A/n: Thank you guys for the overwhelmingly positive response to this! Your questions about Clint will have to wait, but the answers will be soon, I promise. ;)

[ STEVE ]

"Are we seeing the time 11 minutes ago on Mars? Or are we seeing the time on Mars as observed from Earth now? It's like time travel problems in science fiction. When is now; when was then?" –Bill Nye

After stopping a couple of nice-looking old ladies to ask for directions, Steve found his way to the nearest public gym. Hopefully they'd have a large Lost & Found bin. It was the best solution he could think of to take care of his clothes problem for the time being—especially given that those five bucks were all he had now. He'd need to get some food eventually.

He more or less flirted his way past the girl at the front counter so he could use the showers, though he could hear Bucky in his head saying, You call that flirting?, which made him smile.

Steve scrubbed every inch of his skin to remove the garbage smell that was determined to cling to him. He focused on the simple act of cleaning himself rather than the more overwhelming problem at hand. Once dry, he bundled up his reeking, filthy uniform and reluctantly stuffed it in the trash.

He sighed, approaching the bathroom counter and stared at his reflection and his borrowed clothes. The dark sweatpants weren't ideal, nor was the faded green shirt with the peeling blue logo on the back, but they'd been the only things that fit him. Steve supposed it didn't matter what he looked like anyway.

The man in the mirror was tired and frightened. Now what?

Steve tried running through his options, but they were pretty damn limited. He had no ID, almost no money, no contacts, no cell phone, no friends. His mind cast around and he realized all over again that he was in the 70s.

The 1970s.

He'd crashed in the 40s and woken in the 2010's to discover everyone he loved was dead or gone (except for Peggy, but he couldn't bring himself to call because…well, for a lot of reasons). He tried not think about that—he had more immediate problems at the moment—but this was thirty or so years earlier than when he'd woken from the ice and a mere thirty-something years after he'd originally disappeared. The chances his friends were still alive were pretty damn good because it was only the 1970s.

Steve's heart beat a nervous, excited tattoo against his ribs as he gripped the bathroom counter. A thrill of emotion bombarded him. He could see them, he could find them, he could hug them and laugh and swap stories and have a beer or two.

The ache to see them—Dugan and Jim and Gabe and Jacques and Falsworth and—was suddenly so strong he nearly collapsed under its weight, but instead he grinned like an idiot. He could see them again.

And Howard! He could find Howard, and Howard would know what to do, how to get Steve back to his own team and time (eventually) because the man was a genius, and if Steve couldn't have Tony here, then Howard might—

"Steve!"

The voice cut through the locker room sudden and sharp, and Steve reeled backwards, hands up defensively. Except the voice had sounded like—

"Steve?" said Bruce again, sounding more unsure than excited this time.

Steve blinked at the mirror before him in shock. Instead of the rows of stall doors and sinks behind him, a large portion of the mirror showed Bruce, who peered at the captain, looking exhausted and hopeful.

"B—Bruce?" Steve spluttered. "How're you…"

Was this a hallucination? A side effect of the bomb somehow?

Bruce sat back in his seat and exhaled. "Thank God, finally. Okay, listen to me," he said, and leaned forward again. The image of him rippled unsteadily. "This is not the most stable method of communication. Where are you—and when?"

"I—Chicago, somewhere in the 70s," Steve answered at once, relaxing his stance, despite a hundred thoughts that pinged around his brain. Bruce was all business, though almost frantic, and Steve bit down on his questions as much as he could.

"How long has it been for you?" Bruce asked. The image of him wavered and faded for a moment before clearing up again. The physicist swore. "Steve?"

"An hour, maybe less," said Steve. "Bruce, how—"

The image disappeared completely, Bruce's voice garbled before it fizzled to nothing.

Steve waited breathlessly for a moment, not even sure what he was waiting for. What the hell had just happened? Maybe the bomb had done a number on him and he was seeing things. Maybe he should get some sleep somewhere—find Howard, figure things out…

Then suddenly Bruce was back, though he looked somehow different—the lighting or something. It was even more confusing than seeing him before.

"Bruce," Steve began, and so many questions tried to jam their way out of his mouth that he ended up hesitating and spreading his hands out in a helpless gesture.

"Cap, I got you back," Bruce cracked a tiny, crooked smile. "Looks like the same day, too."

"Yeah, you just disappeared and reappeared…"

"Really?" Bruce's forehead crunched with confusion. "Steve, before I lose you again, this is important: we've been dropped at different points in time. Be extremely careful—I have no idea what kind of effect this could have on history, but try everything you can to have no effect."

Steve nodded at once. Sure, that made easy sense. No messing with history.

Bruce frowned and added uneasily, "Which means, I'm sorry, but you can't get in contact with anyone you might know, from…from your old life. You're supposed to disappear in 1945 and wake up in 2012—you suddenly showing up in any one of their lives in the seventies could have catastrophic—"

The image blinked out for a moment and Steve's heart sank fast, both at the loss of contact, and because it meant the earlier flash of joy at reuniting with Dugan or Peggy or Howard was up in smoke. Irrational tears pricked his eyes before he could stop them, and then Bruce was back.

"—solution on my end," he finished, unaware he'd lost Steve. "I'll get us back together, Steve," Bruce promised. "I'll get you home. Just keep your head down, okay?"

Steve didn't bother mentioning that he no longer had a home—that it was long lost, buried in history, back in another decade somewhere. Ten months after waking up, and he still ached from the loss, no matter how hard he tried to settle in.

Before Steve had the chance to reply, his friend was gone again in a crackle of broken syllables. He waited, waited, and waited some more, but after twenty minutes and a handful of people coming and going in the locker room, Bruce did not reappear.

Steve clenched his jaw, and not knowing what else to do, left the gym.

Out on the sunny street, he shoved his hands deep in his borrowed pockets. He turned Bruce's words over in his head again and again as he walked aimlessly. He was both relieved and disappointed, and didn't know why. Well, he supposed he did know why, he just didn't want to dwell on it.

He was glad Bruce was working on getting him out of here, but he hadn't realized how wonderful the mere prospect of seeing Howard and his friends again had been until it had been taken away. The world had opened up to him for only one amazing moment, only to slam shut on his face, cruelly closed forever all over again.

Steve spotted a park and idly made his way over, settling on the first bench he saw under a large tree full of budding leaves. There were few times Steve had ever felt this lonely and both involved being in the wrong decade. He almost smiled bitterly at the thought. At least this time, there was a way out. Or, he hoped so, based on Bruce mentioning a "solution."

Steve watched people of the past flitting around him and hoped Bruce's solution worked soon. Very soon.

Steve walked down the streets of Chicago with no particular destination in mind. After hanging around the park for a while, he'd started to feel restless and helpless again, so he'd made himself get up and go somewhere.

He'd checked out a few shops and eateries, though he didn't really have money to spend and wasn't hungry—he was still a little nauseated and food wasn't terribly appealing just yet anyway. Steve kept an eye out for a library, which would be a good (and free) way to spend some time. Plus, maybe he could find something to help his situation, though that hope was a dim one.

Eventually he'd have to figure out what to do when nightfall came, or when he got hungry. Since it was only late afternoon, though, he didn't have to worry about that quite yet.

One thing at a time, Steve thought.

He kept having moments of gut-wrenching fear if he thought too hard about his situation. Thinking about spending who-knows-how-many nights in Chicago somewhere, with no money, in the wrong decade, certainly did not help that. But he forced the feelings away as best as he could.

A young boy barrelled into Steve, almost knocking him over. Steve gasped in surprise, while the kid tumbled to the sidewalk after the impact. Steve leaned over to help him up, rubbing his ribs where the kid's head had impacted him.

"Whoa, are you all right?"

"Sorry man," the boy apologized in a hurry. He looked no more than fifteen, with dark hair, dressed in a grungy set of mismatched clothes. He waved Steve off and carried on down the sidewalk at a brisk jog.

"Hey, stop that kid!"

Steve glanced over his shoulder and saw a heavy-set older man in a gray apron hurrying towards him, waving his arms frantically. The captain turned back to see the kid tearing off down the street, and the older man hollered, "Thief! "

Steve bolted after the kid without a second thought. He dove around other pedestrians and ducked around a corner, hot on the boy's tail. The kid could run, Steve would give him that, but he was a lot faster and caught up with the kid in seconds. Steve reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking the boy to an ungraceful stop.

"Let go of me, man!" the kid shouted, trying and failing to pull out of Steve's iron grip. "I said sorry!"

"I think you have something that doesn't belong to you," Steve said mildly, but there was a threatening edge to his tone that the boy couldn't miss.

The kid levelled a fiery blue-eyed gaze at the captain and shoved a canister of unopened coffee at Steve with unnecessary force. "There, fine, take it!" he shouted. "Now let me go!"

The older man caught up to them, panting and limping into the alley. Steve held tight to his charge, despite the boy's renewed efforts to run away.

"Th—thanks, fella," the man in the apron gasped out, swiping at the sweat beaded on his forehead. "Damn kid—turned my…back…for…one second."

Steve passed the can of coffee to the man. "No problem."

The man took it then stuck out his other hand for Steve to shake. "Name's Murray. I run a grocery three blocks down."

The boy wiggled and tried to pry Steve's fingers off, but Steve remained unmoved. He gave Murray's proffered hand a friendly shake.

"Steve. Good to meet you."

"Thanks again for catching this boy," Murray said, pushing a sweaty hand through his mop of gray hair. "I can't have any thieves lifting goods from my shop." He glared angrily at the boy, whose cheeks flared red with shame as he dropped his gaze.

"He's not going to do it again. Right?" said Steve.

The kid frowned fiercely at the captain, but shook his head in agreement.

"And he's very sorry to have caused you any trouble," added Steve. When the boy didn't say anything, Steve tugged on his arm, giving him a little shake.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," the boy apologized through clenched-tight teeth. At Steve's raised eyebrow, the boy tried again in a much more genuine tone. "I'm sorry, mister."

Murray pursed his lips, but then shrugged. "Ah, no harm done, really. We were all young and stupid once." He gave a great belly laugh before fixing the boy with a much more serious look. "But see that this doesn't happen again, or next time I'm callin' the police, you hear me, boy?"

The boy deflated even more, but nodded. "Yessir," he mumbled.

Satisfied, Murray nodded as well, thanked Steve again, and headed out of the alley. Steve continued to hold tight to the boy's arm.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter," the boy grumbled. "Can I go now?"

"Not yet. Why'd you steal the coffee?"

"Because I needed it," the kid said hotly. "Why else would I steal it?"

Steve smirked. "You seem a little young for a coffee addiction."

"I wasn't gonna drink it," the boy growled, as if Steve were the world's biggest idiot. He gave a sharp pull away from Steve, but to no avail. "Will you let me go?"

"Where are your parents? Your family?" Steve pressed, not willing to give up just yet. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't you be doing something more useful with your time then holding a kid hostage in an alleyway?" the boy shot back.

Steve frowned, realizing there probably wasn't a way to win with this kid. He'd given the coffee back, so technically there was no reason to turn him in. The boy refused to reveal his name, so Steve couldn't return him to his family either. He crouched down so he could be eye to eye with the kid, who was surprised and suspicious by the action.

"I'll let you go on one condition: you promise not to steal any more stuff," said Steve.

The kid rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, I promise."

Steve pinned the boy with his best steely I mean business Captain America gaze. "Hey. Stealing is not okay. It's against the law, and the next person you steal from may not be nearly as forgiving as Murray."

The boy shifted uncomfortably.

"So I want you to promise me that you won't steal anymore, okay?"

The kid stared down at his shoes, his cheeks flaring red again, but he nodded and mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Steve smiled a little. "Okay," he said. He waited another second, then released his grip on the kid's arm.

The boy rubbed at the red spot left behind, watched Steve for a breath or two, and then took off, glancing over his shoulder like he was worried Steve would follow. The captain sighed, wondering if the kid was simply running off to a different store to continue stealing and the incident just now had made no difference to him whatsoever. He hoped that wasn't the case, as the boy had seemed guilted enough.

The funny thing was, the boy reminded him a little bit of Bucky when they were kids—the darker hair, the defiant blue eyes. Bucky hadn't been running around thieving of course, so the comparison kind of ended there. It still made Steve smile a bit nonetheless.

He shook his head and walked out of the alley; he had bigger things to worry about at the moment than a kid with a premature caffeine affection.

Despite knowing that Bruce was somewhere working on a solution, Steve was going crazy with helplessness. It may have been less than a day, but Steve was never one to idle. There was another reason to find a library—strolling around shops earlier had been fine when he'd been content to do nothing other than heed his friend, but then he'd realized there was no reason why he couldn't try to do something helpful.

Hopefully, by the time Bruce made contact again, Steve would able to give him some sort of useful information, though Steve currently didn't know what in the hell that might be. He dug his hands into his pockets and continued on down the street.