTOBER, 12th, 2015.

Please enjoy. Part 3/4. Poor Steve. The things I do to this man. And Beth, as well! Ah well, let's see what trouble our two lil' love birds run into next?


Beth's hand felt strangely soft mixed against the rough palm of Steve's own, but that's where it stayed. He wasn't sure who made that kind of connection first—but it made his entire arm tingle when she squeezed his hand—because that's what he understands now: Beth's a bit over the top with her excitement. Sheer delight, Steve would coin it, though—it made him wonder, really. And it struck him think of the last movies he had ever seen. He mostly really got a kick out of the previews that were all kinds of fun black and white cartoons. The last one Steve recalls is a Disney flick, with two Mouse type characters—and the female reminds him most of Beth. Minnie, he believes to be her name. And in consequence, Steve imagines her like the cartoon character Minnie Mouse, with tiny sounds that make her light up brighter than all of Time Square. Energy—Beth was full of energy in everything she did—and Steve felt like he was constantly moving forward with her, hand in hand, able to physically feel every reaction she had.

The smooth cuff of Steve's dark jacket is forcefully tugged at due to Beth's brisk walking pace, but Steve doesn't mind keeping up. It takes quite a bit to get him winded and he enjoys the motion of moving forward so quickly. It helps him pretend that maybe he's moving into the future as purposefully as Beth is. The downside to Beth's fast walking is avoiding collisions with other grumpy Christmas shoppers—more than twice Steve find himself apologizing for bumping into a large stack of bags or so. Occasionally they bump into each other, but Steve plays it off by gently holding her back from a particularly eye-catching sparkle of an ice slick that would doom them to fall into a worse state of embarrassment.

The island walk's pavement paraded around the pair in great ostentatious cascades of silver tinsel, gleaming oval bulbs, and the rich scent of fresh balsam spilling from every crack of a lit-up store door and snow cluttered fire escape.

Cheeks pink between her brisk stride in the gustily chills, Steve thinks it a trick of atmosphere to suddenly find himself nose to nose (or more so nose to forehead) when Beth turns back to look at him. The red lights strung between the iron bars of the metal gates, beams, and cable wires criss-cross along her hair like tiny ghostly ribbons, and Steve's fingers flex to shake out the reaction to touch them. Her lips part as she eyes him, her brows raised, her lips white and chapped. Suddenly, Beth's eyes grow huge.

"Oh my God! D'you see that?" The soft fluttering warmth flew from the cage of the super-soldier's fingers as Beth pointed. Twisting on a leather heel that crunched the snow beneath them, Steve looked in her direction to see a sudden massive crowd that had operatically gathered behind them.

And all at once, Steve feels the world spinning beneath them, faster and faster—and knows he has to out run it. His jaw tightens.

This was it. It was clear that he'd just gotten too careless and a civilian noticed him out in public. The crowd was coming for Captain America, and it was all Steve Rogers could do to not start dashing away, eyes wild and fearful and desperate—but he knows he'd look back at her (just like she had first looked back at him), and whatever expression that would be on her face in that moment would make Steve fall into a shellshock worse than nights when he'd wake up screaming, covered in sweat, every inch of his body aching from hellish imaginary barbed wire from crawling under a German trench.

And at that same moment, Beth's hand returned Steve's world to a stop.

"It's a flash mob! I don't believe it! I thought these would only ever be staged and on YouTube!" Beth exclaimed merrily. Steve thoughts bunched around in his skull as he tried to grasp what exactly is going on.

"A…flash mob?" Steve knew about flashers, but a group of naked folks tramping around in the dead of Winter being a good thing was beyond him.

"Interested in seeing one?"

Steve fought the urge to look at her like she was crazy. "If you insist?"

The crowd itself seemed to be swaying in a way—and soon music—bright, loud; powerful music was wafting through the chilly evening air. Steve's eyes grew wide in wonder as they approached. A few couples split one way—some folks moved another, and suddenly Beth had managed to gain them both near front row seats to folks dancing, of all the wild things, right in the street!

Beth let out a quiet cheer as one young man lifted up his gal and nearly flung her around his side, swooping her back down between his legs and hoisting her up again. The crowd went nuts; they ate it up. Steve rubbed his eyes hard, not quite believing it himself. He'd seen that move before. In 1937, when Bucky's doll dizzy days were much more care free and Steve himself was too much of a shy dead hoofer to even think about joining on that bar's dance floor.

"They're swing dancing—I can't even believe it! Can you?!" Beth called over the rush of music, although Steve could still hear her fine.

"It's—it's something else, all right," Steve managed slowly, his eyes never leaving anyone that could keep the beat of the jazz players—God, how could he have missed that trumpet before, the snare drums?

"I think most of the dances they're preforming are from the 1950's," Beth continued. Steve felt Beth squeeze his hand in that delighted way that lit up his chest and made his heart pound. He could nearly slip into it…he could nearly pretend, just for a moment, that this was 1938….

"1940's," Steve corrected instantly, a little too loudly, and it made Beth look over him pointedly. Steve floundered for a reason to explain his biting tone.

"I have a—"

"Obsession?" Beth's mouth half smiled at him cutely.

Steve paused, considering through the noise around them. "I was gonna say 'hobby', but yeah, obsession is probably the truth of it."

"With the 40's?" she asked in surprise—her voice was full of interest.

Steve's heart sank low, but he swallowed the sadness in his voice when he answered her. "With nostalgia."

"Do you want to dance?" Her hand is out, patient and giving, her voice full of laughter.

Steve shifts from foot to foot anxiously. The British voices had been messing with his brain, and Peggy's voice is so crystal clear to him that he feels like he's falling into thousand pieces that will melt into the snow.

Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late! Understood? Her voice. So strong and commanding. Right to the end.

You know, I still don't know how to dance.

Her desperate laugh. I'll show you how. Just be there.

"I…" Steve can't force the words out.

"I don't know how either, if that helps." Beth's voice is warm on the wind. "I've never danced."

Steve's mind flashed. He had said that once. Once when time was straight forward and he was still a dumb kid from Brooklyn that didn't stand a chance.

He resisted closing his eyes tight, resisting the sting in them.

If this was the chance, why did it hurt so much?

Beth cannot even begin to understand the pain that's on Steve's face, and she quickly tries to mend. Why does she say such stupid things? Why does she keep hurting him? God, I suck. Ronda's voice in her head confirms it as well. You suck, girl.

"Maybe some other time?" Beth's voice is suddenly closer, and Steve can feel the wool of her jacket, nearly smell the sweet clear perfume of her hair. "I'd love to see the boardwalk at night."

He's still, even when she gives a small pull on his hand. His eyes are tight over the dancers, far away from her, and for a moment Beth wonders who he's thinking of. She only finds sorrow sitting her belly when she understands that maybe she's the relapse, or maybe the rebound. Beth bets that whoever it is must be gorgeous. And a great dancer.

She never should have said she couldn't dance.

"Steve?" Her voice is soft, full of concern, and it seems to knock Steve back to reality.

Suddenly his hand is in hers, tight and pressing down a bit too hard.

"The boardwalk, of course," His eyes don't meet hers. They're searching the black skylight, dodging snowflakes, already at the bay, and Beth can't keep up. "Please excuse me. Right this way."

Steve tries his best to not shoulder his way through the crowd, tightly grasping Beth's hand behind him as he decides to take the lead for once. The glint of a large window-shop had been practically waving at him out the comer of his eye since they had strolled by to look at the swing crowd. When he stops by the holly-wreath on the glass door, Beth's head tilts endearingly at him. He really wants to try and fix what he's done. She may have scared him, but denying her something as simple and fun as a first dance has got to have a sting.

"What's up?" Her words touch his face in puffs of warm frost.

Steve's squinted hard into the window, zeroing in just along a little stack of neatly wrapped glittering foil and Christmas-y tins, he knows that he's found just what he's looking for.

"Beth, would you mind terribly if I go inside for a second?" Their hands slip apart as much as Steve doesn't want them to.

She gives him a knowing once over with a mischievous glint, but the cold has made her lips a bright red, and when she smiles it's like they're an opening winter rose. "Cold, soldier Steve?"

Steve flushes at his nickname, but is grateful that the collar of his wool jacket hides that it's traveled down his neck. "A bit," he adds softly, enough for Beth to know that he's not above sarcasm if it's a part of their agenda.

"Okay," she lowers her eyelids carefully at Steve, "Well, if you insist on being secretive, then I'm going to insist that I do the same."The long haired blonde turned on a dime and began her mini jog over to the adjacent shop.


Steve stepped inside and the heat instantly soaked into his socks and jacket, rushing the chill out of his fingers. Jars of honey, spices, and shimmering metal plates that turned in different patterns lined the ceiling and walls. The tile beneath Steve's leather shoes were caked with muddy snow and bits of twine. Along the upper cabinets of the shop lay a small venue of Disney merchandise—and there, straight out of Steve's foggy memory, was the cartoon mouse girl's trademark bow. He moseyed over to it eagerly, wanting to get to it before it disappeared like everything else always seemed to.

He recalled it from the talkies—they were always so upbeat, and musical, and she'd be sitting on the piano while Mickey (Steve had racked his brain hard for the male mouse's name) sat down to play it. And when he got up to sing, and the piano stool he sat on started to play in his stead. It was unexpectedly charming, hilarious even. And Steve could always recall how it made nearly everyone in the audience smile, or laugh. And that was needed. Certainly during the war, when the country needed it most.

And now a-days…after the attack…

Well, we still need it.

Maybe it was odd for a soldier like Steve to have such respect for something as childish as cartoons, but that was the truth. And it was a great surprise to see how well the mouse couple had taken off. Steve was glad they were still around, still wanted, and even beloved by so many generations. It made Steve felt like he had a chance, too. He could still picture the grainy film of the "A Mickey Mouse Cartoon" presenting itself. And Minnie's bow. That was iconic. That was wonderful. That was his memories. And that was exactly what had caught Steve's eye.

It rested on a tiny pair of earrings that glinted red and white, so much like Beth's smile, from the window at Steve since he started woolgathering about it all. He reached over and ran the pad of his finger over the finely raised crystals settled inside the round earing, noticing just how extremely small the set looked next to his seemly giant hand. He was almost afraid to purchase them now.

"Swarovski crystals, pavé and pound," A friendly voice called from the front of the shop. Steve turned with his hands instantly in his pockets, worried that the clerk might take him for trying to swindle.

"Sorry?"

"The Minnie Mouse earrings," The clerk was a tall man with owl-framed classes in an equally owl-themed bowtie. "They're Swarovski crystals." When Steve didn't respond, the man chuckled lowly. "Don't fret pal, just means that they're genuine, you know? They ain't diamonds, but they ain't trash."

"Ah," Steve forces the affirmative sound from the back of his throat like he's done this a hundred times before. Natasha once told Steve that he was genuine, and Steve wants the act of giving Beth the earrings to feel genuine—so he supposes it helps that they're apparently genuine as well. "Well, thanks." There's a slightly pause as the gift exchanges hands.

At the counter Steve finds himself actively glancing outside the frosty windows for Beth. The clerk himself hums "I'll be home for Christmas", which makes Steve feel a tad relieved for his lack of conversation. There seemed to be something about Christmas that made folks latch onto older times, and Steve recognized a "classic" Christmas song on the radio at least once every hour or so. When the clerk looks up at Steve from behind his spectacles, the tune stops. "Would you like this gift wrapped?"

"Hm?" Steve blinks at him, his attention refocusing at once. "Actually, yeah, that'd be really swell if you could."

The clerk smiles, his own green eyes reflecting back into Steve's in a knowing way. "This for a special someone?"

"First date, actually."

"First date and you're already buying her earrings?" The clerk takes the bill from Steve's hand with a flourish before bringing out change from the rusty register. "Best watch your wallet, pal."

The way that clerk says that suddenly makes Steve unsure all over again. He glances at the earrings and back at the door. "Do…you think that's too…ah…strong?"

The last thing Rogers ever wants to do is creep the poor girl out, but the clerk's eyes glow humorously at him. "And you should also have more confidence. These are cute—how could someone possibly be over-baring when Disney is slapped all over it? Walt was a genius for knowing what would sell—and more importantly, what women would buy."

"Excuse me?" Steve quirks at the clerk's sudden use of a man's name. "Who?"

The clerk looks heavily at Steve for a moment, lips firming up in a bout of confusion.

"Walt." The clerk emphasis slowly. "Disney." He points hard at the table behind Steve.

Turning, Steve is nearly knocked clean over by the cover of a book that's set in black and white. It looks just like any photo he'd see back in—he reels in that thought—Walt Disney: The Triumph of American Imagination, the book reads back to him. Slowly, Steve turns back around to stare sheepishly at the clerk, who has already gotten the Minnie Mouse earrings beautifully wrapped in a package of simple silver with a gold ribbon. Steve's mind churns for something to say.

"You—uh, be careful out there, alright pal?" The clerk articulated awkwardly.

Steve nods again as he receives the coins from the clerk's hand, careful that their fingers don't touch.

The owl-eyed clerk has a strange stare that reminds Steve of Colonel Chester Phillips's disapproval, and it follows him long after he's left the store. Steve clears his throat loudly, picks up the parcel, and is out the door without another word.


AN: There seemed to be a bit of confusion between if this chapter is commenting on Steve not knowing who Walt Disney is, or if he does not know Disney at all. Please pardon me for not conveying this idea properly, as it was pointed out recently. (6/16). As seen in chapter previously, Steve does indeed know Disney. However, *my* particular idea of Steve is this: He knows the company's name of Disney, and it's creator's name: Disney. The famous last name. It is true that Disney was huge during the 40s. However, it is also during this time that Steve is soon shipped off to war, is punching Hitler in the face 200+ times, and generally is not getting a in-tune connection to civilian life. This chapter, I proposed, is built around the idea that in today's public: Most people in America do know Disney easily by his first name, as if we're almost on a "first name friend" status with the famously deceased fellow. However, as much as Steve knows his last name, he did not know Walter Disney is Disney's full name. I found this to hold cheekily true to myself: I often can recall the famous *last* names of actors and shows from the 50's backwards, but never usually the first name. Perhaps it's a subtle detail, but this break between more generalized knowledge shows that when Steve takes one step forward, it's soon to be two steps back.

Anyhow- Kay out! Maybe leave a review so I can know if it's going okay, or down the tubes?