A/n: My darlings! I am FINALLY here with a new chapter for you. Why the delay? The short version is that my beta crew are having various RL crises and since I post only once I've had some other eyes on these chapters, I waited to post until I could get some beta eyes on this chapter. Then I had a couple weeks of gridlock followed by a personal loss which made me shelve writing. I'm here now, finally, and want to thank you all endlessly for the love and support and messages you guys have been giving me to encourage me. You honestly don't know how much it means to me. I promise, this fic is not, and will not, be abandoned. It's just a matter of me and my betas getting our crap together for you in a timely fashion. ;D
A/n #2: Big thanks to Deannie for helping me with Chicago research, to Stars for her fabulous beta help, and to Inky for the beta and Steve help! \o/ This chapter would not exist without any you.
[ STEVE ]
Kyle Reese: "A straight line...you just go and you don't look back."
Sarah Connor: "Where did you hear that?"
Kyle Reese: "In a past I shouldn't remember...but I do."
—Terminator: Genisys
Steve asked around and made his way to the nearest library. The Legler was huge, built from brick and stone, with massive staircases inside that made Steve stop and stare for a good minute. His fingers itched to sketch all the lines and angles.
After he'd spent a good half an hour wandering around, taking in the vast collection and different rooms, one of the librarians came over to help him. She pointed him to a variety nonfiction books on science and time travel after he told her he was doing research. Though he stayed for a couple hours until close, Steve just felt muddled, tired, hungry, and still at a loss. He glumly returned the books to the front and left the library.
He spent the evening walking without any destination or purpose. Finally, late at night, Steve passed empty baseball diamonds and tennis courts and found a park bench to sleep on, too tired to keep walking. He didn't sleep much, thanks to the general noise of the city, the chill in the air, and the hardness of the bench.
Ever since coming out of the ice, he was used to not sleeping. Maybe it was because he spent so long "asleep" and frozen, or maybe it was something else, but he caught a couple hours here and there at best nowadays, and he managed. Ever since Manhattan, Clint had referred to the Avengers as Team Insomnia: on any given night, anywhere from one to all six of them would be wandering around the Tower, not sleeping.
Steve rose shivering from his bench before dawn and began to wander aimlessly again. Once the sun came up, it was easier, and the day quickly grew warm. He walked back onto the main streets, then through some coffee shops to get the chill out of his bones. His stomach growled when he passed restaurants, throwing open their doors for the breakfast crowd, but he pressed on, not wanting to use up his lonely fiver just yet. He could stand a little hunger.
He stopped frequently at bus benches and in parks to rest his feet but it was never long before the desperate urge to do something spurred him back up, even though he had no idea what.
People bustled by—going to work, to lunch, to see friends. They went about their morning, their afternoon, their evening. He walked streets filled with booming music and laughter, streets jammed with cars or lined with trees, streets quieter but no less active. Everywhere pulsed with life and living, and Steve plodded on, completely disconnected. Like a shadow or a ghost, shifting between clumps of color and chatter and warmth but unable to reach out and touch any of it.
Try everything you can to have no effect. Bruce's words echoed in his ears. Catastrophic. Keep your head down.
Steve dodged a drunkard stumbling down the sidewalk, ignored a woman handing out flyers, walked over crosswalk after crosswalk. The later it got, the emptier the streets became and the more the temperature slipped to a level that was cold without a coat, even for him.
Seriously, Capsicle? He could hear Tony saying. You'd think you'd be used to the cold after seventy years. Steve suppressed a smile.
When the sun had long disappeared, he found himself in a neighborhood more run-down than where he'd woken up the previous morning. The buildings were a little shabbier, some splattered with graffiti. Nestled between some grimy brick apartment complexes was a small diner. The once-white exterior was stained by age and weather, and the red sign on the roof proclaiming SAL'S ALL AMERICAN DINER had so many burnt-out letters that it was almost unreadable in the twilight.
The sign in the window proclaimed it was open twenty-four hours, though, and Steve got the feeling his sad five dollar bill might actually stretch in a place like this, so he ventured inside. His stomach clenched and cramped with hunger—he couldn't put off eating any longer. Afterwards, he decided he'd maybe try to find a homeless shelter or something to spend the night.
It was less dingy inside—tidy, well cared for, if dated, like it'd been built in the thirties but hadn't been properly fixed up since the fifties. Checkerboard floors, faded vinyl booths, splashes of orange and maroon, old Coca-Cola signs, and a banner exclaiming CHICAGO'S BEST BANANA SPLIT SINCE 1942. The warm colors and familiar decor gave Steve such a rush of homesickness that his knees wobbled.
He chose a booth towards the rear and settled in with a heavy sigh, the day weighing him down like chains. His stomach clenched and roared, desperate for food. He exhaled shakily.
A woman with gray hair and a nametag reading Irma sauntered up to his booth. He smiled; she passed him a laminated menu with a warm but tired smile of her own.
"The apple pie is on special tonight—ninety-five cents," she told him, her voice gruff and coarse but not unkind. "A buck if you want an extra scoop of ice cream."
"Thanks," he replied.
She stepped away to let him look over the menu.
Tension slipped off his shoulders bit by bit. The prices, he was relieved to see, were a far cry closer to what he was used to, compared to the prices in 2012. It was still so strange to pay a few bucks for a bottle of water, or double or triple that for a good burger.
Steve's stomach wrenched as he surveyed the choices splayed across the menu. Burgers, fries, soup, lasagna, waffles…an eclectic mix of good ol' comfort food. Everything sounded delicious and he wished he could eat a bit of everything. He skimmed the prices, doing quick math in his head. He'd need to make that fiver last as long as possible. He was loathe to pickpocket anyone, but he might if he got desperate, he realized.
One meal today, he thought, calculating. Figure out how to make some money. One meal the day after that if nothing changes, and then… Maybe, with any luck, Bruce would pull him home. He had no concept of how long he was going to be stuck here.
Irma returned. "So, what'll it be, sweetheart?"
"The single burger, please." The cheapest, plainest one on the menu. His stomach rumbled in anticipation as he passed her the menu. "And just a water to drink."
"No pie? Surely a strapping boy like you ain't watching his waist," she teased.
Steve smiled. "Can't afford the pie today," he blurted without thinking.
His cheeks grew hot. This wasn't back then—all those times he and Bucky ran into the same problem. Can't afford the pie today, one of them would say to servers in their favorite diners. Not unless it was one of their birthdays or a special occasion. Eating out without their families was a big enough treat as it was, let alone ordering dessert on top of it all.
Irma just nodded and bustled away to put in his order.
Steve hunched his shoulders, disliking the return of feeling unable to escape his circumstances, of having to scrounge from one day to the next. It'd been a lot better after high school, after the Depression—things weren't nearly so tight, and they could afford pie more often.
It's not the olden days anymore, Cap, Natasha would tell him, with that sly smile of hers that was one part teasing, one part knowing, and one part something he never could quite figure out. She'd probably have casually lifted a few wallets by now, he thought, suppressing a smirk.
The burger was a little dry, the cheese processed, and the bun wasn't the freshest, but it all still tasted pretty great after Steve had been running on empty for so long, and he wolfed it down. Irma came by to check on him and gave him a funny look when he grinned with his mouth full. He swallowed, embarrassed, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. Steve gave his head a shake and kept eating.
She returned to take his plate. "How was it?"
"Best burger I've had in a while," said Steve.
Irma huffed and then studied him with all-too-knowing look that had Steve ducking his head and mumbling for the check.
"Sure thing," she said, but she came back with a mug of steaming coffee and a slice of apple pie instead.
"Sorry, no, I didn't order this," Steve said quickly as she set it down. "I just need the bill."
"It's on the house. So's the burger." She planted her hand on her hip. "You newly homeless?"
"What?"
"Ain't seen you around here before." Irma studied him. "Thought I must've—you seem awful familiar."
Steve didn't know what to say and or do, and simply sat still, heart fluttering in his chest as Irma watched him. He hadn't been properly worried that he could meet someone who knew him, but the thought ricocheted through him now. Did he know her? Had they met in an earlier decade?
"You look well enough to say you ain't been homeless long," she explained, and Steve relaxed. "You also look lost as hell, exhausted, and when you came in, hungry enough to eat everything we got and then some."
"No, I'm not really…" Steve trailed off, hesitating. Yes, he thought. I am.
"I know the look. Seen it plenty of times before." She sighed. "Look, son, we can't give the meals away all the time." She levelled her brown-eyed gaze at him, almost in warning, then softened. "But Sal and I do what we can to take care of people down on their luck. This one's on the house."
He swallowed, warmed by her generosity. He didn't exactly deserve it—he had money to pay for his burger, and he had a home, it was just...not in this decade.
"And you don't have to tell me your story, son, but I only got three customers in here, and another five hours on my shift." Irma smoothed her wrinkled hands down her apron. "I'm here, is all I'm saying. Ain't no psycho-analyst, but I got an ear and time to kill. We're open all night, but no sleepin' in the booth. We got a covered porch out back if you need it, though, or there's the Joshua shelter off Sacramento."
Irma walked away to grab the coffee pot and refill her other customers' cups. Steve watched her go, then looked at the glorious piece of apple pie sitting before him. He scooped up the forkful gratefully, and he savored the pie, pausing only for the coffee.
It was the best slice he'd had in ages.
Steve took Irma up on the offer of the covered back porch sometime after he'd finished his pie. He was too tired to try and find the shelter she'd mentioned. It wasn't a great sleep, as he kept getting startled awake—by a frightened orange cat, sirens passing nearby, and other loud city noises. When the world turned a watery blue that said the sun was on its way up, he gave up.
He stood and stretched, easing the aches in his body from another uncomfortable night. His legs protested as soon as he stepped off the porch, but he didn't stop. His limbs warmed and loosened as he kept walking, and eventually the sun peered between the homes and apartment buildings to rouse the city and bring the heat of the day.
As he roamed, puzzling out his desperate money situation, he came up with a possible solution.
He retraced his steps through the streets from memory, back to where he'd stopped the kid with the coffee. Murray had said he ran a grocery three blocks down, so Steve headed in the direction the kid had come from. He hoped that the grocery was open and Murray would be in. Maybe, just maybe, he could talk his way into some sort of job.
The rich smell of savory breakfast food danced around Steve as he walked, making his mouth water. Last evening's burger was a mere memory and his stomach was emptier than ever. He decided to push himself 'til supper, however, until he had a plan to get himself a meal.
He soon came upon Grover Grocery, with stands of fruit and vegetables on display just inside the large front window. Steve cast a longing look at them, and pushed open the door. A bell overhead jangled to announce his presence. Steve found Murray down one of the aisles, perched on stepstool, stacking cans on the top shelf.
"Excuse me," said Steve tentatively.
"Yes?" Murray looked over. "What can I d– hey! You're the fella who helped me out the other day." His paunchy face broke into an uneven grin.
"I am, yes. My name's Steve."
"Well, son! What can I do you for?"
"Sir, I was wondering…" Steve hesitated. He'd thought over twenty different ways to ask Murray for help and he still didn't know what to say. "Sir, I was wondering if you were hiring."
Murray shrugged. "No, sorry, son. I don't really have any open positions right now. You looking for you or someone else?"
"For me." Steve's heart sank and he tried not to let his disappointment show, attempting a smile. "Thanks anyways."
Murray's expression fell and he seemed to properly take Steve in at that moment, from his unshaven face to the state of his borrowed clothes. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Look, uh, you did help me out the other day," Murray said, caught somewhere between trying to make things better without putting himself in a bind. "And I could maybe use somebody to just clean up or...you know, unload trucks and whatever the other boys don't have time for. Won't be much to do, and I won't be able to pay much either, but I s'pose it's something."
"I'll take it," Steve said quickly.
"Well, all right then." He nervously smoothed his hand over his flyaway gray hair. "Steve, was it? Broom's in the back."
Murray was right; there wasn't a lot to do. Steve swept the store front to back meticulously, then turned around and did it again. He straightened shelves and helped Murray and his sons, the other two employees, unload the late delivery truck. He washed windows and looked for something else to keep himself occupied.
Around mid-afternoon, Murray told him to go take a break. But sitting on a bench a block away in the hot May sun just reminded Steve that he was still painfully hungry—something he'd managed to ignore while his hands had been busy. He was saving his five-dollar bill for supper, and Murray wouldn't pay him until the end of the week—a full three days away—so he had to make it last.
Steve wrenched himself up with a sigh and dragged himself back to the grocery store.
"I swear, this place has never been cleaner since the day it was built," laughed Murray as he closed up the evening. "You're somethin' else, Steve."
"Thank you," said Steve. He faced the door, already dreading trying to find somewhere to go. It must have shown on his face, because Murray piped up behind him,
"You got someplace to stay?"
No, he thought, but didn't want to voice it. Murray had already been generous enough. Steve pushed a hollow smile onto his lips.
"Yeah, of course."
Murray nodded, relieved. "Right. Well, see you Saturday, then." He returned his attention to the receipts he was counting.
"Saturday?" His heart dipped into his stomach. That was four long days away.
"Huh? Yeah, Saturday."
"Oh, I, um…I thought I'd be back tomorrow?"
"Look, Steve, you seem like a good guy and all, but if I had you in here every day, not only would there be nothing for you to do, but there'd be nothing for my boys to do either." Murray let out a great belly laugh. "If they weren't my boys, I'd fire them and hire you, but they're family, you know?"
Steve nodded and pasted on that empty smile again. "Yeah, of course. Thank you again, for everything."
"Don't mention it." Murray waved his hand at him. "We'll see you Saturday."
Steve held his expression until he was out the door and out of sight. Then he dropped his shoulders and walked under the streetlights, with the ambient city noises pulsing all around him in the late evening. His fingers curled around his precious five dollars buried in his pocket as his stomach gave a mighty roar. He needed something hearty and cheap and soon.
Steve found his way back to Sal's and chose the same booth as the day before. Irma came over with her thin lips not quite pulled into a smirk.
"So you're back," she said and slapped down a menu. "Know what you want?"
"In a minute," said Steve.
Irma walked away to deliver heaping plates of fries and gravy to a group of teenagers in the far corner. Steve averted his eyes as his stomach cramped insistently and instead he stared at the menu. When she came back, he ordered the steak soup and a water. Irma gave him a strange narrow-eyed look and shook her head.
"Damn this old head," she muttered. "You look so much like someone...but I can't for life of me place it." His pulse spiked, but she waved her hand at him with a huff and left to place his order.
Steve let out his breath in a rush. The last thing he needed was someone recognizing him as Captain America. Maybe I shouldn't come back here after this, he wondered. That was twice now that she'd mentioned he looked familiar. He couldn't take any chances.
The food was delicious, and Steve forced himself to take his time—not only to savor his supper but to ease it into his aching stomach. Bite of carrot, bite of potato, bit of beef. He had several glasses of water to wash it down.
Irma took his sorry-looking fiver with no comment and returned with his change. Steve swallowed hard when he realized he hadn't accounted for a tip. He sat for a good half minute agonizing over what to do, when Irma came sweeping by, her arms full of other patron's dirty dishes.
"There better not be anything on that table except your empty cup, boy," she said and shot him not-quite-a-glare. It was the kind of look Bucky's mom used to give him when Steve tried to help her clean up after she explicitly told him not to.
Steve flushed. "Thank you."
Irma kept on walking, but he caught the hint of satisfied smile on her face when he left.
Another long chilly night, another blue morning.
Steve decided not to go back to the diner, in case Irma finally placed him. As the white noise of a city waking up surrounded him, Steve got to walking again, this time with a little bit of purpose. As he'd lain awake during the night, he'd come up with a plan of sorts. He needed to find a better way to spend his nights, he needed to figure out how to solve his hunger problem, and he needed to help Bruce somehow.
He squared his shoulders and pushed his tired feet one in front of the other. He found the library again, and lingered outside until it opened. Once he'd had a brief look around, he chose a pile of books as complex as the ones he'd tried before and started reading.
The petite librarian who'd helped him the day before stopped in surprise when she found him at one of the tables.
"Hello," Steve greeted. "Do you happen to have a pencil and some paper I could have?"
"Um, sure…" She gave him a worried look and walked away.
His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment—how bad did he look? Unshaven, unshowered, and wearing the same clothes she'd seen him in days earlier? It had to be bad.
She returned and set the pencil and paper down, then hurried away. A few minutes later, a security guard sauntered past. He didn't say or do anything, just cast a look Steve's way, and took up residence far enough away that Steve could ignore him but close enough the guard could keep an eye on Steve. Steve just kept reading and taking notes. Though he now was self-conscious of his appearance, he didn't blame the librarian for thinking whatever she was thinking about him.
Soon, his stomach roared and twisted angrily enough that Steve couldn't concentrate any longer. He gathered up his books and brought them to the front desk. He tucked his notes and the pencil into his pocket. The librarian watched him warily.
"Thank you, ma'am," said Steve, with a warm smile and a polite head nod. He exited the library under the watchful eye of the security guard.
He made his next stop at a YMCA for shower. It did wonders for his spirits to scrub the city's grime off his body, even if putting the same grungy clothes on wasn't ideal. Steve raked his fingers through his wet hair, staring at his reflection and the growing beard with a grimace.
"Could be worse," he mumbled.
Desperately hungry, he wandered to the crummiest-looking coffee shop he could find, with dirt-cheap prices. He got himself a water and a couple of muffins, pocketing the last few coins. If something didn't change soon, he'd be officially out of luck. He forced himself to chew slowly but somehow finished feeling even hungrier than before.
He passed beautiful churches, old homes, new homes. A couple having an argument, a group of guys dancing on a street corner, people walking their dogs. He wound his way to denser and denser streets and passed another library. Steve considered going inside, but given the state he was in, with his five o'clock shadow morphing into a beard, and his very lived-in clothes, he didn't think it'd be a good idea anymore.
Settling on a bus bench for another break, Steve leaned back and watched the cars and people whizzing by. He pulled his pencil and meager notes from earlier out and began sketching on the back of the paper: a woman and her child, an interesting building, random shapes and people who flitted before his eyes. He sat by, a silent observer, recording little moments, and then erasing them to make room for more.
No effect on history—no trace. Catastrophic...
It was once again achingly familiar—being on the outside looking in, just observing and drawing. He'd done it ever since he was a kid.
The sun drifted between the tall office buildings. He thought he'd been lonely before, wandering around 2012, trying to figure out how the hell he got there and deal with what he'd lost. This, in some ways, was worse.
At least once he'd been taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D. and become an Avenger, he'd had some place to be. And once he'd moved into the Tower with the others, he had a weird, ragtag sort of family that cared about him, and that made living day-to-day more bearable. It let him accept his losses and start to move forward. He missed them more than he would've ever expected.
Here, he had no one to reach out to, no place to stay, no one to talk to. Or rather, if he did do any of those things, he could possibly completely screw up history. An ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his gnawing, empty stomach told him it might be worth it. Just to see them—the Commandos, Howard. Just to see her.
Steve realized his hand had formed vague outlines of his team's faces, standing alongside a profile of Peggy. He blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes and erased them.
That night, Steve found the shelter Irma had directed him to. The volunteers were friendly and didn't pry past warm greetings and directing him to a bed. The place was noisy and crowded, and didn't stop being so through the night, but it warm and had a mat softer than the bench or Irma's porch—definitely better than a lot of the places he'd slept in the past. He managed to doze off for a few hours before the morning crowd came clambering through in search of breakfast.
Steve gratefully grabbed a tray and shovelled the eggs and bacon into his mouth so fast that one of the other men at the table stared in astonishment.
"Where's the fire, son?" he chuckled.
Steve swallowed and flushed, but the man just laughed and waved his hand at Steve.
"Just make sure you chew, huh? I don't know how to do the Heimlich."
Full for the moment, Steve once again ventured out into the busy, anonymous streets of Chicago. He spent two more days in the same manner, and misery started to snake into his bones despite his best efforts. He just had to keep busy until Saturday when he could go back to Murray's. He clung to the idea that Bruce would find him, would talk to him again, and bring him home.
Any day, any day now, he thought as he returned to another library to take more notes. Bruce hadn't exactly given Steve a mission, but nonetheless, it helped the time pass to treat his situation as such. Find food. Eat. Find shelter. Sleep. Find something useful. Write it down.
The rest of his time was spent drawing on napkins and discarded cardboard, scribbling it out or throwing it away, and more walking. He even managed to get a new pencil from the librarian, who still looked at him warily but remained pleasant when he talked to her.
As he passed by a narrow alleyway, he heard shouting and paused. No one else seemed to notice the commotion, and Steve heard it again. He backtracked a few steps and peered down the darkened street. Several tall men had someone surrounded, and when that someone gave a terrified call for help, Steve's heart jumped to his throat. He veered into the alley.
One of the men flashed a knife over his head. "Shut it, you little shit! You stay out of this once and for all!" he barked. "You hear me? I'm gonna gut you!"
"Hey!" Steve called out.
A couple of the men looked up, scowling.
"Beat it, man," yelled one stocky guy. "This don't concern you."
Steve caught a glimpse of a kid, shoved against the wall by the largest of the group, and his pulse raced. It was the same boy who'd stolen Murray's coffee the other day.
What is he mixed up in now?
The boy whimpered and his captors shushed him, thumping his head against the alley wall. Steve knew he wasn't leaving this alley without fighting these men. He curled his hands into fists.
"Actually, I think it does," he said calmly.
One of the burliest men gave Steve an angry, incredulous glare and stepped forward from the group. "Look man, you don't have any idea who you're messing with."
"Go ahead and tell me then," said Steve.
The guy snorted. "Don't be a hero, buddy—turn around, walk outta this alley right now, and we'll let you."
"Not gonna happen," Steve growled.
"Just remember, you asked for this," the big guy snarled.
Steve narrowed his eyes. "Same to you."
The guy took a mighty swing. His buddies followed suit, rushing in to jump Steve. One goon hung back and kept the kid pinned against the wall. Steve dodged, lashed out, and spun. Someone's knife went flying, one goon's gun ended up in the dumpster, followed shortly by its owner.
Steve ducked to avoid a swing. He slammed his fist into another thug's gut then popped to his feet to clock yet another goon, sending him yelping and flopping into the dirt.
The guy holding the kid finally joined the fray with a wild howl, knife out. Steve slapped his weapon away and had him down along with the rest.
The whole thing was over in about nineteen seconds. The men lay sprawled in the dirt, in and out of the dumpster, moaning or unconscious. Steve took a staggering step and brushed off his hands, catching his breath. The kid stared and rubbed his throat where the goons had bruised him.
"How the hell'd you do that?" the boy asked.
"Practice," Steve said with a shrug.
He narrowed his eyes at Steve, his shock turning to suspicion. "Wait a minute—it's you again. What's your problem? Are you following me now?"
"You're welcome?" Steve snapped, gesturing to the boy's attackers.
The boy shook his head and made to walk past Steve. "I had it handled."
"Clearly." Steve blocked him. "You're what? Twelve?"
"I'm almost fourteen," the kid barked.
"You didn't have it handled." Somewhere in the back of his memories, Bucky was saying the exact same thing to Steve.
"Whatever—you don't even know what's going on." The kid's voice was brittle instead of angry as he made to go past Steve. Steve snagged his upper arm and yanked him to a stop.
"Then tell me. Tell me what's going on." Steve stared the boy down, willing him to talk. Something was up—more than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "What did you do that's got six big guys like this cornering you in an alley in broad daylight?"
The kid clenched his jaw. "You won't help me. No one will. It's too big."
"What is? Kid, just let me try."
The boy's anger came flooding back. "Get off me, man!" He thrashed and kicked out, nailing Steve in the shin.
Steve hissed and didn't quite let go, but his grip loosened involuntarily and the boy tore out of it. Steve tried to grab him again and narrowly missed. The boy took off running down the alley. Steve followed, unwilling to give up.
The boy reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt, flinging it at Steve. Steve didn't get his hand up in time and took some in the eye. He faltered at the mouth of the alley, furiously brushing the dust out of his face.
"Hold it!" Steve hollered, squinting. "I can help you!"
"Go away!" the kid shouted. "I can do this on my own!"
Steve's vision cleared and his breath snagged in his chest. The kid stopped in the middle of the street but a black and brown car racing down the pavement didn't.
Someone cried out. Steve's feet hit asphalt. He didn't even remember moving, acting, thinking. The boy gasped and brakes shrieked. Steve's body collided with the kid's, sending him flying out of the way. And then metal hit bone, flesh hit glass, skull hit pavement, and Steve's world winked out.