The temperature dropped again in the night. He huddled under his coat and curled as tightly as he could to hold in his body heat, but it felt impossible to get warm.
He felt keyed up and twitchy sleeping alone in the open. His ears strained endlessly to hear any sound that might indicate someone approaching, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was well hidden in the dark.
He felt quite sure someone could pass within a few feet of him without noticing him, but it made no difference. Every part of him was on high alert.
To distract himself, he tried to imagine he was sleeping somewhere warm and safe. Perhaps lying in his own bed in Brooklyn, three blankets piled on top. The top layer was one of his ma's patchwork quilts, maybe the one with the swooping stitchwork in the corners. His home would be quiet, hundreds of familiar people sleeping within yards of him up and down the street. His mom's bed was empty because she was dead.
No, not there, he thought, hastily revising the mental image.
He was outside, listening to the rustling of the trees above him, as the scant wind shivered through their leaves. Perhaps he could be lying on his bedroll in Poland, somewhere near the farm they'd camped at for the night. They'd walked a fair distance the past few days together but they'd covered the miles safely and they could expect transport in the early morning. Gabe was somewhere near his feet, and Dugan had the first watch. Bucky was lying pressed against his back for warmth, breathing noisily through an open mouth like he always-
His physically recoiled, sucking in a breath. His eyes flew open with a jolt.
There was no one snoring at his back. No one keeping watch. He lay alone amongst the nettles, flinching at the distant noise of the traffic.
For the rest of the night, Steve dipped in and out of an uneasy doze.
Shortly after the first rays of light penetrated the branches above him, he was rolling stiffly to his feet. He unfolded wooden limbs. When he twitched his hands open, he felt the cold pinching painfully at his fingers again, and raised a hand to his face to look more closely at how it was healing.
The back of his hand was glowing a sickly blue, as the blood pumped sluggishly under translucent skin. His fingers were red with the cold, but the very tips of his fingers were almost uniformly black, as though dipped in tar. A week ago, his fingernails had been black too, but as he inspected it, he could see the black lines receding as new tissue replaced it. The pain came from the throbbing red areas – the blackened tips had no sensation.
He tapped his fingers together idly. The odd, numb sensation reminded him of when he had played about with candle wax as a child, dipping fingers into hot wax and letting it cool into fragile little caps perfectly moulded to his skin.
He sighed, and tried to straighten his clawed fingers, but the muscles spasmed in a tight, relentless grip, so he slowly clenched his hand into a fist instead. He hadn't thought any part of his hand was warm, but his fingertips were pebbles of cold pressed into his palm. He put them in his mouth and sucked on them to warm them as he stepped back onto the path.
He walked around the park for a while, getting his bearings. There were a few good-sized lakes, and one long, meandering stream that cut a route through most sections of the park, but any decent-looking swimming spot had an unpleasant spread of algae blooms, and obnoxious signage proclaiming NO SWIMMING NO DOGS NO DRINKING in urgent tones, with an explanation of the potential poisoning underneath.
Instead, Steve chose to tramp a little way above one of the lakes, where he was less conspicuous unless someone walked along the path above and looked directly down. He knelt in a quiet spot next to the stream, and stripped to the waist to wash. Without soap, or even a washcloth, he was limited on the cleanliness he could achieve, but it still felt good to peel the dirty clothes away.
The running water wouldn't show him a reflection, but he surmised from the prickling pain in his face that his nose and face looked pretty similar to his fingertips and hands. He could also glimpse a bit of black on his nose, just in the corner of his eye, but it didn't rub off with water, and felt curiously numb when he poked it. So, not just dirt, then.
He inspected patches of oozing skin on his arms and torso with a clinical eye. In some places, such as his upper arms, the skin appeared more or less healed. In other places, like near his elbow, blisters from the frostbite seemed to have had popped open and rubbed raw.
He surveyed one patch on his right arm with particular irritation. He was trying to use his left arm as little as possible to give the fracture the best chance of healing, and he deeply resented having injuries on both limbs.
All limbs, he inwardly corrected, as he glanced at the equally angry-looking skin on his legs. Feeling irritable, he peeled back his uniform and washed the rest of himself as best he could with splashes of cold river water.
He would have liked to completely dunk his uniform in the water and scrub it too, but he had nothing else to wear and it would take too long to dry. As it was, his clothes got thoroughly wet in the whole process, so he shuffled along to a bench in the sun when he was finished, and sat shivering as he waited to dry.
He was glad that his frostbite and other injuries were healing, but he was immensely frustrated at how slowly it was happening. He felt sure that the lack of food was hampering his body's healing factor. He also knew that snatching brief power naps would be enough to keep him going, but no more.
He missed his team. They'd always taken in turns to keep watch during the night, even on base. And nine times out of ten, Bucky and Steve always slept within arm's reach of each other. He hadn't fully appreciated at the time the feeling of security and safety that came from being surrounded by friends as he slept.
He felt the pang of sorrow and loneliness deep in his gut. They're dead now.
Steve surveyed the scene in front of him. People ambling along with their dogs, eyes glued to the...what the hell even are those light box things, Steve thought with frustration. He twitched his empty hands, grimacing as they throbbed, blood condensing into prickles of pain. He glumly tried clenching and unclenching his hands to keep the blood moving.
A couple of early morning joggers, doing steady laps of the lake. Every now and then some fancy swell in a sharp suit, cutting through the park on their way to work. Steve eyed one suspiciously as he marched past, barking out loud instructions to no one in particular.
"If they can't do 4 o'clock tell them they can wait another two months, I don't care if they've no childcare, tell them that's their options. Tell her I've got to get home to my kids or something. No, of course I haven't got kids, but if that's how she wants to play it...!"
He had white wires dangling from his ears, but nothing in his hands. Maybe he was listening to a new kind of radio? Or...practising out loud for a part in a play?
Or maybe he's just crazy, Steve thought. He narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. They shouldn't let people like that out. One of his neighbours had an adult brother who was crazy, and they rightly kept him locked in their flat and didn't talk about him.
Used to have, he inwardly amended. They're dead now. He had to keep reminding himself, had to keep trying to reorganise his entire understanding of the world. His entire understanding of who he was, what he did and why he existed. Everyone's dead, you survived, you time-travelled by yourself into the future through the ice.
Maybe he was crazy. It certainly sounded crazy, even if he wasn't mad enough to start talking to himself like that fella.
He was hungry, but he racked his brains and couldn't come up with any sensible ideas of how to find breakfast, so he gave it up for now. Maybe something would turn up.
But thinking of the Howlies had put a new restlessness in him. He had intended to walk all the way to the army base, where most everybody shipped out from, himself included. He hadn't even intended to walk through his neighbourhood first, but as soon as he'd set foot in Brooklyn, he'd felt so desperate for home that nothing else would do.
Seeing his home so completely and unexpectedly transformed had completely overwhelmed him, but having rested and recovered somewhat, he felt a reluctant sense again of a journey unfinished.
He waited until the sun had properly risen, and the wave of commuters and school children had thoroughly ebbed, before getting up to move. The sky was a perfect, searing blue, and the day promised to be hot. He would dry off eventually. Maybe he'd be warm later.
His destination was at least another hour's walk, and he took his time. There was no urgency about his pace this time, and he let himself carefully scrutinise the bizarre sights as he slipped along with the crowds with the ease of long familiarity.
A man with long, shiny hair and a light, floaty red outfit sauntered past a brazen woman with cropped hair and skin-tight pants. A scooter hummed past him on the sidewalk, the driver somehow keeping both feet firmly in place for as long as Steve looked, not needing to push. He had a pack on his back that was somehow a perfect green cube.
This part of Brooklyn seemed far busier nowadays, and the buildings were mostly taller, so that made sense there would be more people. There was an unerring sense of wrongness everywhere he looked, but he tried to find the familiarity where he could.
Brooklyn still looked nothing like Prague, for example. The brownstone architecture was basically unchanged, although interspersed by gleaming metal and glass creations that was obviously the modern fashion in buildings.
He didn't particularly like it.
He recalled the building he'd seen perched over his old Central Station, reflecting the lights on Park Avenue. Stark. He had assumed at the time it was Howard's tower, but it couldn't be, could it? Did his descendants live there now, perhaps? The tower's namesake could be unrelated to Howard, but it seemed too much of a coincidence to have another influential Stark family in New York. Or perhaps Howard had founded the company, and it now carried his name even after his death, with little more meaning to folk than a letterhead on a payslip, or a tradename stamp on a new product.
Exactly how much time had passed?
In the state of exhaustion before he had collapsed on his old street, he had understood enough to know that decades had passed, and perhaps had immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario in his head by picturing centuries. He wasn't usually a pessimist, but everyone had their limit, and he acknowledged that maybe intense sleep deprivation meant he hadn't been thinking straight at the time.
He barely dared to hope that some of his friends could have survived all this time, but as soon as the possibility entered his head, a painful longing surged up in his chest and lodged itself in his throat.
So, that was a question that needed answered, and quickly.
He picked up the pace a bit. Squinted at the buildings as he passed, trying to objectively categorise architectural styles and catalogue the decades that had passed. The fact that his own building was still standing had to put the time he'd been in the ice...less than 150 years. Maybe less than 200 – he didn't know what kind of technology went into maintaining buildings, but maybe they'd had new inventions.
But the fact that the doctor hadn't heard of the war put it at least ten years since it had ended. He couldn't believe the atrocities of the death camps could fade from the forefront of in the public's mind any faster than that.
The technology he'd seen in the hospital, in the shipping yard, just walking down the street – that was at least thirty years ahead of his time, possibly a lot more.
He hesitated. And...for him to literally pass out on his home street for a day, two days, whatever, and no kind-hearted neighbour to happen to pass by or investigate and recognise Sarah Rogers' son...
That's a long time, Steve thought to himself, subdued. His ma's friends must all be dead, or moved away from the area in old age. That's fifty years at least.
Still, that was hope. He'd never actually asked Peggy's exact age and she had never offered it. She didn't like the men to know, she'd confided once to him. It was hard earning respect in a man's world, and she didn't want to be seen as a shy young thing. (He'd laughed, but she hadn't, and he'd shut his mouth pretty quick.) At times, they'd made a bit of a joke out of him not knowing her age, had wickedly passed around all sorts of rumours about her age, but she had privately admitted she was younger than him. She could...she could...
He stopped dead in his tracks in horror.
Even if she weren't dead...Peggy would be an old woman now. She'd have a husband and kids, a house with a garden. She'd have a calendar with all her grandkids' birthdays, and she'd go to bed early because her back ached. She wouldn't wear her bold red lipstick anymore because her old hands shook too much to put it on.
She might forget where she left her slippers, and she might have forgotten the man she shared a single kiss with in 1943.
People's voices were buzzing in his ears. Elbows jostled past him, scowling faces turned his way to see what he was doing, a boulder planted without warning on the sidewalk.
Stunned, he stepped aside. Hunkered down by the wall. Processing. Reorganising.
He gave himself only a few minutes before he rose and started walking again. If nothing else, Steve Rogers didn't give up.
When he eventually reached the base, he allowed himself another pause. There was no rush. No one was waiting for him.
Last time he'd been here, he'd arrived by car. They'd given him 24 hours' leave between the show in Manhattan and his departure from the US, and he'd spent it mostly at Bucky's ma's place.
Rebecca had made the dinner, and been real upset she burnt something of it. He couldn't remember what. He'd gone out in the evening to see Tom and Gary and some of the guys that were still left, but they'd wanted to go into town to 'celebrate' his shipping out to Europe and he'd not been in the mood.
He'd endured their good-natured teasing, gave as good as he'd got, then they'd all slapped him on the shoulder (hard - his friends had been endlessly fascinated by his new body) and he'd made his excuses and turned in early. He'd slept in Bucky's old bedroom, and slipped out noiselessly in the morning into the car that waited for him by the porch.
When the family had said their goodbyes over dinner, before he'd headed out to see his friends, Rebecca had given him a letter for Bucky. She wanted him to put in the post when he got to the right side of the Atlantic because 'you may as well take it if you're going that way anyway, and you don't mind, do you?'.
And Bucky's mom had pulled him into a tight hug and pressed her hand fiercely to the back of his head as though he were really part of her family. She'd said, 'you look after yourself Stevie, we need you back here in one piece', as if he'd actually been going to do something useful and fight, and not just prance around in tights.
Hell, he'd hated those tights.
If anyone ever found Bucky's body, they'd have brought it back here, to the base. His mom and his sister would have come down this way maybe, if they'd been allowed to see the body. Bucky would have a grave somewhere, now.
Bucky's mom would have a grave somewhere now, too.
Steve half-shook his head, as though he could dislodge the image. He felt like he'd been living in a dreamworld. A nightmarish, unreal, half-existence, where everyone he knew was dead and he might be invisible, because anyone who looked at him had vacant eyes that slipped right on past him.
But he knew that if he spoke to someone, they'd look him in the eyes, and he wouldn't be invisible. He needed to be on. He needed to be Captain America, the best version of himself, not just sad, lonely Steve Rogers.
So Steve gave himself a little time to collect his thoughts before he approached the guard at the entrance. The new sign said Brooklyn Army Terminal.
'Morning, Captain!' the man shouted, and for a moment Steve's heart convulsed in his chest.
Then the man laughed uproariously, and Steve realised he was joking around. He wasn't wearing the stolen jacket in the hot sun, and the white star on his chest must be distinctive enough even now. He thought quickly, and plastered a smile on his own face.
'Morning, soldier!' he called, matching the man's tone and demeanour.
The man let out a bark of delighted laughter. 'I'm no soldier, Captain, sorry to disappoint. Who you here for?' His smile was open and engaging as he surveyed Steve with a relaxed interest. He leaned forward, peering down from the booth to see what entertainment Steve might bring him on an otherwise dull morning waving cars in and out.
'Well, I was hoping you might be able to help me with that,' Steve hedged, still smiling like they were sharing a private joke. 'Do you know who I am?'
'Well, I know Captain America when I see him,' the man replied amusedly, and Steve's heart did that strange convulsion in his chest again. He was here, he was real, he did exist.
'It's a cracking costume,' the man went on. 'You really look like you've been through the war - pardon the pun. But what the hell have they done to your face? Is that like, movie makeup?'
The man abruptly started looking around himself with an air of eagerness, craning his neck to look in the eaves of the booth, and squinting down the street in the direction Steve had just come from. Steve felt slightly disconcerted, like he'd missed a cue.
'...Something like that,' said Steve vaguely when the man eventually looked back at him expectantly. 'So, you reckon you know your history, do you?' He was using his best stage voice, as he grinned at the man with just a hint of a challenge.
'Well, I reckon everyone knows your history, Captain,' the man said enthusiastically. He was sitting up straight, almost preening somewhat.
Steve had the strong sensation that he was missing something obvious, but he had no idea what.
'Alright then, let's see...' mused Steve. 'Can you tell me where Captain America was born?'
'Brooklyn,' came the prompt response. Steve had known he'd get that one. The man's accent was local.
'Correct!' he proclaimed. He gulped. Now or never. He needed to know, somehow. 'Can you tell me...what year did he die?'
'Oh...second world war,' the man said easily. 'Nineteen forty...in the forties.'
'And how long ago was that?'
'Ehhh...' The man frowned. 'That's a maths question.' He squinted at Steve. 'I only said I knew history.'
'Just roughly,' Steve assured him, flashing a smile. The man didn't return it.
'Well...2012...and the forties...that's about...'
Twenty-twelve.
Sixty-nine years, three months, and about two weeks, Steve's mind supplied. Numbers and calculations had flashed through his head almost instantaneously.
Twenty-twelve. He was in a new millennium.
The roaring sound was back in his ears again. Numbers spun through his head. Dugan had been 33. Falsworth had been 31. Peggy had been about 25.
'...about seventy years, roughly,' the man finished. 'Long time ago.'
Steve was looking past him, over at the immense concrete buildings of the base. The complex they'd started building the same year he was born. It had been a marvel, when they'd first put it up. Thousands of men involved in the construction, one of the biggest projects anywhere in the country. The walls were chipped and wind-weathered now, darkened by age.
'Yeah,' he heard himself echo, distantly. 'Long time ago.'
There was a shuffling pause. The atmosphere had changed. Steve knew the feeling intimately from the USO shows. He had lost his audience.
"So, who is it you're here to see? Do you know where you're going?"
Steve was quiet. Thinking. He was trying to absorb new information, spin it around and spit out the plan like he always did, but it wasn't working for him like it usually did. His head just kept spinning back to the same thing. Twenty-twelve. Twenty-twelve. Twenty-twelve.
"This place isn't an army base anymore, I take it," he said at last.
"It's the army terminal. Brooklyn Army Terminal. That's where you're looking, isn't it? All sorts of businesses here rent out space here. What unit are you looking?"
Steve laughed. The harsh sound startled them both. "The 107th".
The man definitely wasn't smiling now. "I don't know that unit. What's the company name?"
Steve shook his head. Tried to hold it together. He was Captain America. He could do this, and more.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm doing this all wrong. Listen – I really am Captain America. I'm not an actor, or whatever you think I am."
The guard's face was stony.
"I came back here because I thought I might be able to report back to base. But this place hasn't been an army base for a long time, has it? It's offices now. So where do I go?"
"Where do you go for what?" There was definite suspicion now. Steve persisted.
"To report back. I need to tell people I'm alive – I need to see if anyone I know is still alive."
The man was staring at him. Steve forced himself not to look away or flinch. This was the truth. He should never be ashamed of speaking the truth.
"Son," the guard said at last. "Steve Rogers is dead. He died about seventy years ago. We've just established that. I mean, I've seen his grave. There's a statue for the guy. Whatever you're playing at, it isn't funny. Look, is this on camera?"
"I hope not," said Steve.
"You're actually serious, aren't you?"
Steve took a deep breath.
"I am," he said.
There was another incredulous silence.
"Look, you're supposed to have a pass or an appointment or something if you want in," the man said finally. "I can't just let anybody wander in. You'll have to come back another time."
Another time.
"I have come back another time," said Steve, amused despite himself. "That's exactly what I've done, actually."
"Another time," the man said doggedly. "Nice talking to you."
Steve nodded, accepting the dismissal. "Thanks for your help," he told the older man, genuine. It wasn't this man's fault Captain America was sixty-nine years and three months too late.
That was all on Steve.
Aimless now, he turned his feet slowly towards the promenade and walked along by the river. He had the vague idea of wandering past Coney Island beach, see if it had changed. It was a walk, but it wasn't like he had anywhere to be.
The open expanse of the water was kind of a relief after the pulsing crowds on people on the sidewalks. More and more, he was focusing on geography and landmarks as static points in the landscape. People lived and died, but really big things in the city didn't change. Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State.
Thirty minutes later, he came to a halt. Looked in disbelief. He leaned his hip against the railing and laughed and laughed.
There was a brand new bridge between Staten Island and Brooklyn.
A neat little shortcut. He hadn't needed to walk all those miles to get home. He'd taken the long way round, thinking himself so familiar and confident to navigate just from his sense of direction and his memories, and all the time completely oblivious to walking an extra twenty miles round because he didn't have a damn clue where he was.
He laughed until he choked, as his throat abruptly spasmed around an invisible stone. And then he bowed his head and held himself completely still, so his shoulders wouldn't shake with his sobs.