She opened her eyes to a dimly-lit bedroom, the only light seeping in from behind the curtains covering a small window. The walls were painted light blue, and directly across from the bed she was lying on was an idyllic painting of the countryside, cows dotting gently rolling hills with a bright red barn in the background. Beatrice stared at it for a moment, struggling to return to herself. Whatever she had imagined the future to be like, it definitely wasn't this. They wanted to acclimatize her slowly, Fury had said. At least she didn't appear to be in the laboratory anymore.

"Beatrice?" a quiet, slightly strained voice asked from beside her—Steve. She turned to him, allowing herself to feel the sense of relief that came with his presence, so instantaneous and overwhelming that it was something akin to a reflex. So he hadn't been a hallucination. As long as Steve was here, she could get through this.

He was leaning forward, his eyebrows furrowed in that familiar worried expression she knew so well, bright blue eyes peering down at her. Her lips curved upward in an automatic smile, even though smiling was the last thing she wanted to do. "I fainted, didn't I?" she asked stupidly, sitting up and pushing the bedclothes away. "You know, you could have just used smelling salts."

Steve's answering grin seemed more of an instinctual reaction than anything else, though he appeared relieved to see her awake and calmer. "Yeah, you did," he admitted. "I shouldn't have told you any of that, Beatrice. You were still in shock."

She shook her head. "No, it's not your fault. I'm glad you told me." Pushing back the wave of despair that threatened to crush her, she whispered, "But he…Bucky…didn't try to kill me. He just…choked me until I was unconscious." But she knew even as she spoke that the words were hollow: the Bucky she had known would never have done that to her under any circumstances. Steve's mouth twisted downwards, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

"Yeah, well, he tried to kill me. More than once," he said ruefully, and Beatrice felt her breathing turn shallow. Sensing her distress, Steve quickly added, "But it wasn't him. It wasn't Bucky. It was Hydra—they did everything. And he remembered me. I know he did."

"Where is he now?" Beatrice asked. Her voice was so quiet she could hardly hear it herself.

"I don't know," Steve said, with a slight, frustrated shake of his head. "Sam and I were looking for him when we got the call that you'd been found."

"Sam?" she questioned before remembering the man she'd seen alongside Steve. "What about the others who were with you? Do they know I'm here?"

He nodded. "They're downstairs. We're at one of Fury's safe houses in Geneva. He's letting us stay here for as long as we need to."

As long as I need to, Beatrice thought, fear springing up into her throat again. She stared at Steve with her eyebrows creasing in worry. "I'm sorry," she told him. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't tried to find Bucky on my own after the fall—if I'd stayed with you—"

"Beatrice, it's not your fault," Steve said emphatically; his expression was firm, no hint of deception in his eyes. "I would have gone after him too. Look, it wouldn't have done any good anyway."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated for the slightest moment before answering. "Hydra was already on the lookout after you escaped; you and Bucky were found by Soviet agents who were under Zola's command. Fury thinks they kept you both frozen until he was released from U.S. custody. He must have gone straight back to Europe."

"They woke me up twice," Beatrice mused. "Once in 1955 and once in 1972. Zola was there both times." She paused. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Steve gave a short nod. "He died a few months after Pierce took over."

Beatrice's relief that Zola was finally gone was overshadowed by the unexpected stiffness that colored Steve's tone at the mention of the other man. "Did you know Pierce?" she ventured to ask.

This time she saw his mouth even out in a hard line, and it was his turn to glance away from her, staring at the painting across from her bed, but Beatrice was certain he wasn't really seeing it. "Yes. He's dead now, too."

For the first time, she allowed herself to relax, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. "I don't remember much about the first time they woke me up," she said thoughtfully. "Zola told me what happened. There was someone else with him—I think his name was Karpov. The second time…Pierce wanted to meet me, I think. But then they—Pierce and Zola—started panicking and saying that the…the asset had escaped. So I ran. But then he found me. His hair was longer. And his face…it was so empty."

She saw Steve glance sideways at her and then back down again, bowing his head. "I know," he said quietly.

"That must have been what they were planning to do to me, too. Erase my memories like they did to Bucky." She was silent for a long moment. "But they couldn't. Something went wrong."

"Or right," Steve said, with a faint, humorless grin.

Beatrice glanced away, staring down at her hands. "Before you and…Bucky came to rescue me on the train, Zola did something to me with the Tesseract. He said that its power flows through me or—or something."

That caused Steve to straighten up; he went rigid and something close to disbelief crossed his face. "The Tesseract?" he repeated.

She nodded. "Ivan told me that it belonged to the Asgardians. The Norse gods. I didn't believe him at first, but after all that's happened to us I don't think there's much I wouldn't believe anymore."

Steve, whose mouth had been hanging slightly open, suddenly closed it with a snap and gave a short laugh, amusement briefly crossing his face. "Well, I can tell you that he was right."

"So they do exist? Asgardians and gods and…and aliens?"

"Actually, all three at the same time," Steve said dryly, before his expression turned serious again. "Fury took some blood samples before you were woken up. If there's anything strange there the results will show it."

"And what if there is?" she whispered, but she could already see the answer in Steve's eyes: he didn't know any more than she did. Beatrice forced her voice to stop trembling as she added, "What will happen to me?"

Steve shrugged. "Now that S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't exist anymore, probably nothing. There's not much Fury can do aside from keeping an eye on you. He wants you to stay with me for a while."

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, trying to hide her relief. "So you're stuck with me. Again."

"That's not how I would put it," Steve retorted, with a crooked grin. "Here, I meant to give you this before." Beatrice watched curiously as he reached into the pocket of his rumpled leather jacket and drew out a small, delicate bracelet: it was nearly dwarfed by his large hands.

"My bracelet!" she exclaimed in delight, holding out her own hands as he dropped it into her open palm. Bucky's bracelet. It looked none the worse for wear; the moonstones still sparkled in the light and the clasp was still intact. She looped it around her wrist and examined it; wearing the bracelet felt more natural to her now than not wearing it—she felt as if a piece of her had gone missing without realizing it.

"Fury found it while searching the laboratory," Steve explained. "I told him it was yours."

"Thank you," Beatrice said fervently, resisting the urge to hug him, and swung her legs over the side of the bed so that she was facing him, their knees almost touching. She still wore the clothes Fury had given her; although she had worn trousers often enough working in the factory, these ones felt strange and too tight against her legs, whereas the fabric of her sweater was too soft. The "futuristic" exhibits she'd seen at fairs as a child had gotten women's fashion all wrong.

She hesitated before asking her next question, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer or not. Steve waited patiently for her to speak, and when Beatrice finally mustered up the courage she glanced cautiously up at him and said, "Do you know what happened to Henry?"

Steve had always been a terrible liar, and Beatrice could tell he was weighing his chances before finally accepting that she knew him too well. "Yes," he answered, albeit cautiously.

"Is he still alive?" Beatrice pressed. "Have you met him?"

Steve nodded, but he didn't meet her eyes. There was something he wasn't telling her. "Listen, Beatrice, I have a lot to explain—"

"Good luck with that," a coolly amused voice sounded from the doorway. Beatrice's head snapped around as her eyes landed on the redheaded woman who had jabbed the syringe into her arm, and she automatically stiffened. The woman smirked as if she could read Beatrice's mind as she moved farther into the room, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a pair of jeans similar to Beatrice's, only hers were darker, and a light gray jacket. Her hair was unstyled and perfectly straight, ending sharply at her shoulders.

"Natasha," Steve said in a warning tone. Beatrice's eyes flickered back and forth between them in confusion.

The woman called Natasha didn't seem fazed in the least; she strode to the end of Beatrice's bed and stared down at her with catlike eyes. "You're waiting for me to apologize for tranquilizing you," she said, sounding amused.

"What? No—"

"You do the innocent look well," she said in approval, looking almost impressed. "I can see where Steve gets it from. Look, I was just following orders."

"And we both know there's nothing more you love to do," Steve shot back.

Natasha's eyes glittered as she turned her gaze back to him. "I have to keep my reflexes sharp somehow. By the way, Sam wants to talk to you. He's outside."

The change in Steve's demeanor was palpable; he immediately straightened up, glancing from Beatrice to stare at Natasha. "What did he say?"

She shrugged. "Nothing, really. Just that he thinks it's probably a good idea to stay here for a little while. Besides, Fury wants to make sure she's recovered before running tests on her."

"Tests?" Beatrice echoed with a gulp.

Beside her, Steve had gone rigid; Beatrice saw his knuckles whiten. "Why are you still here, Natasha?" he asked, a slight edge to his voice.

"To pass on Sam's message, of course," she replied, her eyes widening in false innocence. "He would have come to talk to you himself, but I volunteered. Besides, I'm just as curious to see her as the next person. She would have been the talk of S.H.I.E.L.D. no matter what."

Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in the blankets. "What is S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway?" she asked.

Natasha reached into her jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope, dropping it onto the bed by Beatrice's feet. "These files will explain it better than I can," she answered. "And in case you're wondering, Fury isn't bothered about telling you all this just yet because it's not likely you'll be allowed to leave for a while."

"I'm not allowed to leave?" Beatrice demanded. She felt her pulse speed up again. "But—"

"You were found cryogenically frozen in an abandoned Hydra laboratory," Natasha said cryptically. "It's natural that we'd have some questions."

Beatrice fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, hoping her discomfort didn't show on her face. Her mind was whirling with questions, none of which she had the answers to. She looked back and forth between Steve and Natasha warily. Steve had said that all of them could be trusted, but was that enough? Still, Beatrice told herself, there was no use mulling over it. She had no choice.

"Relax," Natasha said, apparently noticing her distress. "It won't be anything like Hydra. There really are no better people for the job. I expect you'll be fine within a week or two. Of course, what happens to you then is up for debate…"

"Nat," Steve said wearily, and dragged his hand across his face. For the first time, Beatrice saw how exhausted he looked: there were dark purple circles under his eyes and his clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them several times in a row. "I don't think terrifying her is what Fury had in mind."

Natasha's lips pursed in apparent displeasure. "What makes you think Fury sent me?"

"I wasn't aware you were such a calming bedside presence," Steve retorted. Beatrice's head swiveled back and forth as she watched their banter, utterly baffled and slowly sinking back into her pillows. She couldn't remember Steve being so forward with any woman before, not even Peggy Carter.

"Fine, Rogers. Fury wanted someone else to be here when she woke up in case she panicked again. Clint offered, but I wanted to see her for myself." She fixed her unyielding gaze on Beatrice again. "And of course I had to pass on Sam's message. He wants to talk to you as soon as possible."

"Sam. Right." Steve began to stand up, but met Beatrice's eyes and hesitated. "Can he wait? I haven't told Beatrice anything yet."

"Don't worry about me," Beatrice said quickly, feigning a smile. "I doubt I'll be going anywhere anytime soon."

He made to leave, pausing only to give Natasha a loaded glance. His eyes moved over Beatrice once more, and she thought she saw a muscle in his jaw clench before he quietly slipped out of the room.

"He'll be back soon," Natasha said, obviously noticing the way Beatrice's eyes followed him all the way out. "He would have put up more of a fuss if it hadn't been so urgent." She did not move to vacate Steve's chair; she merely took another step forward, her arms still crossed and her expression guarded. Beatrice noticed that she was wearing a delicate silver chain around her neck, a tiny arrow dangling just above her collarbone.

"I don't think I've ever seen Steve as tense as he was when he heard about you," Natasha remarked lightly. "And I've seen him pretty tense."

Beatrice stared up at her. "Was he?"

"He carried you here and didn't leave your side until now." Natasha's tone was flat; it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. "I owe Steve. The least I can do is make life a bit easier for him."

"I don't know," Beatrice said dryly, again glancing back at the door. "He's the kind of person who purposely makes things difficult."

For the first time, Natasha seemed to relax, and she gave Beatrice something that was close to a smile. "Guess you did know him after all," she replied, and patted the file she'd tossed onto the bed. "Everything you need to know is in there."

"That I need to know? What does that mean?"

Natasha's smile grew thin. "You'll find out eventually," she said, and snatched another syringe from her inside pocket. Before Beatrice could protest, Natasha's hand had flipped her wrist over and stuck it into the inside of her elbow. Beatrice watched in horror as another clear liquid slowly seeped into her veins. As soon as it entered her bloodstream, she could feel the heavy fatigue beginning to close on her again. She was completely powerless.

"It's just morphine," Natasha said into her ear as Beatrice's struggles grew weaker. "I don't usually do this. Fury's orders," she continued, looking as if she was very much enjoying some inside joke. "You'll wake up in a couple of hours, don't worry."

"Don't you think I've had enough sleep?" Beatrice muttered. She had just enough time to see Natasha's smirk before she again fell into an uneasy slumber.

She awoke gasping, the sheets tangled around her waist and her arms crushing the pillow. Half-remembered dreams tugged at the edges of her mind; they felt more substantial than the shadowy twilight she found herself in. The bedroom was dark and quiet, the lights dimmed and the door closed to give the illusion of night, though Beatrice had absolutely no idea what time it really was. She wondered when Natasha had left and if Steve had come back only to find her unconscious yet again.

There was a slice of bread and an apple sitting on her bedside table. Beatrice hadn't realized how hungry she actually was until seeing food: she had no idea how long it had been since she'd last eaten. Carefully sitting up and untangling the sheets from her legs, she picked up the plate and hungrily devoured the food, glad there was no one around to witness her attacking it like a starving animal. When it was empty—even the crumbs had been eaten—Beatrice stared around the empty room, her eyes landing on the file that was still on the edge of the bed. After running a hand through her messy hair, she slowly got to her feet and took an experimental step forward, relieved when her legs didn't wobble. Her mind and heart were both racing, and she kept replaying her conversations with Steve and Natasha. She had been unconscious more than not since she'd been awoken, and it would be next to impossible for her to go back to sleep again, but she didn't fancy spending any more time alone with her thoughts.

She rounded the bed, her bare feet sinking into the soft carpet, and cautiously pulled aside the curtain covering the window, unsure of what she would find—unsure of what the future would look like.

Beatrice was almost disappointed when she saw nothing; nothing, that was, aside from a bare field stretching out into the horizon, occasionally punctuated by a tree. It was dark outside, and although she couldn't see the moon, it provided just enough illumination for her to see that they were nowhere near any kind of civilization. "A safe house in Geneva" had evidently meant "A safe house near Geneva". At least that explained the location of the painting hanging on the wall.

It was a miracle, wasn't it, that she and Bucky and Steve had not only made it out of the war alive, they had made it into the next century, but it hadn't come without its price. She swallowed uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest even though she wasn't cold. She hadn't even asked Steve how he was still alive; she'd been too caught up in thinking about Bucky and her own predicament that it had never occurred to her something must have happened to Steve, too. Could he have been captured by Hydra, too? Clearly his memories were still intact, but then again so were hers. He was familiar with Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D., so he had to have been around for a while. What if nothing had happened to him? Beatrice thought with a horrible lurch in the pit of her stomach. What if he had lived the entire seventy years, unchanging? The effects of the serum when it came to physical aging were largely unknown, and Beatrice certainly hadn't been around long enough to find out for herself. So had they—she, Bucky, and Steve—stopped aging altogether? Surely if it had happened to Steve, it was the case with Beatrice and Bucky as well. After all, Zola's serum couldn't be that different from Erskine's, could it?

She thought of the first picture she'd ever seen Steve draw, the one of his Flatbush neighborhood and the bleak rows of tenements stretching forever onward. The inscription on that piece had been a quote by William Blake; Steve's secret love of poetry hadn't been known to her then.

Whate'er is born of Mortal Birth

Must be consumed with the Earth

"All who live must die," Beatrice whispered to herself. But what if she didn't—couldn't—die? Had Zola turned her, turned Bucky, into something that was no longer human?

She let the curtain fall back into place, heart hammering. The room suddenly felt stifling, as if the walls were closing in on her. Backing away, she headed towards the door. She half-expected it to be locked, and was pleasantly surprised when it swung open under her touch. Cautiously stepping forward, she found herself in a narrow hallway. Like the bedroom, it was carpeted; there were several doors across the corridor, all of them ajar. Beatrice crept forward to peer into each of them, making as little noise as possible: one led to a bathroom, and the other two led to bedrooms that were as curiously impersonal as Beatrice's own—they held little more than a bed and a nightstand. There were no pictures on the walls aside from generic paintings; no distinctive marks of an owner. The house could have belonged to anyone and no one.

When Beatrice reached the landing, she placed one hand on the banister and peered down to the main floor. The house was just as dark as the night outside, but she could hear voices floating out faintly from behind some unseen door.

"…tell her everything." This was Steve, sounding hesitant and unsure.

"Everything?" Natasha replied smoothly; Beatrice wasn't sure what to make of her tone.

"She's going to have to find out about all of this sometime. It's either you or Fury, Cap." The voice was unfamiliar, but it was definitely a man speaking. She guessed it was one of the two others who had been in the laboratory.

"Astute observation, Clint." Natasha's voice was wry. "Whoever it is, Fury's going to want to question her as soon as possible. He's operating with very limited resources."

"And whose fault is that?" the one named Clint muttered.

"All I'm saying is that maybe we should explain things to her slowly," Steve said plaintively. "I know I would have appreciated that."

"Yeah, but we're not exactly sending her out into Manhattan, either," Clint stated.

"But she's not you, Steve," Natasha pointed out. "Also, she's listening to this conversation. Just a heads-up."

Beatrice was certain she hadn't made a sound, but there was nothing she could do about it now, so she reluctantly descended the remainder of the staircase and rounded the corner into a living-room populated by four other people: Steve was standing at the opposite end, leaning against the mantel of an empty fireplace, and Natasha was sitting on a deep burgundy couch—the only one who looked as if she had expected Beatrice's arrival. The brown-haired man with the bow and arrows was perched on the arm of the couch—he was older than Beatrice had first thought, with lines beginning to cross his face; and the man who had arrived with Steve was standing nearer to the corner of the room, next to a large clock that proclaimed the time as being shortly after midnight. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows.

Steve was the first one to speak. "Beatrice," he exclaimed. "Are you all right? Can't you sleep?"

"Oh, I can sleep fine," she replied, and looked pointedly at Natasha. "I guess the sedative just wore off."

"Sedative?" Steve asked, looking back and forth between them. "What are you talking about?"

"Bring it up with Fury, not me," Natasha said in a long-suffering tone, but it was clear that Steve wasn't going to wait.

"This really isn't going to make her trust us any more, you know," Steve said in a hard voice. "If you keep knocking her out like this—"

"And yet I'm still here," Beatrice interrupted him, and he thankfully quieted. "I probably needed it the first time, anyway."

Steve uncrossed his arms and strode over to her, giving her a passable attempt at a reassuring smile. "You've already met Natasha. This is Clint Barton—" he nodded at the man next to Natasha, who raised a hand in greeting, "—And Sam Wilson." The other man standing nearer to the windows smiled easily at her.

Beatrice gave both of them a nod before turning back to Steve. "Look, I want to know everything," she said firmly. "I can handle it. I'm not going to—to faint or anything again, I promise."

She heard Steve take a deep breath, and he reached up a hand to rub his face—stalling for time. "Fine," he said. "But I—I don't even know where to start. It might take a while…"

"I'm listening," she said.