Disclaimer: Characters belong to Marvel, I'm just playing with them. Just for fun, not for profit.
Missing Chapters
Steve stared blearily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror the next morning, the shadows under his eyes revealing how late he had been up. Rubbing a hand over his tired face, he looked speculatively at the shower. How difficult could twenty-first century plumbing be?
As it turned out, quite difficult. Between the unfamiliar knobs and his fatigue-fogged brain, it took him several minutes to figure out first how to switch the water from the faucet at his feet to the shower overhead. The cold water made sure he was completely awake to determine over the span of several frantic moments how to adjust the temperature. He sighed as the water went from frigid to warm to pleasantly hot. This shower seemed quite luxurious compared to what he had been used to in 1945. He let the water pound on his stiff shoulders and cascade down his back. They had certainly improved indoor plumbing and water pressure in the past several decades.
He got out reluctantly a few minutes later and dried off, feeling both more awake and relaxed. Getting dressed in this century was easier, too. The fabrics and fasteners were more comfortable and straightforward, and had been a nearly effortless transition for him. If only everything was so easy to figure out. All the information he had read through last night was still whirling around in his head: the wars, the conflicts, nations unifying and breaking apart, subterfuge and missions behind the scenes. Seventy years of international politics was a lot to digest, especially on an empty stomach. He opened the refrigerator, and his eyes lit on the carton of eggs. It only took him a few minutes to figure out how to turn the stove on. He wasn't exactly a gourmet cook, but he could fry an egg. When he and Bucky had been living together in Brooklyn, Bucky put in long hours working on the docks, or sometimes other odd jobs he could find to earn a few extra dollars. Steve hawked newspapers on the street as a newsie, but the hours hadn't been as long. It had generally fallen to Steve to scrape together something to break their fast, and then to have food on the table when Bucky got home. Sometimes they had even had enough food to send with Bucky for a lunch.
The crack of shell against metal pan, the hiss of egg hitting the hot buttered pan transported him back. For a moment, he was back in Brooklyn – his Brooklyn, 1936 Brooklyn - preparing breakfast while Bucky dressed for work. He sprinkled some salt over them, then took a step to the side and glanced into the living room, opening his mouth to ask Bucky how many eggs he wanted. The television that dominated the far wall jolted him back to the present. A wave of anguish slammed into him, and he took a step back, his eyes prickling with hot, unshed tears. Bucky wasn't there. Bucky would never be there again. Bucky was dead. He reminded himself sternly that it had been years – no, decades – rather than the mere weeks it seemed to his grief-stricken heart, but the pain didn't ease, instead spilling over and leaking down his cheeks. He sagged forward, resting his elbows on the counter as his body shuddered with sobs. Beside him, the forgotten eggs blackened in the pan.
He had mostly composed himself by the time there was a knock at the door an hour later, though the cold water he had splashed on his face couldn't entirely erase the evidence of his tears. Sharon's eyes widened as he opened the door and stepped aside to let her pass.
"You okay?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice as she entered, her arms full with a cardboard box. "You look like hell."
"Fine," Steve replied tersely. "Just… up late, is all." Sharon nodded, though she didn't look completely convinced. "What's in the box?" he asked.
"Managed to track down the box of your personal effects that was left in the army's possession," she explained. "Sorry about the delay. Rusty gears of bureaucracy and all that." Steve nodded understanding, eyeing the box warily. He wasn't sure he felt up to seeing its contents just yet. Sharon sniffed the air suspiciously. "Is something burning?"
"Not anymore," Steve assured her. "That was breakfast."
"Ah," she acknowledged. "Should we stop somewhere on our way to Chappaqua?" Steve shook his head.
"The second batch was better," he said. "Despite what you may have read, I can cook." Sharon's brown eyes twinkled at him in amusement.
"I don't think most of the literature spent much time speculating on your skills in the kitchen," she mused. He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Really? Which skills…." His voice trailed off as the rest of her statement registered. "Wait. Chappaqua? Today? Now?" Sharon nodded.
"They're expecting us by eleven," she confirmed. Steve glanced at the clock on the wall and took a deep breath. They didn't have to rush, exactly, but they didn't have a luxurious amount of time. He had gone on plenty of missions with less advance notice. He wasn't completely sure why this seemed harder than those had. Squaring his shoulders, he nodded at Sharon.
"I guess we should be going, then," he said glibly, successfully keeping the nerves he felt from creeping into his voice.
They drove in silence for the first several miles, with Sharon concentrating on weaving through the heavy traffic, and Steve watching out the window intently. Every now and again, he caught a glimpse of something familiar, something he remembered. Mostly, it was unfamiliar and strange. He stared at pair of women on the sidewalk as they drove by. One had hair the color of cotton candy, wearing a shirt that left her shoulders and belly exposed and a sparkly skirt that barely covered her bottom. Colorful tattoos danced brazenly across her bared skin. The bright rainbow had her fingers intertwined with a stormcloud beside her. Black pants, dark turtleneck, long black hair, espresso-colored eyes outlined with thick, dark makeup that somehow made the woman's features more intimidating and more feminine at the same time. They paused on the corner and shared a passionate kiss. It was a strange sight, but there was still something familiar that tugged at his heart. Peggy's face danced before him, brighter and warmer than the picture in his compass. He sat back in his seat, one hand pulling down his face as the grief threatened to surface once more. He hadn't asked about Peggy. He was afraid of what the answer might be. Would almost certainly be.
"So, you and Major Dugan were pretty close?" Sharon's tone was light, derailing the train of Steve's thoughts before they got up to full steam. Steve cleared his throat and took a deep breath, diverting his attention to the mission of the day.
"He's… err, he was… a good man to have on your side in a fight," he mused, thinking of Dum-Dum's broad grin and enthusiasm for a brawl. "Always ready for one… sometimes too ready. But even when he was on the outs with one of us, we never questioned whether he had our back on the battlefield. Probably saved our lives six or seven times over." Sharon nodded, keeping her eyes on the road.
"It's important to know your brothers in arms have your back," she observed. Steve nodded.
"I remember him and Frenchie fighting about something – probably a girl – and arguing all morning. By the time we arrived at the mission site, they weren't even speaking to each other. But when Frenchie got backed into a corner, it was Dum-Dum who waded in and saved his hide," Steve reminisced. He shook his head. "Then he pointed at him with a scowl and said, "But you're still a twit!" Except he used more…. Colorful words." A surprised chuckle escaped from Sharon's lips.
"He must have mellowed a bit in his later years," she reflected. "That doesn't sound much like the man I knew." Steve glanced at her, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Really?" he asked incredulously. "What was he like when he… when you knew him?"
"Still loyal," she assured him. "Highly decorated, highly respected. Just… more reserved. At least, in public." Steve shook his head, incredulous.
"I guess people can change, over the… years," he murmured, reflecting on the fact that it still felt like days to him. Sharon nodded agreement as she switched lanes.
"I hear family can do that to you," she noted. Steve nodded slowly, looking back out the window as his breath escaped him in a heavy sigh. He shook his head.
"Still can't believe Dum Dum had kids," he muttered, half to himself.
"And grandkids," Sharon confirmed. "If memory serves, a great-grand just a few months before he passed away." Steve felt a catch in his throat, but covered the clearing with a chuckle.
"I kinda figured he would go down fighting, not… quietly at home," he admitted, recalling the details from the file.
"Fought his way to a nice retirement," Sharon confirmed, taking the exit to the highway. Steve took a deep breath in as they picked up speed.
"Maybe I'll manage that too, someday," he mused, half to himself as the passing buildings and landscape picked up speed. "After another few decades…." Sharon glanced over at him.
"Going to retire at a ripe old age of a hundred and fifty years?" she asked lightly. Steve snorted.
"I guess so," he said ruefully. He sighed. "I know I was born ninety-three years ago, but do the years really count if you're not awake for them?" Sharon acknowledged his point with an inclination of her head. Outside the car, mile markers and guardrails sailed by, and the buildings slowly migrated away from each other, some sprouting lawns and trees in between.
Sharon guided the car up a long, tree-lined driveway. The branches slowly parted to reveal a grand Victorian mansion. Steve exhaled loudly.
"Dum-Dum did really well for himself," he observed, goggling at the sprawling estate.
"Marrying the daughter of a shipping magnate definitely didn't hurt," Sharon agreed. She slowly pulled around the majestic fountain in the middle of the circular cobblestone driveway. Steve leaned forward, looking up at the massive residence.
"Definitely not," he murmured. He glanced down at the file in his lap. "So… his widow still lives here. Are his… are the children here?"
"His two adult sons and their families," Sharon confirmed. "Mark is a lawyer, and Jerome has a hedge fund company."
"And what is that, exactly?" Steve asked blankly, following her up to the impressive front doors. Sharon smiled at him as she rang the doorbell.
"That's a little… complicated," she admitted. "Let's save the crash course on the nuances of manipulating the stock market for the drive home." Steve nodded agreement as the door opened. A preteen girl with big blue eyes and ginger-colored curls stared up at them. "Hi there!" Sharon smiled down at her. "Brianna, right?" The girl nodded. "This was a friend of your Grandpa's. We were coming by for a visit." Brianna nodded again and gestured for them to follow her.
"This way," she directed. "They're in the library." They followed her through the luxurious foyer and down the hall. Sharon followed her into the room, but Steve paused, his attention arrested by the larger-than-life portrait hanging on the library wall. He recognized Dum Dum immediately, but the picture looked significantly different than the man he remembered. The hair and mustache had turned from ginger to white, and a prominent jagged scar traced across his cheek. He somehow looked more refined and more dangerous at the same time, though that admittedly might have been the portrait artist's interpretation. There was a familiar twinkle in his eye, and Steve half-expected the image to wink at him.
"The man, the myth, the legend!" The jovial voice, familiar but with slightly more baritone, drew Steve's attention back to the room's living inhabitants. He turned to see a man with a broad, smiling face and sandy blonde hair proffering his hand to Steve. The familial resemblance to Dum Dum was strong. Steve extended his hand in response. It was immediately enveloped in a hearty grip and pumped up and down. "Wasn't sure I believed the rumor that you were back, but here you are."
"Here I am," Steve agreed. He glanced around the room, suddenly feeling a bit in the spotlight.
"Jerome, don't be rude," a frail voice rebuked. "We may all know who he is, but introductions are still appropriate." It took Steve a moment to identify where the voice came from, but his gaze finally fell on a woman seated in a chair in the corner, poised as if she were atop a throne. Her white hair was coiffed in curls. Though the bloom of youth had faded, beauty still lingered in her refined features.
"Sorry," Jerome apologized, and Steve drew his attention back to the blond man. Jerome gestured around the room, pausing his hand as he named his family members. "My wife Elise, our children Brianna and Timothy, my brother Mark, his wife Tiffany, their son, Lennox and our mother, Rose." The matriarch sat up a little straighter, meeting Steve's gaze with bright blue eyes that held a twinkle that belied the wrinkles that edged them. Despite her age, beauty still gilded her refined features. "The only one missing is our sister, Tallulah. She's overseas on some mission for S.H.I.E.L.D." He waved his hand vaguely. "Top secret, you know. So very ladylike." Sharon raised an eyebrow.
"Well, someone had to carry on the family business," Brianna interjected, giving her father an impudent look. He returned her look with consternation.
"I also am carrying on the family business," he reminded her. "The other one. The business of making ridiculous amounts of money. Which, might I add, pays for your fancy sleepaway camps and horseback riding lessons."
"That doesn't make Aunt Tally less important than you," Brianna folded her arms stubbornly over her chest. Steve got the impression this was not the first time this argument had occurred.
"Enough," Elise interrupted, tone hushed but impatient. "I am sure Captain Rogers doesn't want to weigh in on your debate."
"Indeed," interjected Rose. Brianna glanced at her grandmother, her expression unapologetic, as if winding up to argue more. Rose rang a little bell beside her chair. The door to the library swept open, and a formally-dressed butler carried in a tray with tea and hors d'oeuvres. He set the platter on a tea table near the chaise, then vanished out a side door. "Brianna, will you pour me some tea, if you please?"
"Yes, Grandmother," Brianna replied, surrender in her tone. Standing, she filled a delicate floral teacup and brought it to the dowager.
"Thank you," Rose said smoothly, taking the cup in a wrinkled hand. "I imagine Captain Rogers has a lot of questions for us." She glanced towards Steve, and he suddenly felt as if he were under a microscope.
"Ah…." He did have many questions. So many that he wasn't certain where to start. "Yes, of course." He contemplated for a moment, then decided to start with the most obvious question. "How did you and Dum Dum meet?"
"At a high-society gala," Jerome answered before his mother could open her mouth. "At Chrismastime, wasn't it mother?" Rose gave him a tolerant but disapproving look over the edge of her teacup as she took a long draught.
"The Christmas ball was the first official event we were at together," she agreed after a long moment. "And that became the official story of our meeting. But that was not actually how we met." Both Jerome and Mark gave her startled looks.
"What, Mother?" Mark blurted incredulously. "That was the story Father always told. Even on the holidays, after four cups of your egg nog…"
"It was well-rehearsed," she concurred. "The true story was somewhat more…. Classified." Steve glanced over at Sharon, who suddenly looked apprehensive. Rose caught her expression, and her eyes twinkled at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. "I am an old woman now," she observed. "Eighty-five years next month. If I start spilling S.H.E.I.L.D.'s secrets, are you going to arrest me, Agent?" Sharon sighed.
"No, ma'am," she replied resignedly. Rose smiled in satisfaction.
"The true story of how your father and I met started a month before the ball," she began. "There was a man who called himself Kingsnake. He was a business partner of sorts of my father's, using our ships to export firearms and import raw goods and equipment. But then my father discovered that he had plans to import parts to build a weapon on U.S. soil that he could use to destroy the country. He refused to work with him after that. He did not want any part of such an evil scheme. He used his connections in the shipping industry to make sure nobody else would work with him, either. Kingsnake grew desperate. He decided to… apply pressure, to convince my father to work with him one last time." Rose paused and took another sip of her tea, her blue eyes twinkling at her rapt audience. She set the teacup back on the saucer with a barely audible clink. "He had me kidnapped." Brianna's gasp was loud in the stunned silence. Rose chuckled. "That was when S.H.E.I.L.D got involved…"
Rose prowled impatiently around the sparsely appointed bedroom. She tried the room's one window for the fifteenth time, knowing fully well that it was securely locked. For a moment, she contemplated smashing the glass, but the iron bars mounted over the outside still ensured she would not be able to escape that way. Now that the nausea and headache she had initially awakened with had finally subsided, she was eager to be out of this awful place. The options were limited – there was only the one small window and the door – and the door had a guard stationed outside it every moment she had been awake. She could smell the cigarette smoke on him. Her frustration got the better of her, and she kicked the door as hard as she could.
"Let me out!" she yelled through the heavy wooden door. A wry chuckle floated back to her ears in response.
"Fat chance, girlie," her guard growled. "You didn't even say please." She rolled her eyes to herself.
"If I say please, will you let me out?" she asked skeptically.
"Try it and find out," he replied. She could hear the leer in his voice. She doubted he would just let her go, just like that, but if there was even the smallest chance… She sighed.
"Fine. Please let me out." There was a long pause.
"No." His reply was smug. Rose kicked the door in frustration. He chuckled at her response. "I just wanted to hear that pretty mouth beg," he added. She could hear the leer in his voice. With an aggravated groan, she stomped back to the creaky cot and sat down on it. There had to be another way to get out of this awful place.
"When my father gets here, you're going to regret this," she warned him. "I could have put in a good word for you." The man snorted.
"You think he's coming here?" he asked mockingly. "You had better just hope he decides to cooperate with Kingsnake, or you're going to be in here for the rest of your life." Rose scoffed.
"You couldn't keep me in here that long," she challenged. She heard movement, and a little window in the door slid open, revealing a pair of dark eyes.
"I just said you'd be here the rest of your life," he pointed out. "I didn't say how long that was going to be." A chill ran down her spine as the implied threat sank in, and she swallowed hard. She had been coasting on the assumption that, no matter what, they wouldn't do anything to actually harm her. It suddenly occurred to her that her safety might not be guaranteed. Taking a step back, her legs bumped against the side of the rickety, uncomfortable bed, and she sat down abruptly. A sinister laugh drifted through the slot in the door, and then it slid shut abruptly, leaving her alone with the disturbing imaginings of her demise.
Time ticked by infuriatingly slowly. They were ignoring her now, leaving her in the empty room with her imagination. It was maddening. She was the only daughter of the richest man in the county. She was not used to being ignored. The terror and tension slowly waned as her mind wandered from if this kidnapping would be deadly for her and focused on how deadly boring it was instead.
In the hallway outside her door, she began to hear hurried steps and raised voices. She rushed to see what was going on, but very little was visible through the cracks around the edges of the sturdy wooden door. She heard loud popping noises, first faintly, but then louder and closer. She took one step backwards, then another, then another as the disturbing sounds grew. The cacophony outside her door suddenly ceased, and she leaned forward, debating whether to get closer again. The door burst inwards, and a man wearing a bowler hat and a fabulous mustache rushed through, pistol in hand. When he saw her, he stopped short, his blue eyes widening. His weapon lowered as a broad grin spread across his face. He touched the brim of his bowler hat with two fingers.
"Evenin', little lady," he greeted her. "I don't suppose you'd like to get out of here?" She smiled back at him.
"I thought you'd never ask," she replied. Still grinning at her, he offered his arm, and she slid hers through, as if he were escorting her about a debutante ball and not a villain-infested warehouse. They got halfway down the hall when he paused, dropping her arm as he stepped protectively in front of her. She heard running footsteps, and peeked around him to see five men advancing towards them. She flinched as the man's gun cracked out a sharp report, then another. He stepped backwards sharply, pivoting and forcing her towards the wall. She glanced in the other direction and saw two more men approaching, weapons drawn. Her heart pounding, she clung to her rescuer. He glanced at her, but the rapidly advancing ruffians quickly drew his attention. Grabbing her hand, he sprinted to the side, shooting at the men quickly advancing on them. They ducked for cover behind stacks of boxes, giving them time to dart through a side door. She nearly collided into his back as he stopped, sending an attacker sprawling across the corridor. A revolver skittered across the floor, coming to stop at her red high heels. She scooped it up just as her rescuer pulled her along behind him. A bullet ricocheted off the wall beside her, and she turned her head to see several men in hot pursuit. Recalling what her cousin had said about hunting big game in Africa, she took aim and fired. One of the men stumbled and fell, much to her surprise, but she kept firing. A second man staggered to the side, and the third dropped back, ducking out of the way of her unexpectedly good aim. She glanced over at the man who had come to save her and caught a wide-eyed expression of shock and admiration. It vanished as soon as he realized she was looking at him. They reached the door, and she expected him to charge through it and lead her to freedom. Instead, he turned to look at the slowly crowding corridor, sweeping her behind him. Pulling something out of his pocket, he pushed her backwards through the door as he threw it, winding up like a major league baseball player before letting it loose.
"Go, go, go!" he hissed, pushing her as she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the building they had just escaped. They were running, propelled by fear and adrenaline, when the night sky suddenly lit up bright as day. A deafening clap turned the world silent, and a wave of heat chased them out of the building. She scrambled to keep her footing, ears ringing, and found a steadying hand on her arm. She looked up at her rescuer, feeling dazed. His lips were moving, but she couldn't hear his voice over the high-pitched noise in her ears. She looked up at the sky, which was turning brilliant shades of pink and orange as black smoke poured from the building they had just exited. Still holding tightly to her hand, he led her up the hill to where a group of men were gathered. Two of the men were disassembling impressive-looking artillery while a third man supervised, gun still at the ready. Another soldier appeared to have been injured, as he was holding very still while another man stitched up a large gash in his shoulder. His shirt was torn and blood-spattered. A large black car was idling behind them. Sound was beginning to return to her world. Her rescuer led her to the car, his arm again linked through hers. He opened the door and swept her grandly inside the vehicle. He shot her a mustachioed grin and tipped his hat to her, then went to close the door.
"Wait!" she called out, and he paused, looking at her. "I don't even know your name." She might have imagined it, but she thought his ruddy face flushed slightly.
"My name, ma'am, is Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan," he proclaimed grandly.
"Dum Dum, knock off the apple butter with the dolly and help load the gear!" one of the men yelled. Now Timothy's face did turn red, but before she could hear his retort, he closed the door and the car pulled away.
"…the Christmas ball was four months after that, and I managed to talk Father into inviting all of the men who had rescued me," Rose concluded. "You have heard the story from there. Your father and I danced all night, he couldn't take his eyes off of me…" She gestured with her hand, indicating the obvious end of the love story. Shaking her head, she chuckled. "Father took some convincing. I still am nearly positive I wouldn't have been able to if he hadn't already owned that little house in town. To him, owning property was what made a man respectable."
"Suppose we should all thank President Roosevelt that we're alive, then," Lennox muttered in the corner, staring at his phone. He glanced around in surprise at how loud his words were in the sudden silence. Steve frowned in his direction.
"What does the President have to do with Dum Dum?" he asked in confusion. Lennox looked up and tucked his phone into his pocket as he stood.
"Because he got the GI bill passed, which meant Grandpa could get the loan to buy the house to win over Great-Grandpa Charles and win Grandma's hand in marriage," he explained. Mark cleared his throat.
"While not factually inaccurate, son, I think you are exaggerating the impact of a piece of legislation a bit," Mark protested. Lennox raised an eyebrow at him.
"Am I, father?" he asked pointedly. "I think you just don't want to admit that Grandpa was… what's that expression you use? On the government dole?" Mark gave him a hard look.
"Your grandfather was a lot of things," he growled, holding up an admonishing finger. "But he was never unemployed." Lennox rolled his eyes and retreated to his corner, shaking his head as he returned his focus to his phone. Steve cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably at the tension in the room. Rose clapped her hands, giving Lennox a dirty look as she called the butler in to serve a round of drinks.
Sharon glanced over at Steve, who had been very quiet most of the drive back to New York, staring out the window.
"It's been an interesting day," she commented loudly in the silence. Steve nodded pensively. After a moment, he turned to look at her.
"Kinda feel like I skipped ahead to the end of the book and missed a whole bunch in the middle," he remarked. "Except the story is about one of my closest friends." He glanced down at the file in his lap. "Do you think the story his widow told was true?" Sharon chuckled.
"It does not match the official, documented version of events," she said speculatively. "I suppose the only people who would know for sure are the ones who were there. And she's the only one still alive."
"So, no way to confirm one way or the other," Steve sighed.
"It's kind of a fun story, though," Sharon mused. "I'd like to believe it's true." Steve nodded wistfully, returning his gaze out the window.
"I'm glad Dum Dum did so well for himself," he said softly after a moment. Something in his voice made Sharon glance over again. He sat with his arms folded, shoulders hunched and rounded, staring at the landscape rolling by.
"Are you hungry?" she asked suddenly. "You barely touched any of the hors d'oeuvres while we were there."
"I could eat, I guess," Steve answered, summoning a small smile for her that didn't quite reach his eyes. Sharon nodded decisively.
"I know just the place," she announced.
They were still half an hour out of the city when she pulled into a parking lot of a little shop. Steve looked at the unassuming building curiously. It seemed more familiar than most of the restaurants in the city, old-fashioned styling and décor evocative of the places Steve was familiar with in his recent memory. A cursive sign proclaimed the name of the place to be "Two and a Half Scoops."
"Hope you like ice cream," Sharon commented breezily as she walked past him towards the entrance.
"Who doesn't?" he replied, following. The inside of the ice cream shoppe was just as comforting and familiar, although he was sure he hadn't been there before. His gaze traveled over the movie posters hanging on the walls, many of which he had seen while they were still in the theaters. They settled into a booth near the back. The menu featured a selection of burgers in addition to shakes, malts, sundaes and cones, with an impressive array of seventeen different ice cream flavors. Steve's stomach growled, announcing that he was, in fact, quite hungry.
"I discovered this place when I was in college," Sharon explained as she scanned through the menu. "It quickly became my go-to for studying or blowing off steam, especially after finals or breakups. Probably responsible for at least ten of my Freshman fifteen."
"And you thought I needed to blow off some steam?" Steve asked. Sharon raised an eyebrow at him.
"Was I wrong?" she asked back. Steve chuckled softly.
"No," he admitted.