Almost by accident, Alice remained Steve's secret.
He signed up with S.H.I.E.L.D. and his life became very busy all of a sudden: orientation, training, uniform fitting, mission briefs. The work was faster and more intense than the war had been: instead of long drawn out campaigns Fury dispatched him to clean up messes quickly and efficiently. At times the reasoning behind it all frustrated him (back in the war it had been easy: the Nazis needed to be stopped. Nothing was so simple these days), but the work kept him focused. And no one could argue he wasn't good at it.
He moved to D.C., and it was nice to be in a new place. He didn't find himself so disoriented by a familiar city so drastically changed. His colleagues and people who recognized him on the street began to ask him questions about the past, but not about the people he'd lost. They asked about the food, and the clothes, like he was a visitor from a foreign country.
He kept up some contact with the other Avengers, but they were all doing their own thing. Stark was busy with his tower and his suits, Banner was with Tony half the time, Thor was off-world. Barton came in and out of S.H.I.E.L.D., but seemed to work more independently. Steve got put on a team with Natasha early on, so they had regular contact. He didn't know if they were friends exactly, but she treated him as normal as anyone could these days. She didn't pry, though. She knew that he grieved what he'd lost, without knowing the specifics.
He stopped with the psychologists after a while - they were great, but there was too much he couldn't say in the sessions. He kept up the strategies they'd given him, but silence just came easier.
So he didn't ever really tell anyone about his wife. It was still too recent for him, too much, too heartbreaking. He didn't want to share her. Maybe Peggy had been right: the world had already torn so much of Alice's story to shreds. He wanted to hold the Alice he'd known close to his chest.
That's not to say he never spoke about her. He visited Peggy pretty regularly, and Jilí had gotten his number somehow. They kept Alice alive in memory, retelling her stories and reminding Steve of things he'd already forgotten.
And then.
After a few weeks of trying to navigate his way around the Triskelion, he turned a corner, looked up, and saw Agent Alice Johnson. He recognised her instantly, from family photos Peggy and Jilí had shown him.
He and Agent Johnson both stopped in their tracks and stared.
Agent Johnson no longer worked in the field since she was nearing retirement, but ran the S.H.I.E.L.D. domestic counterterrorism division. Steve had heard her name bandied about, but he hadn't been ready to see her.
Agent Johnson was - biologically - about forty years older than Steve. Her hair glinted with streaks of salt and pepper, and intelligent dark eyes peered out a face lined with character. She wore a deep blue suit with the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on her breast. Steve absorbed her features. She didn't look like Alice, but he recognized something in her expression. She did look like Tom - she had his high cheekbones, wide brow, and the color of his skin.
Agent Johnson recovered first. She continued striding down the walkway toward him, and gave him a brisk nod. "Captain Rogers."
"A - Agent Johnson."
Her head tilted. "Would you like to catch up for coffee later?"
He almost let out a sigh of relief. He didn't know the protocol here but he wanted to talk to her, get to know her. And yet to any outside observer, there was no reason for the two of them to notice each other. "Yes, please," he nodded.
The corner of her lips quirked, and for a moment Steve was reminded of a young Tom Johnson, smirking on the other side of a diner counter. "6 PM, Burton's Cafe. See you then." And then she was gone.
Reeling in her sudden absence, Steve almost smiled. Because Alice Johnson might look like her father, but her attitude? She got that all from her aunt.
They met for coffee as promised. It was awkward at first, because Steve didn't know how much she knew. But then Alice Johnson wrapped her slim fingers around her mug, eyed him and said:
"So I suppose, legally, you're my uncle." Seeing the surprise in his eyes, she clarified: "Dad told me and my brothers about you and Alice before he died, but asked us to keep it private. Family, you know? I've… been looking forward to meeting you." She smiled.
And like that, they began talking about everything. About the life Tom Johnson had led after the war, and the legacy (first disguised as a curse) his children had grown up with. Steve learned about the Civil Rights Movement from a woman who'd fought for it, and about the modern workings of S.H.I.E.L.D. from an agent with decades of service. In return he told her all about the Tom he'd known.
Alice Johnson also had a gift for him. Halfway through their coffee, she reached into her messenger bag and pulled out what Steve first thought was an old scrap of greying fabric. But then he realised it was a canvas bag, the material patchy with age.
Alice set it on the table between them. "I think this belongs to you."
Steve reached out, confused, and flipped open the top of the bag. He peered in to see what looked like dozens of old, bound letters. The paper had become yellowed and fragile. Frowning, he peered a little closer and nearly flinched when he recognised his own handwriting.
Agent Johnson spoke in a low voice. "Alice - your Alice - gave this to my dad when she came back to Brooklyn during the war, and told him to look after it. She told him not to read the letters, but when he thought she'd become a Nazi he did read a few. He stopped when he realized what they were. Since then he's kept them safe. I think he would want you to have them."
Steve stared down at one of the fragile envelopes which bore Alice's old address in Vienna, and a crumbling postage stamp. "I didn't… I never thought…"
"Seems she didn't want to destroy them," Alice said evenly. "But she knew she couldn't keep them in Austria."
Steve sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. "My letters from Alice were in my old place in Brooklyn-"
"The Barnes family has them now," Alice finished for him, her eyes warm. "They ended up giving most of your stuff to museums - which I know they regret now - but Rebecca Barnes knew to keep those letters safe. Her son has them now. I can put you in contact with him."
"Please," Steve breathed. He reached into the faded canvas bag and pulled out a letter, carefully unfolding it. Dear Alice. The contents of the letter were mostly just a long-winded discussion of a John Steinbeck novel, with a few doodles in the margins. His eyes flicked up to the date. He'd have been eighteen when he wrote this. He carefully folded the letter again, feeling the old paper brush over the pads of his fingers. The letter smelled like time and old paper, like long-dried ink.
Alice hadn't written these words, but he could feel her presence in them. She opened these envelopes, she first read these words. All this paper and all those words, he'd dedicated to her.
He felt his vision go blurry. Alice Johnson politely didn't comment.
Steve rested his hands on the canvas bag, which his Alice had brought with her across an ocean to keep them safe. "Thank you."
S.H.I.E.L.D. felt more like home after that. Alice Johnson introduced him to her siblings, and he was able to speak (if only a little) about his Alice. Their aunt. It was strange, and precious.
Brian Proctor, Bucky's nephew, seemed almost relieved to hand over his shoebox stuffed with letters when Steve contacted him. They met at the Brooklyn docks, where the salty sea breeze blew in their faces.
"My mom told me not to read these," Brian said emphatically when he first arrived, then hastily added: "Which I haven't. But when I moved about ten years ago the box spilled and I got a glimpse of one of the letters, and I don't think I could read it if I tried. Looked like gibberish."
Steve smiled as he took the box. "Lots of them are in code," he said to Brian. He tried not to find similarities in his face to Bucky. "Thank you."
Steve took the two collections of letters home to D.C., and didn't read them for a long time. Each time he looked over at them, resting on his worktable, he felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He thought it might be fear.
But after a few missions with S.H.I.E.L.D. he decided to take it slow: a few letters a day, to remind himself of the way it had once been. It also took a while to decode the old letters, since he had to remember the ciphers they'd used. A few letters were missing, lost to forgetfulness and time, and others were disfigured by water leaks or by the paper simply crumbling away. But as Steve began unfolding fragile, lace-thin letters and absorbing their contents, he felt a decade younger and a hundred pounds lighter.
Her first letter made his heart skip painfully.
And of course, I miss you and Bucky. Let me know how you're doing. I hope your mom's well.
I want you to know, I meant what I said before I left.
Please write soon.
Yours,
Alice.
As milestones passed - his birthday, Alice's, Thanksgiving, Christmas - he tentatively reached out to others. Bucky had one living sister and a whole boatload of nieces, nephews, and grand-nieces and grand-nephews. They welcomed him with typical Barnes warmth and charm, and understood when he could not bring himself to speak. The rest of the 107th Tactical Team - the Howling Commandos - had also left behind large broods of children who were more than eager to welcome his contact. He didn't meet all of them, but he started up a pretty healthy email correspondence with plenty of people.
Now that he'd set himself up in D.C. with a steady job and a house and an email address, people started to reach out to him. He'd been a subject of fascination since the Battle of New York, but S.H.I.E.L.D. mostly handled his media image. Steve still couldn't fail to notice the sheer volume of people who wanted something from him: politicians seeking endorsements or comments, hundreds upon hundreds of journalists with thousands of questions, companies and brands wanting to put his face on their products, and a mass of researchers and historians practically begging for information (the Smithsonian, it seemed, was putting together an exhibit about him. He ignored them).
He occasionally answered a few questions or requests for comment. Generally the advice from S.H.I.E.L.D. (and Tony, surprisingly) had been to keep his head down, and that worked for him. He still had so much to learn about this new world. So he emailed a few historians with quick answers or clarifications, and copied and pasted S.H.I.E.L.D.'s drafted "thanks, but no thanks" response to the more insistent companies and politicians.
One request did stand out to him, though. The email was titled: The Siren: Thesis Research Background Knowledge. The email itself was polite, almost apologetic in its request, and before Steve knew what he was doing he'd emailed the student researcher back to agree to meet for a brief discussion over coffee.
I miss you already, Alice. We'll just have to become the best set of pen-pals that ever existed.
I meant what I said, too.
Yours,
Steve
Steve arrived at the cafe first. He'd picked the same one he and Alice Johnson had met at, because it had sunny outdoor seating and the coffee came with crumbly biscotti that reminded him of Italy.
He spotted the sender of the email as she wound her way through the tables toward him. She was in her mid twenties, with one of those weird modern haircuts where the top of her hair was long but the base and sides of her skull were shaved. She had a nose ring and a satchel bag with a sticker of a rainbow flag on it. Natasha had taught him about those flags. When she reached the table, Steve smiled and stood.
"Holy moly," the woman said, flustered, "I can't believe I'm late, I'm so sorry, traffic in this city is-"
"It's okay," Steve reassured. "I can't believe I'm on time." He stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you."
She gave him a slightly manic smile as she shook his hand. "I'm Amaya." Steve decided not to point out that he already knew that from her email. He was still learning how all this digital communication stuff worked. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
They sat down, and Amaya looked somehow more uncomfortable than Steve felt. A few excruciating seconds of silence passed.
Steve cleared his throat. "Um, so… your email-"
"Right!" Amaya exclaimed. "I'm really sorry I bothered you with it, I've just been going nuts with my Masters research and I figured 'hey, who would know the most about the SSR's work in the war', but I really… it was a dumb thing to do, you're not a reference book-"
"It's really okay," he reassured again. "I get plenty of emails about much weirder stuff. And I guess… it kind of surprised me that you weren't asking about me." In fact, out of hundreds and hundreds of emails from strangers, it had been one of the only ones not about him.
Amaya blinked. "I… I guess that didn't occur to me. My thesis is about… the Siren…" her voice trailed off. "Sorry?"
"It's okay," he said yet again, fighting off a smile. But he'd come into this meeting with a healthy dose of suspicion (and more than enough self-doubt for agreeing to it), so he carefully arranged his features. "So… tell me about your thesis?"
Amaya blinked once more. And then she began gushing. She told him all about Alice Moser, the Siren. About how she'd arrived onto the scene in Vienna in the midst of a Nazi takeover, and about how she'd stepped up to push back against the regime. She told him about the Siren's contribution to the war effort (some of which even he hadn't known) and about her compassion and her strength. Amaya was in the middle of a long description of her study of the Siren's character when Steve finally spoke.
"You… admire her," he realized.
"Of course I do!" Amaya exclaimed. "Alice Moser showed the world what women - hell, what anyone - can do if they give enough of a shit." Her eyes flew wide open. "Oh god, I just swore in front of Captain America."
Steve grinned. "You sure as shit did."
So Steve answered her questions. It was all very official: she had him sign a consent form from her university, and then she set up a recording app on her phone. Then they got started.
It was nice, because she wasn't asking about him. She'd reached out because he was her best resource for being alive during the 30s and 40s, and in the SSR's heyday. It became clear early on that she didn't suspect that Steve had ever met Alice. She knew they'd both worked for the SSR, and once or twice while he described a mission he'd been on she'd say something like "you know, the Siren collected intelligence which would have directly helped in planning that mission". He smiled, raised his eyebrows as if pleasantly surprised, and kept talking.
He told her about the people he'd known in the SSR, and how the organisation had worked. He told her about his training at Camp Lehigh, and what it had been like in occupied Europe.
Amaya only asked him a couple of times about his actual experience of the Siren: if he'd ever heard her sing ("Yes, I believe I did.") and what he'd thought when he found out she'd been a double agent - though she assumed that he'd found out when he woke up in 2011 ("It was a pretty big surprise."). The conversation felt like the other conversations he'd had with other people asking about the past, but slightly different; because in a way, it felt like this was for Alice.
When he shook hands with Amaya and they parted ways, he walked off with his hands in his pockets. He couldn't say for certain why he'd decided to answer her questions. But he didn't regret it.
Dearest James Buchanan,
Thank you for letting me know about Steve, he's seemed down in his letters but you know he's the last to admit when he's not doing well. I'm glad he's not sick. Keep on trying to cheer him up - try taking him to a gallery, you know he always likes that.
… It feels strange writing letters to you both. I realized yesterday that I've never been farther than a few blocks from you both for five years now, and now I'm thousands of miles away.
… Cordially,
Alice
He met the veteran named Sam a month later. It was nice; Sam seemed to have that rare quality of treating Steve like a regular human being while also not avoiding certain topics like the plague.
"Must've freaked you out, coming home after the whole defrosting thing."
"It takes some getting used to."
Steve found himself smiling at the easy, intuitive manner Sam had as they talked about life after service.
"You must miss the good old days, huh?" Sam asked with a wry smile.
For a moment, that question took Steve aback. Because the instinctive answer was yes, but he didn't really mean the war: he meant summer afternoons in Brooklyn, sneaking into speakeasies, a flash of a smile in soft light.
He half-shrugged, and his focus settled on the park around him. "Well, things aren't so bad," he said with a small smile. "Food's a lot better, we used to boil everything" - he remembered he and Bucky laughing so hard they almost cried after trying the shriveled, flavorless boiled chicken they'd made in their first shared cooking experiment when they were seventeen. Seasoning had been a pleasant surprise on arriving in the future. "No polio is good… internet - so helpful. Been reading that a lot, trying to catch up." He'd signed up to all the message boards about the Siren's disappearance, in case anything new came up, in amongst all his other internet adventures.
Sam helped add to his list of things to experience in the future with an interesting-sounding album.
Then Nat showed up, and they headed off to work.
Dear Steve,
… I think I've not been really myself since I came here. I've never struggled with something like this before. There's just so many people around me and so little time to myself, I don't know who I am here. But even if I'm right, and this is wrong… what can I do about it? I'm a seventeen year old girl relying on the kindness of her uncle to make her way in the world. Who would listen to me?
Please tell me I'm not going crazy.
Yours,
Alice
Working with Natasha was nice - most of the time. She was one of the most skilled fighters he'd ever seen (himself included), wickedly smart, and even if he wasn't sure if they were friends they were definitely friendly. At some point she'd also gotten it into her head to try setting him up.
It was harmless for the most part - she'd throw out names of people he barely knew (usually S.H.I.E.L.D. employees) and a date idea, and he'd politely decline. She seemed to view it as a friendly challenge. Gotta put yourself out there, Rogers, she'd tell him. It reminded him of Bucky, which was nice.
Steve knew Natasha had a point, even if she didn't necessarily realise it. Because for all intents and purposes these days, he was a widower. A strange thought.
But he couldn't bring himself to look for something - someone - new. It had only been two years since he woke up in this new world (two years since he'd lost Alice), and it had all gone by so fast. He didn't know how not to still be in love with her, and that didn't seem fair to any new potential partner. He got lonely, sure, but of all the hardships he'd suffered in his life loneliness was almost bearable. Maybe it would've been easier if he had answers, but Alice remained undead, unburied, a painful question mark lodged deep in his chest.
So he bore Natasha's attempts at matchmaking with good humor, even when she did it 32,000 feet above the Indian Ocean in a Quinjet right before a very important mission. That was only part of the reason why he jumped out of the jet without a parachute.
After the shitshow of a mission, and after his unexpected conversation with Fury underneath the Triskelion, Steve changed out of his uniform and left S.H.I.E.L.D. with a mind whirling with thoughts. Project Insight: a fleet of helicarriers eyeballing every person on earth, ready to take them out at a moment's notice. Fury had been obviously frustrated at Steve for dragging his feet.
In a lot of ways, Fury reminded Steve of Alice. Maybe it was a spy thing. Grandad loved people, Fury had said. But he didn't trust 'em very much.
On his way through the lobby, Steve glanced to his left as he passed the S.H.I.E.L.D. Wall of Valor and his eyes snagged on Alice and Bucky's plaques.
The first time he'd seen the Wall, he'd had to rush to the bathroom to keep the nearby S.H.I.E.L.D. employees from seeing his tears. Back then they'd still been figuring out what to do with his plaque. These days there was a blank spot where his name used to be. He was sure they'd put it back one day.
But as he walked past that morning his gaze lighted on Alice and Bucky's names and he thought: what would you do, here?
Alice,
You are not going crazy.
… I wouldn't trust anyone who tells you to cheer for them while they kick the defenseless.
… I gotta admit I was surprised to read that you rely on me to know what's right - all this time I've been relying on you. I think you see things clearer than me sometimes. I let my anger get in my way and I inevitably end up in a fight, but you see and think and figure out what to do. Trust yourself, Alice. Trust your instincts.
Thinking of you,
Steve
Visiting the Smithsonian exhibit was strange. They'd hounded Steve for information while they'd been setting it up, and had tried to get him there on the day it opened, but he hadn't been interested. But something about today had him thinking about the exhibition, and before he knew it he'd headed there on his bike. Maybe it was what Fury had said: You know, I read those SSR files. Greatest generation? You guys did some nasty stuff. Steve remembered the compromises they had made, the decisions and actions that still haunted him.
So he found himself strolling through a chronology of his old life: Brooklyn, Project Rebirth, the war. And boy, did they have a lot of his old stuff. They had photographs of his mom and dad, a bunch of his old sketches, and even his school report. Now the whole world could see that he got a D in Physical Education. Great.
As he strolled through it all, his shoulders hunched and his cap pulled low, he saw all the places Alice should be. Hell, there was even a drawing of her in amongst a display of all his childhood sketches: she was a kid in the sketch, granted, but it almost made him smile that no one had put it all together yet. Don't you know all old people know each other?
Though, he supposed, she had been in Brooklyn for six years compared to the twenty five that he'd lived there. The world wasn't to know that they'd written each other letters every month from the day she left up until 1943. Through design, distance, and chance, history had missed how Alice fit into Steve's story.
It surprised Steve how busy the exhibit was, especially for a weekday. He felt bemused by it all, but walking through the exhibit he found himself peppered with small traumas: the photo of his mom stopped him in his tracks for a moment, as did a childhood photo of him and Bucky, taken at the Barnes's apartment. The reminders of HYDRA were a bitter sting, and seeing the photos and memoirs of his old team made his chest ache.
Then there was Bucky's memorial. Steve read with his hands in his pockets and his heart beating painfully. He wondered at how hard a historian's job must be: they had to squeeze a whole life into a few paragraphs. He definitely couldn't have done that for Bucky. The memorial was nice, but it felt… distant. Like reading about a stranger. The old film reels playing beneath the memorial hit a lot closer to home.
Watching Bucky grin in black and white, laughing silently on film, Steve let out a breath. What would you do, if it were you here instead of me? When it came to a fight, Bucky had always waited - not out of hesitation (or cunning, like Alice), but to see what Steve was going to do. Then he'd either step in to stop him or dive right into the fight beside him. Steve could almost picture it, as if Bucky were standing beside him now. Bucky would look at him with that wry expression and say You're liable to do something stupid here, Steve. And you're going to drag me right into it as well, aren't you?
Steve let out a sigh, and kept walking.
After the museum, he went to visit Peggy. One of the perks of living in D.C. full time was being able to visit her, which he did about once a month usually. She'd gone downhill since he first arrived in the future; more prone to sickness, more forgetful. She rested in bed most of the day. She was still just as graceful and thoughtful as ever, which somehow made it all worse because Steve still saw that same sharp-eyed SSR agent he'd known at Camp Lehigh.
She seemed pretty good today though. So he told her everything he could about what he'd seen and heard at S.H.I.E.L.D., confidentiality be damned.
"I often wonder at what Howard, Phillips and I created," she said wearily, once he'd finished speaking. "After Howard died, I think I… I think I realized I had to pass it all on to someone younger. Perhaps that was selfish of me." Her gaze turned to her bedside table. "I wanted time… with my family."
Steve followed her gaze to the table, where the framed photographs of her children rested, and he smiled. "You should be proud of yourself, Peggy."
She hummed thoughtfully. "I have lived a life," she then turned her eyes on him. "My only regret is that you and Alice didn't get to live yours."
He held her gaze for a moment longer before he couldn't bear the earnestness, and he glanced down.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
His brow furrowed. Why had he come? What was he asking? "For as long as I can remember, I just wanted to do what was right." He let his gaze drift across the room. "I guess I'm not quite sure what that is anymore. And I thought I could throw myself back in, and follow orders. Serve." He looked up and met Peggy's eyes with a small, sad smile. "It's just not the same."
She laughed softly. "You're always so dramatic." That made him smile. "Look. You saved the world. We rather… mucked it up."
"You didn't," he said adamantly. "Knowing that you helped found S.H.I.E.L.D. is half the reason I stay." He had to remind himself of it sometimes when he fell into self-doubt after missions: S.H.I.E.L.D. was Peggy's, and Howard's, and Colonel Phillips'. It had been home to Jilí and Alice's niece (though Alice Johnson retired last year). It had brought the Avengers together. S.H.I.E.L.D. had to be doing something right.
And yet he didn't know who to trust, where to turn.
He glanced away again, brow furrowed. His hand flexed unconsciously on his knee. "What do you think Alice would say?"
Saying the words aloud made his heart pound: because that's what he'd been searching for, ever since leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. this morning. He'd thought of the letters he'd been reading through this past year, searching for answers.
Peggy smiled at him. "Oh, Steve. Alice was my friend, truly, but you knew her far better than I. You understood her in a way that many people didn't. What do you think she'd say? If it were her dealing with all this, instead of you?"
Steve bowed his head over his clasped hands, thinking. "She'd say… she'd say that this was all a great idea." He looked up to see Peggy frowning slightly at him. He sighed wryly. "She'd smile, and nod, and agree with everything they said." He looked at his hands again. "Then she'd figure out how to bring it all crashing down to the ground."
Peggy laughed, wheezing. "You're right. That's precisely what she'd do." She reached out then, taking Steve's hand. Her eyes went soft. "Hey. The world has changed, and none of us can go back." She held his gaze, making sure he was listening. "All we can do is our best. And sometimes the best that we can do is t-to start over-" she broke off coughing, and Steve turned away to get her a glass of water.
When she next set eyes on him, he saw the shift in her expression and his stomach dropped.
"Steve?"
"Yeah?" he murmured.
Her expression crumbled and tears filled her eyes. "You're… you're alive." Even though he felt like his heart was bruising, Steve forced a smile onto his face. "You came back!"
"Yeah, Peggy," he nodded, squeezing her hand.
Her lip quivered. "It's been so long." Her eyes shifted from his face then, searching the room, and Steve knew what was coming next. He tried to prepare himself. "Is… is Alice back too?"
He'd asked the nurses what to say to those kinds of questions, and it seemed there wasn't a right answer. Some said that if Peggy realized he was lying - which she was still very good at - she'd just get angry, but that it also wasn't kind to keep repeating traumas when she'd just forget them and have to relive them a moment later. They called it therapeutic fibbing. And yet… He drew in a breath, steeling himself.
"No, he said honestly. "It's just me, Peg."
The tears welling in her eyes spilled down her wrinkled cheeks, jerking at his heart. Her lip trembled again. "I'm so… so sorry, Steve," she breathed.
He took both her hands in his. "It ain't your fault, Peggy. It ain't your fault."
Dear Steve,
… I'm sorry that I wasn't able to come to the funeral.
I know that nothing anyone says or does can make you feel better. It might get worse with time, rather than better, and any words of comfort are always cliched.
So I'll repeat another cliche now: I'm here for you, Steve.
Always yours,
Alice
Steve didn't go straight home after that. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself heading for the VA, which he'd driven past plenty of times but never been inside. He parked, headed in, and found a room full of people sitting on fold-out chairs, with Sam the veteran standing before them.
Some stuff you leave there. Other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it.
Steve had seen the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologists, but he wasn't used to this kind of group therapy. He hovered in the doorway, watching and listening, his heart heavy.
When the session ended and the chairs were folded and put away, Steve found Sam. Sam told him about the wingman he'd lost. With that way he had, though, Sam lightened the mood once more with an easy joke and a smile.
"What, are you thinking about getting out?" he asked Steve, his eyebrows raised.
"No," Steve said instinctively. But… he cocked his head. "I don't know." He shook his head at himself. "To be honest, I don't know what I would do with myself if I did."
And there it was: if it wasn't for S.H.I.E.L.D., he'd be just as aimless and lonely as when he first woke up in the future.
Sam had a smile on his face though. "Ultimate fighting?" he suggested, making Steve laugh. "Just a great idea off the top of my head." His voice dropped. "Seriously, you could do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?"
Steve thought about it. It had been people, before. They were gone, but there were people around these days who made him happy too. But what did he enjoy doing?
He smiled, and met Sam's eyes. "I don't know."
Finally he went home (and awkwardly offered to go for coffee with his neighbour - dammit, Nat was getting to him).
Then he thought there was an intruder, who turned out to be a bloody and bruised Fury, and then - SHIELD COMPROMISED.
It all went downhill after that.
Steve forgot about everything else after that. Nick died before his eyes on a hospital table, and Steve knew he had a mission. It unfolded quickly: The USB stick, his tense meeting with Pierce, his escape from S.H.I.E.L.D., confronting Natasha at the hospital, staying undercover at the shopping mall. The kiss on the escalator was kind of a surprise, but he had to admit it worked.
Natasha drew his mind off the mission a little, in the car on the way to the USB's algorithm source in Jersey.
"Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?" Natasha asked wryly.
He knew exactly where. Dernier had taught him how. "Nazi Germany," he told her. "And we're borrowing. Take your feet off the dash."
She did, smiling. "Alright, I have a question for you - which you do not have to answer." Her smile grew. "I feel like if you don't answer it though, you're kind of answering it, you know?"
"What?" he urged.
"Was that your first kiss since 1945?" she asked with a grin.
Steve fought the urge to grind his jaw. "That bad, huh?"
"I didn't say that," she protested.
"Well it kind of sounds like that's what you're saying." His palms were sweating on the steering wheel, which surprised him. But he supposed this was the closest he'd gotten to talking about Alice with Natasha.
"No, I didn't," Natasha reassured him. "I just wondered how much practice you've had."
"You don't need practice-"
"Everybody needs practice," she smiled.
"It was not my first kiss since 1945!" he finally burst out, because he was thinking about exactly how much practice he'd had, and with who, and it was making him sad. "I'm 95, I'm not dead."
Natasha could probably sense the lie, but she didn't call him out on it. "Nobody special, though?" she asked.
He huffed a laugh. Yes. "Believe it or not, it's kinda hard to find someone with shared life experience."
"Well that's alright, you just make something up."
Now that reminded him of Alice. "What, like you?" he asked, glancing over at Natasha.
"I don't know, the truth is a matter of circumstance," she said. "It's not all things to all people, all the time." Natasha looked out at the road ahead, her eyes distant, before looking back at him. "Neither am I."
"That's a tough way to live," he murmured. He knew exactly how tough it was; he'd seen the toll it had taken on Alice in the war.
"It's a good way not to die, though."
Steve had to look away and focus on the road, because his throat had closed up. After a moment, he spoke again. "Y'know, it's kinda hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is."
"Yeah," Natasha acknowledged, utterly serious now. Her green eyes rested on him. "Who do you want me to be?"
And for a flicker of a moment he thought he saw her: Natasha, the Natasha hidden behind the wry smiling facade. She wasn't like Alice - she didn't have steel walls. Her barriers were fluid like smoke. Just when you thought you'd seen past them, the fog obscured your vision once more.
"How about a friend?" he said.
She laughed. "Well there's a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers."
He met her eyes for a moment longer, almost smiling, then looked back out to the road.
Dear Steve,
So. I wrote a song.
… I want to explain what this song means to me. It means my mom and Matthias, it means the distant memories of my father, it means my brother. It means Bucky. It means you. This song is about cherishing the words I had with you all, the words I hold in my memory like buried gems. It means the words I hold back every day, even when I want to scream them. It means the words I write to you every week, and the ones I get in return. This song means home.
…
Yours,
Alice
Camp Lehigh echoed with old ghosts.
As they made their way into the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, Steve caught a glimpse of an early Wall of Valor. This one still had his name on it, with Alice's beside him. He looked away. Then they passed portraits of Howard, Phillips and Peggy, which made his heart pound. As if that wasn't enough, down another corridor they passed yet another framed photograph. Steve's gaze skimmed over it before flicking back, and his heart dropped.
This wasn't an official photograph taken in a S.H.I.E.L.D. photography studio. This was taken from an old publicity photo, he was pretty sure. The portrait wasn't labelled, but Steve knew the face instantly. Of course he did. It was the face that had looked back at him with tearful eyes when he said I do.
Alice smiled out of the frame, her eyes knowing and almost mischievous. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait, and he could just see the top of her iconic white dress. The breath rushed out of his chest as if he'd been punched.
He turned away, resolved to focus on the mission, but he knew Natasha must have noticed something of his reaction.
He couldn't let himself be distracted now. Alice might have had a totally different approach to this whole mess - she wouldn't have argued with Fury and Pearce, she'd have ingratiated herself at the highest level and only struck at the right moment. But Steve only knew how to face problems head on.
He found the secret elevator, and they made their way down. Now what?
It was all too much to process. Zola, HYDRA, Stark's parents, Project Insight… S.H.I.E.L.D. firing on the base.
He got Natasha out. And then fled to the only place he could think to go.
Sam opened his back door with a look of deep concern on his face. But all he said, after flicking his concerned gaze over them both, was: "Hey, man."
"I'm sorry about this," Steve said. "We need a place to lay low."
"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," Natasha added helpfully.
Sam glanced between them. "Not everyone."
And then he beckoned them inside.
They put together a plan. Sam was a big help. Even with the knowledge of HYDRA looming over him once more, and the betrayal of so many people he'd trusted, Steve felt good.
He was even able to be honest with Natasha when she tried to set him up yet again after she kicked Sitwell off the roof ("Yeah, I'm not ready for that").
But then came the attack on the freeway.
And before he had time to process any of it really, he found himself standing, gasping for breath, staring at the face of his best friend and trying to understand. The face of the boy who'd gotten beat up by Billy Russel by his side, the teenager who'd taken him to Coney Island after Alice left for Vienna, the man who'd followed him into a war and saved his life countless times.
"Bucky?"
The man wearing Bucky's face stared blankly. "Who the hell is Bucky?"
In the van the STRIKE team had shoved them into, Steve stared down at his bound hands.
"It was him," he murmured. "He looked right at me. He didn't even know me."
"How is that even possible?" Sam protested. "It was like seventy years ago."
"Zola," Steve replied. "Bucky's whole unit was captured in '43. Zola experimented on him." Bucky had never told him the whole story. Steve should've… he should've pushed more, showed Bucky that he could trust him. "Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall."
His stomach twisted. I left him. "They must've found him and-"
"None of that's your fault, Steve," Natasha said, her words slightly slurred.
Steve looked away. "Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky."
In an abandoned bank in central D.C., an asset without a name saw flashes of images behind his eyes. A man in a blue uniform reaching out for him with wide and panicked eyes. A woman with pale hair and a knowing smile, waving at him. A sickening, lurching fall through ice and rock. A scarlet streak in the snow.
"The man on the bridge… I knew him."
And it was all wiped away.
Steve didn't know if it was what Zola had shown him at Camp Lehigh, or seeing Bucky on that street, but when they started making plans at the hidden S.H.I.E.L.D. facility with Fury (not dead) and Hill, he knew what had to be done.
"We're not salvaging anything," he told Fury. "We're not just taking down the carriers, Nick, we're taking down S.H.I.E.L.D." He hadn't fully realized it until he said it aloud.
Fury argued, even tried to bring Bucky into it, but after months of doubt Steve was finally sure about what he was meant to do. "S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA… it all goes," he said with finality.
One by one, the others agreed.
"Well," Fury finally sighed. He leaned back in his chair. "Looks like you're giving the orders now, Captain."
Dear Alice,
… I think I'm in the same boat as you - if this were our old middle school classroom we'd know what to do. You'd know how to push and pull in just the right way to make sure the right thing is done. But you're right - this is about entire countries now.
… You asked what I'd do, but I dunno if what I'd do is the right move here. You know me, I'd probably punch someone in the face and then get myself beaten up. I'm really not advocating that here though - please don't punch anyone in the face. Stay safe.
Steve stepped away from the battle plans for a moment. He took himself up to the top of the dam and looked down at the river without really seeing it, his hands in his pockets and his mind in another era.
Out of all his memories, his mind turned to the day of his mom's funeral. Steve had only just lost Alice to Vienna earlier that year, and then his mom had gone too. Bucky had written to Alice to give her the news, so Steve didn't have to put it in writing.
After the funeral Bucky had followed him home, offered him a place to live.
Thank you, Bucky. But I can get by on my own.
The thing is, you don't have to. I'm with you 'til the end of the line, pal.
"He's going to be there, you know." Sam's voice intruded on Steve's thoughts.
Steve's brow lowered. "I know."
"Look, whoever he used to be, the guy he is now… I don't think he's the kind you save." Sam's voice was low, empathetic. "He's the kind you stop."
Steve drew in a breath. He understood Sam's fear - he'd only known that cold-eyed assassin on the freeway. But Steve knew Bucky. "I don't know if I can do that."
"Well he might not give you a choice," Sam said. "He doesn't know you."
Steve looked up, suddenly decided. Whatever had been done to Bucky, whatever he'd forgotten, Steve knew his friend. He met Sam's eyes. "He will."
When Steve took his uniform back from the Smithsonian, he didn't really consider it stealing. It was just one more piece of history missing from the exhibit.
And when he wore it into battle later that day, it felt right. This was the uniform Bucky had fought beside. This was the uniform Steve had gotten married in. The uniform he'd worn when he beat HYDRA the last time. Win or lose (and god, they couldn't afford to lose), Steve knew there was no other uniform he would rather be wearing.
So with the memory of his wife and his best friend held tight to him, Steve marched toward the Triskelion.
Dear Steve,
… If this is what I can do, I'll do it.
"People are going to die, Buck."
Bucky stared back at him across the helicarrier bridge, a stranger behind a familiar face.
"I can't let that happen."
There was nothing but ice in those eyes. Bucky was utterly still, but Steve could sense the violence coiled tight inside him, waiting to be unleashed.
Recognize me, he wanted to shout. Remember. Remember how we first met, when you dove into that back alley scrap to save me. Remember how we used to spend our summers with Alice, scrounging money for ice cream. Remember all our jokes, and how we helped each other. Remember how relieved we both were when I found you in that HYDRA base, and how you put your hand on my shoulder when you reassured me that Alice was going to be okay, even though you were wrong. Remember that last Christmas. Alice would know what to say to you, Buck - she'd be able to bring you back. I don't know how.
He didn't say any of that, though. He looked into his friend's empty eyes and begged: "Please don't make me do this."
Bucky's only response was to tilt his head forward slightly, eyes fixed, like a wolf sizing up his prey.
Steve felt steel wrap around his gut, and he clenched his jaw.
And he hurled his shield at his best friend.
They'd won. They'd replaced all three targeting blades and now the helicarriers were blasting each other out of the sky.
Steve slumped on the bottom of a limping helicarrier, aching from bullet wounds and bruises and everything he'd had to do to get that targeting blade in the helicarrier's array. He looked up, eye to eye with the unhinged, wild-looking Bucky. "You know me."
Bucky staggered to his feet, injured from the fight and from being half crushed by the fallen pylon. "No I don't!" He swung at Steve.
Steve stumbled back to avoid the blow, steadied himself, then rose again. "Bucky." Bucky looked up, and there was more than ice behind his eyes now. He looked afraid. "You've known me your whole life."
Bucky took two breaths, his eyes darting, and then threw a savage backhand that took Steve by surprise - he fell back again. An explosion rocked the helicarrier, making the glass beneath Steve shudder.
Steve got his feet under him. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," he persisted.
"Shut up!"
Steve barely held up his shield against the next punch, and it knocked him off his feet again. Bucky fell to his knees.
Steve got up again. This time he thought to tug off his cowl, and when he and Bucky met eyes again he let out a long, shuddering breath. Sparks and shattered glass flew through the air around them as the helicarrier groaned in the sky.
If you could only see us now, Alice.
"I'm not going to fight you," Steve realized. He let go of his shield and it fell through the open hole in the floor, spinning down toward the Potomac. Steve straightened his shoulders and looked Bucky in the eyes. "You're my friend."
Bucky eyed him for a moment, breathing hard, before aggression lit up his whole face once more and he charged forward. Steve didn't stop him. Bucky slammed into his middle and smashed him to the ground.
"You're my mission," Bucky growled, and then with a flash of metal, starbursts of pain erupted in Steve's skull. He felt his skin split and bleed, felt his mind go numb with the pain.
Bucky roared as he rained blows down on Steve. "You're - my - mission!" came the shouts, punctuating each blow.
Bucky raised his arm once more, faltering, eyes terrified, and Steve peered out of one swollen eye to look him in the face. His whole body ached, and getting any coherent thought to formulate in his mind felt like lifting a helicarrier over his head.
"Then finish it," Steve groaned. "'Cause I'm with you t-to the end of the line."
Bucky's eyes went wide and white with horror, his fist still raised. Steve just stared back at him. And when Bucky's eyes gleamed and his fist began to slowly lower, through the pain ricocheting in his body Steve felt a burst of hope and helplessness.
Then the floor beneath him gave way and there was nothing but wind, and sickening weightlessness.
Then the cold.
On the bank of the Potomac, the asset watched his target cough up river water. His eyes were closed. Blood seeped into the red, white, and blue fabric of his uniform. Alive.
And the asset didn't understand anything, least of all his own mind, but he knew that this was right.
He took a stumbling step backwards, finally taking in the carnage of the shattered Triskelion and the husks of helicarriers protruding from the river.
The asset turned away.
And began walking.
I'm really glad you're safe. Keep it that way.
Yours,
Steve.
Steve didn't talk much once he woke up in hospital. No one was really left to ask him any questions, so for the most part he got to sit with his thoughts. Sam was there, but he seemed to understand Steve's need for silence. Doctors and nurses drifted in and out, raising their eyebrows at the way his wounds seemed to knit themselves up overnight, but they didn't ask him many questions either.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone. HYDRA too, for the most part, though Steve was sure a few rats had escaped the sinking ship. The world was in turmoil and Steve - Steve felt numb.
Bucky had vanished. Steve hoped - well, he hoped a lot of things. He also feared: I thought Bucky and Alice were long dead. Just like the world thought I was long dead. But Bucky spent decades in suffering and violence. Who am I to say what's real, any more?
Like when he first woke up in the future, he tried to drown his mind in sleep. And just like back then, he woke up gasping at nightmares.
The day after Steve first woke, Natasha slipped into his hospital room. She looked a little banged up too, but better than he was doing. She shot him one of those small, enigmatic smiles, and then sank into the chair on the left side of his hospital bed. Sam nodded in greeting.
For a long time they sat in silence. Sam's soul playlist crooned out of his phone speakers. Steve's half eaten lunch still remained on the side table. There wasn't anything left to say about what they'd done.
Then:
"You know, I'm married."
It just slipped out like he was an old man on his deathbed, leaking secrets. The present tense almost made him smile - maybe this was why he couldn't figure out how to move on. He was still married.
"What? When? Who?" Sam was suddenly wide eyed and incredulous, upright in his chair.
Natasha got smoothly back to her feet and closed the blinds, shutting out the outside world. She didn't even know what the secret was, and she was protecting it. It made him almost smile again - almost.
Natasha sat back down and set her hands on her knees. Sam was still talking, questions and exclamations tripping off his tongue. If Steve squinted, he could picture it like it used to be: Bucky talking his ear off, and Alice sitting back with that calm, silent façade. He shook the image away.
"Her name was Alice," he murmured. It felt like he hadn't spoken her name in years.
Sam shut his mouth. Frowned. He'd been theorizing wildly: Peggy, a USO showgirl, some modern mystery woman, hell, even Bucky. But now he just frowned.
Natasha drew in a slow breath. "Alice Moser."
Sam's mouth dropped. "What - the Siren?"
Steve's eyes rolled up to the ceiling. That name still felt strange to him. "Yeah."
"You knew the Siren? You married her?"
"We grew up together." Steve's tongue felt scratchy in his mouth. "Her family lived three blocks away from mine."
"I thought she was German?"
"Austrian," Steve interjected.
"You married her?" Sam repeated, his voice pitched higher.
Steve's eyes traveled back down from the ceiling, wet, and to his surprise Natasha reached out and took his hand, rustling the hospital blankets. He glanced down at her hand on his. "Alice's family died. She went back to Austria, and I didn't see her again until in the middle of the war. First when she came back to Brooklyn, and next in the middle of Nazi occupied Italy."
"She was a spy," Natasha said evenly.
Steve nodded. "That's how I found out."
Sam slumped back in his chair. "Shit." Steve glanced over, eyebrows raised, and Sam looked up. "Sorry, sorry. I just… I thought I knew what happened back then, y'know? Guess I - guess we were all wrong."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Steve said wryly.
"She died?" Sam asked. "I'm so sorry, man."
"MIA," Natasha corrected. Steve looked over at her, and she shrugged slightly. "Peggy Carter took an interest in her. She was one of the greatest spies of her generation. I've studied her before." Steve knew she'd been lying when she pretended to not recognise Peggy and Alice's photographs back in the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. Something moved in the undercurrent of Natasha's eyes. "She was beautiful."
"That she was," Steve said softly. "Smart, too. Way too smart for me. Way too smart for them, too."
"When'd you get married?" Sam asked.
"A few months before she disappeared. Just the two of us and a pastor in a tiny little church in France. Don't even know if it was legal. She went back to Berlin the next day and I went back to the front."
"That must have been difficult," Sam said, in the same tone he'd used back at the VA. Therapist mode.
Steve nodded slightly and let his gaze drift away.
"Why now?" Natasha asked. He glanced back, meeting her eyes. "Why tell us now?"
He shrugged. "Secrets coming out all over the place." Natasha stayed silent, watching him. "I've been keeping this secret a long time. Alice has been my secret ever since I became Captain America. I figure… I figure this is the sort of secret you share with friends."
Natasha smiled at that; a warm, genuine smile. Sam's face did something complicated which seemed to settle on empathy.
And Bucky's back, Steve thought, but didn't say. He let his eyes drift shut. Bucky's back, and he doesn't remember either of us.
Yours,
Alice
PS: I'm sorry I haven't asked after you for a while. I've been… heartsore. And scared. But please let me know how everyone back home is doing. I think it might help to remind me that the whole world hasn't gone crazy.
And thus ends CA:TWS! I know, I know, 'where's Alice?' but trust me, lovelies ;) It's all part of the plan.
This time next week I'll be writing to you from my new home in the UK! Clearly moving internationally in the middle of a pandemic is the best idea. Until then - have a great week!
Reviews
Captain Loki (from Chapter 43): I'm so glad you liked it! Alice finally got her day in the sun :)
(from Chapter 44): Steve has big Sad Boi energy rn, he needs a hug.
Teaanddoctorwho: I'm glad you liked the last chapter! And yes I understand, you're a very tough, non-crying individual ;)
AceCookie: A very tough marshmallow then! Tbh, Lilo and Stitch is a real tearjerker so I get it. I sure get it. I love that you guys are reading together!
Guest: Thank you so much, I'm really glad you're enjoying :) It's wonderful to have Steve back. Hopefully you liked this chapter!
MakayWha: Hello and welcome! Clearly your friends have a great taste in stories, if I do say so myself. And I'm glad you like Jilí, she's one of my faves too. Hope you liked this chapter!
Maryana: Thank you so much! I'm so pleased you're enjoying, and your review really meant a lot :)
Guest: I'm glad you didn't mind the quick pace, hopefully you found this chapter okay too! And yes I loved writing Jili and Steve's first meeting, it was long overdue and so much fun to write. Sorry no early update this time, but hopefully it was worth it :)
CookieWorkout: Hopefully you enjoyed this rendition of The Winter Soldier! Sorry your theory didn't work out, but I promise I've got good stuff coming :)
GuestPrime: We're in the future! Sorry for killing off Tom, I knew that not everyone could make it to the present day unfortunately. And I agree about those Steve scenes in The Avengers that got cut! They're so important for his character! Hopefully you enjoyed the Steve + Nat friendship in this chapter :)