Let me know what you think and if I should continue! Disclaimer at bottom.

Undisclosed Hotel Room, Manhattan, NY

May 27th, 1955

There was an unsung tension in the room. The curtains had been pulled tight, blocking out the bright streams of light trying to peak through. The pot of coffee in the corner was already room temperature, the plate of bagels slowly going stale.

Jackson watched the clock, taping his foot rapidly against the floor. She was already over an hour late. "She's not coming," he declared, disappointment weighing on his shoulders. He lightly scuffed his toe against the carpet beneath his feet. "I should've known."

"Hey, man," Carl chimed in from behind the waiting camera, "You don't know. The train could've been late or something," he supplied feebly. Jackson let out a groan and threw his head back, clapping his hands over his eyes.

"I'm such an idiot! God," he lightly tugged his hair before digging out a cigarette and lighting it up. "I mean, why now? Why us? It was too good to be true. Two years of work for nothing," he lamented.

"We have enough material, Jack," Helen spoke up, though she too looked rather dejected. "And it's a big deal we got Agent Carter's clip. The only thing better would've been Howard Stark. We'll be fine."

From the window, Artie whistled sharply. "Hey! I think this might be her pulling in!" Jackson clambered to his feet and rushed to pull back the curtain, peering down at the entrance to the hotel. Two sleek black cars had pulled in, the first straight up to the front door, and the second quickly parked, with three well dressed men exiting the car.

Jackson turned his gaze back to the first car. It sat there a moment still running as the three men from earlier approached it. One walked around the side and crouched down, seemingly speaking into a rolled down window of the back seat. They spoke for a moment, before the man lifted his stare and locked eyes with Jackson.

He stepped back from the window, suddenly feeling an odd numbness in his finger tips. He let out two shallow breathes before he stubbed out his cigarette. "Holy shit," Carl breathed out. The four college students waited with baited breath. Perhaps, before this moment, they'd all thought it too good to be true.

Helen wasted no time, shifting chairs back into place and prepping the lighting, while Carl fiddled with his camera and the tape recorders. Artie pulled out his flask and took a deep drink to calm his nerves. It was Jackson who calmly put his papers in place, making sure his questions were in order. What felt like an hour later, a hard knock rang through the room.

Jackson was sure they could feel the tension on the other side of the door as the four glanced at each other. Jackson cleared his throat before making his way across the room and opening the door.

And there she was.

He wasn't quite prepared for his reaction. His mind went blank and his throat hardened as he looked at the woman before him. Her face was unreadable, eyes covered with big black sunglasses and hair half wrapped in a scarf.

"Well," she drawled, a dry smirk pulling at her mouth. "Are we gonna do this or what?"

Jackson stepped to the side and she wasted no time striding into the room. The three men who had accompanied her were stationed throughout the small hallway, all very large and very intimidating. The one who had caught his gaze earlier stood closest to the door, arms crossed and dark eyebrows knitted together. He had a large scar running down his jaw line.

"I have to admit, I almost didn't come," she spoke again, looking around the room with the same blank look. Finally, as if deciding it would do, she pulled her sunglasses off. Jackson shut the door and watched as Helen scrambled to take her jacket for her. It was a bland beige peacoat, not half as fancy as he'd been expecting.

"Thank you for doing this, Mrs. Rogers," Helen gushed, motioning to the cushy arm chair. "It's an honor to meet you."

She didn't like that, Jackson noticed. Her eyes hardened and her smirk turned downward, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. Her gaze combed over each of them, before landing on Artie. The poor guy was clearly uncomfortable. He was still by the window, hands in pockets and jaw clenched. It seemed like he was trying to look anywhere but at her.

"You must be Arthur," she stated, already knowing she was right. The blonde man finally met her gaze, green cat eyes meeting his dull browns. They took each other in a moment, before she finally spoke. "When Peggy asked me to do this, I told her to go to hell."

"Then why are you here?" Jackson finally asked, taking a seat across from her. Carl's eyes were trained on the camera, so Jack knew he was already rolling. The brunette cocked her head at him, watching him with calculating eyes. Whatever he had been expecting, this was not it.

"Why are you here?" She challenged. "I want to know what you have to gain from this. If you wanted a ten year anniversary special you're a little late," she shot back, voice scathing. "And God knows the war department doesn't need more propaganda. So- why?"

Jackson swallowed thickly, before giving her a slow nod. He grabbed his stack of papers and gently pulled the very last one, gazing down at the letter and the photo that accompanied it. "You know why Arthur is here?" The woman waited a moment, before nodding.

"Yes. Peggy told me."

Jackson nodded, reading over the letter even though he had it memorized by now. It was one of his most prized possessions. "Arthur was 18 when he was drafted. They sent him straight to Italy after training," Jackson spoke, even though she said she knew the story. "His first night fighting he was captured and taken to a POW camp. The same camp Captain Rogers liberated. He saved his life. You were there when he led him back to safety."

The pretty brunette's face had softened. She almost looked pained. But Jackson didn't stop. "Helen's older sister was a nurse on the front lines in France. Her hospital was bombed and she had to flee. She and a few others were able to find refuge with some Resistance fighters before Captain Rogers and the Commandos came and smuggled them back into an Allied base," he went on. "Carl's dad was an English pilot whose plane crashed in Nazi territory. He burnt the plane and ran. He was about to kill himself, because he knew they'd torture him, when your husband showed up."

Her green eyes sparkled with unshed tears, but her face didn't waiver. Jackson wondered if she was even capable of showing emotion anymore. "And me..." he trailed off, swallowing the lump in his throat. He handed her the picture first. It was a picture of him, a stringy six year old boy, grinning at the camera in the arms of the Star Spangled Man. She stood on the other side of them, her striped show girl dress on, a bright smile on her face.

"I think I remember this," she said softly, blinking down at the photo. "Was this Denver?" Jackson's heart skipped a beat at the thought of her remembering him and he nodded timidly.

"My mom took me to see the show. She thought I'd like it. She was right," he chuckled, remembering how awed he was by the man. "I made her take me to every movie he made after that." He fiddled with the letter before passing it to her. The surprise on her face was visible when she saw the neatly curved handwriting on the page.

"I found that when I was cleaning out my mom's stuff after she died last year. My dad died storming the beaches," he explained as she read the letter. "My mom had told him in letters how much I loved Captain America. They were next to each other at Normandy and-"

"He jumped in front of him," she cut him off, eyes still glued to the letter, though it didn't look like she was reading it. "I remember. Steve told me about it in August of '44, the first time we saw each other after that," she explained softly. "He was so upset. The bullet probably wouldn't have killed him, but your father didn't know that. I was in our room with him the night he wrote this."

The silence in the room was deafening as they all reflected in the information. Jackson sniffed and wiped his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "Captain Rogers was a real man, Mrs. Rogers. A good man. Not just some propaganda gag or an action figure. The five of us know that," he said strongly. "It's time everyone else did, too."

For the first time that day she smiled. It was small, and sad, and her usually stunning face was drowned in sorrow. But it was a smile none the less. "Ruth. You can call me Ruth."

With that one statement the tension in the room lifted. They all had a commonality in Steve Rogers, and it was enough to cure the sadness, if only for a short while. She crossed her legs and gave him a sly smile, settling into her chair. "So. Where should I begin?"

Obviously, I don't own MARVEL or Captain America. I own Ruth and her subsequent original plot line, along with other original characters. This is a blanket claim that applies to all future chapters.