Devil's Promise
Interlude 3: Steve
November 5, 2013
Central Park, New York, New York: Case 91876: Steve Rogers Revival Process: Clearance Level 9
Her name is Agent Sunday Kontis. She's twenty years old, a World War II professor, specializing in the Howling Commandos, a double-major in Psychology, and all she's ever wanted is to be a hero.
She's not very good at it. She has anemia, and measures about five-one if she stands on her tip-toes, she can't shoot to save her life, she gets knocked on her ass by even the worst of recruits during spars, and she knows for a fact that she will never, ever be able to kill someone.
But she has a photographic memory, knows everything there is to know about war tactics and old-time espionage, and as Coulson puts it: "We'd be fools to not have you on our payroll, Professor."
Her official title is "S.H.I.E.L.D. Historian", but in reality, she's more of an encyclopedia. Her job mostly involves running around, doing odd jobs for the real agents and blurting out whatever section of the handbook Coulson or May or Hill or Fury need for their paperwork. She gets moved around bases a lot, and sometimes she feels a bit like an annoyance Fury is forced to take care of, but as long as she's helping the good guys somehow, even if it's just the tiniest bit, she's happy.
Steve Rogers notices her. He's one of the very few that does.
Of course, she kind of made him notice her, what with being the first face he saw after he woke up. Although, what happened after makes him a little surprised she wants anything to do with him at all. He did flip a table, after all, and then shout at her like no woman should ever be shouted at, and then run out of the sound stage, probably earning her a strict talking-to by some higher-up on the S.H.I.E.L.D. hierarchy.
But she smiles at him when they pass each other in the halls, and she sits with him in the cafeteria if she sees him eating alone, and she helps him figure out the ridiculously high-tech coffee machine and shows him how to use an iPod.
They develop a sort of friendship. The kind that reminds him of his days touring the country, selling war bonds with a pack of gorgeous dancers who treated him like an awkward but well-meaning older brother. Only Sunday treats him more like a friend than a relative. She treats him like he sees her treat the other agents: kind and sweet and considerate. A bit like their own personal cheerleader (she's the one who tells him what that is and shows him modern football on television).
And for the first time, Fury notices her. He doesn't make it a big deal, but a few days after he sees them walking down the halls together, Steve grinning tentatively, Sunday receives a notification that she is now officially in charge of Captain Rogers' modern education.
She undertakes the task with joy, and Steve's mind spins most of the time with all the information she crams into it about the end of the war and the long-reaching repercussions and the socioeconomic implications of the fifties and sixties and everything that's happened between his old world and the cold, scary one he's living in now.
She tells him about Al Queida and 9-11 and the Greensboro Baptist Church and abortion, but she also tells him about Obama and Mother Theresa and One Direction and Frozen and the internet and To Kill a Mockingbird.
Months pass, and they spend more time with each other, and eventually the modern world seems a little less scary.
Their favorite spot is the Alice statue in Central Park. There's a florist with a tiny little booth set up there, and Sunday loves peonies so the florist loves her, and they walk Scout, Sunday's dachshund, up and down that stretch of park every Saturday afternoon and talk about their week as if they haven't been together for most of it.
It's a Thursday night in early November when Sunday calls him out of the blue (and he's just now figured out how to use his high-tech, Stark Industries cell phone) and asks him to meet her there. He comes as quick as he can, and a concerned frown immediately grows on his face when he sees her sitting on a bench in front of the statue, bundled up in a tan pea-coat with a plaid scarf, hands clutched around a coffee cup and breath mingling with the cold, crisp air.
Steve hurries over to her and immediately asks, "What's wrong?"
Sunday bites her lip, looking up at him with those apologetic grey eyes of hers, cheeks rosy, the rest of her face very pale. "I've been reassigned," she tells him, shifting on the bench uncomfortably. "I'm moving to a base outside of D.C. the day after Christmas."
"Why?" is all Steve can think to say, because a life in the twenty-first-century without Professor Sunday Kontis is, in a word, unfathomable to him. She's become a constant in his life- the only constant in his life right now. How is he going to function without her?
Sunday shifts, obviously uncomfortable, and Steve realizes it the same time she says it: "That's classified information. I'm sorry, Steve."
"There's nothing to be sorry about," he answers reflexively. "You got reassigned. You can't help that."
"I'll only be there for a year or so," she tries to offer helpfully, "and you know how to use a phone now, so we'll be able to talk."
He knows she's right, knows it's not like he's never going to see each other, knows he went longer with absolutely no word from Bucky during the war. But it still feels an awful lot like he's losing another person he cares about.
Instead he says this, "Come on. I'll walk you back to your apartment."