Author's note: Thanks to Guest, dissatisfieduser and Sage of Wind Dragon for leaving reviews!

Chapter 6

When he had finished with his run, Steve headed to the gym's locker room for a shower, while Hill sent Agent Rodriguez back to his room to bring a change of clothes.

Long habituated to showering in places with a shortage of hot water, Steve washed up in record time. When he had finished and turned off the water, he realized he didn't have a towel. Wiping the water from his eyes and peering over the top of the stall, he saw a stack of folded towels across the way. Just then, a large group of men walked into the locker room, dressed in full combat gear with their faces painted in camouflage. One of them came over close by the shower stalls, put his foot up on the bench and started unlacing his combat boots.

"Hey, could you hand me a towel?" Steve asked him over the stall door.

The man nodded, walked over to grab a towel, and tossed it at him.

"Thanks," Steve said, catching it. He dried off, then tied the towel around his waist and came out of the stall. The man in camouflage paint was unzipping his vest, revealing straps that criss-crossed his chest over his T-shirt. There was a gun strapped to his side, and knives attached to his belt, along with something else Steve didn't recognize, a slender, handled rod that looked electronic. Whatever it was, this guy was geared up to the hilt.

"Just come back from a mission?" Steve asked curiously.

"Training mission," the man said, glancing over at him. "Got a couple of noobs on my team. Gotta get 'em up to speed."

Steve had no idea what a noob was, but it didn't sound complimentary. He sat down on the bench to wait for Agent Rodriguez to come back with his clothes. "How did they do?" he asked the camouflaged man, realizing that this was his first chance to talk to a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who wasn't in top leadership. He knew from his time in the Army that the picture of a military organization could look very different to the eyes of someone on the ground.

The man shrugged. He had dark eyes and dark hair, short on the sides but longer on top, mussed and sweaty. It was hard to tell what his face looked like under all the paint. "Decent. I get to hand-pick my team, so I don't end up with any idiots."

"What team is that?" Steve asked.

"STRIKE team," the man said.

"What's that?"

Steve could tell by the look the man gave him that he should have known what STRIKE team was, and involuntarily he flushed. How could he know?

"Counter-terrorism unit," the man explained after a beat. "You know that fly-in mission three weeks ago, in Pakistan? That was us. We go everywhere. Boko Haram, Al Queda, the Ten Rings... we put a lot of those guys in the ground." He looked Steve over. "You new here?"

"Yeah." Actually, he was old here, but it amounted to the same thing.

"What team?"

"I don't really have an assignment," Steve said. Of course, he wasn't part of S.H.I.E.L.D. at all, but he wasn't even tempted to explain to this man that he was really... what? A patient? A guest? A science experiment gone terribly wrong... or miraculously right?

The man looked him over, his eyes flicking down to Steve's bare chest and arms and then back up again. "Would I be totally off-base if I guessed that you were pretty good at hand-to-hand combat?"

Steve paused for a moment. "Does it matter?"

The man shrugged again. "I have a hard time finding partners to spar with who can give me a challenge. I'm always on the lookout. What's your name?"

"Steve."

The man stuck his hand out. "Rumlow. Brock Rumlow."

They shook hands, and then Rumlow finished shedding his gear and got into the shower. By the time Agent Rodriguez brought Steve his clothes and he had finished dressing, most of the STRIKE team were in the process of getting dressed too, making loud jokes at each other's expenses in a rough but good-natured way. They were obviously a well-oiled team that had found unity through adversity. Watching them, Steve couldn't help but feel a certain longing. Would he ever find another team like his Commandos, one with such complete familiarity and trust that you could run into the most impossible situations without fear, knowing they had your back?

Rumlow finished getting dressed. Now that the camouflage was washed off, Steve could see that he had a 5 o'clock shadow and some subtle scarring near his left eye.

"STRIKE team, to the cafeteria, double time!" Rumlow called with a crooked grin. "Let's see if Castillo can eat S.H.I.E.L.D. out of house and home again."

"Watch and learn, my friends," one of the men shot back. "Watch and learn."

The men laughed and began to troop out of the locker room. As Rumlow left, he turned and glanced over at Steve. "You coming, big guy?"

"Uh... sure," he said, surprised.

They left the locker room, and Steve jogged over to where Hill was waiting for him and explained where he was going. She didn't seem opposed to the idea at all, and agreed to come get him in the cafeteria a little later.

They all got their food and sat down at a long table. At first Steve mostly listened to the other guys talk. But after a while there was a lull, and he looked at Rumlow sitting next to him and asked, "So what brought you here? Why did you join the STRIKE team?"

Rumlow shrugged as he finished chewing. "Partly 'cause it's the best of the best, I guess. Partly because it really ticks me off that a couple of idiots from some backwater country can come into my backyard and bring down the Twin Towers. Terrorists breed chaos, you know? I like order. I'll pay for it in pain if I have to. Right, guys?" He glanced around the table.

"We eat pain for breakfast," Rollins quipped, and the guys around him laughed.

"The Twin Towers?" Steve repeated, but no one heard him over the laughter.

"Well, at least they finally nailed bin Laden this year," Rumlow said. "Took the Navy long enough. They shoulda put us on that one." There was a general murmur of agreement.

Whatever they were talking about, it was clearly important. Steve made a mental note to ask Hill about it later.

The conversation moved on to other topics. Steve was so intent on following what the guys were saying that he didn't pay much attention to what he was eating, until he looked down and realized with some surprise that he had just cleaned his plate. Well, the nurses would be happy with him for a change.

"So where were you before this?" Rumlow asked Steve.

"The Army."

"Oh yeah? Green Berets? Rangers?"

Steve answered carefully. "Me and my unit, we kinda did our own thing."

"What, like black ops?" Rumlow looked intrigued.

"It was really more red, white and blue," Steve said.

A loud conversation at the other end of the table erupted into hoots and gales of laughter from the STRIKE team. It was hard to understand much of what the guys were saying amid the uproar, but it seemed to have something to do with a woman, and it didn't sound very polite.

Steve braced himself for the turn the conversation was about to take — he'd been in the Army, after all, and it was inevitable that the talk would turn to certain things when a room was full of men. But he couldn't help but grimace a little as he glanced at the two women at the table who were apparently also members of the STRIKE team — and the guys showed no signs of holding back on the ribald talk despite the mixed company.

"We shouldn't have this discussion here," Steve said, his voice cutting across the chatter.

"Why not?" Rollins asked, squinting at him in puzzlement.

"Because there are ladies present."

He got a few weird looks, but far more of the guys seemed to think he was joking, and they laughed loudly, with Castillo reaching over to pound Steve on the shoulder appreciatively. Oddly enough, one of the women was laughing just as loudly as the guys. Confused, Steve looked at the other woman. He thought she at least looked uncomfortable, and yet she quickly looked away from Steve and down to her plate, shrugging one shoulder as if to indicate that what was happening was no big deal.

"Rogers!" Steve looked around and saw Hill waving at him from across the cafeteria. "Time to go!"

Steve started to get up from the table, but Rollins suddenly snorted into his coffee. "Rogers?" he exclaimed, looking up at Steve with a grin creeping across his face. "Your name is Steve Rogers?"

"Talk about unfortunate," one of the other guys said. "What were your parents thinking?"

"Do people bug you for autographs?" Castillo asked.

"Ever dress up like him for Halloween?" another asked, and there were guffaws all around.

But Rumlow was staring at Steve wide-eyed, without a trace of a smile.

"You're the spitting image," he said suddenly. STRIKE team stopped laughing and looked back and forth between Rumlow and Steve.

"Well, it was nice to meet you fellas," Steve said quickly, and made his escape.

When he caught up to Hill, Steve glanced back at the table. Everyone in the STRIKE team was staring at him, looking dumbfounded.

"I think they recognized me," Steve told Hill as they walked away.

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Fury will be making an official agency-wide announcement tomorrow, and then they'll all know. He's at the White House today, by the way, briefing the president."

"Who is the president?" Steve asked curiously.

"Matthew Ellis."

"Is he good?"

Hill grimaced and made a so-so gesture with her hand.

"Well, I didn't vote for him," Steve said.

Hill gave him a startled look, but the moment she realized he was joking, she laughed out loud in sudden surprise and delight. She had a nice laugh. He hadn't heard it before. But then, he hadn't been in a joking mood before. His humor felt rusty, like a rifle that had been dropped in the mud weeks ago and was never cleaned out properly. But the STRIKE team's levity had been infectious, even if it had been rough.

"I'd like to take you on a tour of the building now, if you're up to it," Hill said, the smile lingering on her face.

He was, and so for the next several hours she took him around to the various departments of the agency, explaining to him in detail what S.H.I.E.L.D. was and what it did. Like the SSR, he learned, it nurtured scientists whose discoveries were used to counter the increasingly sophisticated weapons being developed around the world, and also maintained a standing paramilitary force well-trained in combat and espionage.

"We leave the full-scale military operations to the armed forces of whatever country is facing a threat," Hill explained. "We're not an army, but we excel at small-scale, precision strikes." She cocked her head and smiled a little. "Something like your Commandos, right?"

There were differences, though, Steve realized as Hill kept talking. Much like the SSR, there were multiple countries that contributed to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s personnel and funding, but unlike the SSR, the agency did not ultimately answer to the U.S. president, but to a World Security Council made up of leaders from a handful of the most influential nations. Steve was surprised by this, but Hill explained that while he had slept, there had been a trend toward international cooperation, in part because of the success of the Allies.

"The United States is still the world's superpower," Hill said, "but we also realize it isn't only about us. A lot of the threats we face — terrorists, for example — are bound more by ideology than nationalism. They don't fight for any particular country, and they move across borders freely to do what they do. We need to be free to do the same."

As the tour went on, it became clear to Steve that there was a streak of idealism running through Hill's external practicality. Although he could see that she held no illusions about the dangers of the real world, she also spoke of protecting the peace with a passionate sincerity. He was impressed; it spoke well of an organization that it could attract someone of Hill's caliber to its ranks. Suddenly he wondered about his own status. Was he still technically in the Army? He had operated as an officer under the umbrella of the SSR, but if the SSR had been subsumed into S.H.I.E.L.D., and S.H.I.E.L.D. was no longer affiliated with the Army...

"Was I designated killed in action?" he asked Hill.

"Not initially," Hill said. "I believe Director Carter insisted that you be listed as missing in action. But at some point somebody in the Army got a bug up their-" She paused. "Well, you know how it is in the military. Anyway, someone declared you dead at some point."

Steve had stopped cold in the middle of the corridor, missing half of what Hill had just said. "Director Carter?"

Hill stopped to face him. "Yes. Peggy Carter. She helped found S.H.I.E.L.D., and she became our director sometime in the '70s, I believe. You knew her, didn't you?"

So that was why her portrait was in the lobby. Maybe she had grieved for him for a time, but it hadn't broken her. She had continued on with her work. She had made something of her life. A warm sensation filled his chest, a swell of pride that spread down to the tips of his toes. She'd fought so hard for her career in the old days, encountering resistance every step of the way, but she'd never given up. Like him, Peggy had learned never to run away from a fight. She'd fought her way all the way to the top, and she'd built something good. Something enduring. Something that made the world a better place.

"Captain?" Hill said.

He blinked a few times, coming back to the present. Hill was looking at him curiously, head cocked to the side.

"I want to try to sleep now," he told her, not caring how abrupt it sounded. Between his long run and his first decent meal since waking up, he actually was feeling sleepy, but it was more than that. There was something he needed to see.

Hill readily agreed, even though the evening sun was still shining through the windows, and before long he was back in his room and the nurses had been instructed not to disturb him. Steve lay back on the bed, but didn't switch off the lamp. Instead, he reached for his compass, still waiting for him on the nightstand. Holding his breath, he opened it.

The picture was there, whole and undamaged. Steve felt both relief and joy rush over him. He relaxed against the pillow, gazing at it, eyes roaming over Peggy's familiar features. It was only a black and white photograph, but her beauty shone out nonetheless, her dark hair and lips contrasting with her fair skin. Finally, when he had looked his fill, Steve turned off the light and closed the lid of the compass, but he still held it in the palm of his hand, the cool metal gradually warming to match his body heat. Slowly, his eyelids drooped, and at long last, he fell asleep.

He woke up early the next morning. Too early - all was still quiet outside his room - but then again he had gone to bed early. He felt well-rested for a change. Almost human again. And the compass was still in his hand. He flipped it open and lay there in the early-morning stillness, looking at Peggy's picture again.

She would have hated to see him the way he had been the last few days. Probably would have stormed across the room, heels clicking sharply, to tell him to stop being so dramatic already and get back to work.

That's it, he decided. I gotta snap out of this. No more feeling sorry for myself. It is what it is. I'm just gonna have to make the best of it.

He needed a plan of action. And so he got dressed, combed his hair and started making one. When Hill came in that morning and asked him yet again if he needed anything, this time he was ready with an answer.

"Can I get some books?" he asked.

"Yes, absolutely," she said, brightening. "What do you like to read?"

"I want something on World War II," he said. "Especially about the end of it. And some books about the biggest things to happen in the last 70 years. Elections, and inventions, and whatever else happened that was important."

"That's a great idea," Hill said, writing it down on her clipboard. "I'm sure we can find something like that. Okay, anything else?"

"Today's newspaper," Steve said. "And a notebook and pen. And maybe a sketch pad, too."

Hill was writing as fast as she could. "You're an artist?" she asked curiously, glancing up.

"Not really. I only had one year of school. I just do it for myself, when I have the time."

Hill finished writing. "I can get all this to you in less than an hour. Fury's holding a meeting with the agents level 4 and up in the briefing room right now, to announce your return. It's being broadcast to our other locations as well." She handed her notes to an assistant, who left the room. "Fury wants to move you to another location as soon as the briefing is over," she added. "You don't really need to be here for medical care anymore, but what you do need to do is a lot of catching up. You're not adapted to live in this time. We're going to remedy that."

"Move where?" Steve asked.

"There's a safe house S.H.I.E.L.D. maintains called the Retreat," Hill said. "It's a cabin in the woods in a remote location. It's home-like, but very secure. You should be comfortable there."

"For how long?"

Hill shrugged. "Maybe a month or two. Depends on how fast you learn. The computer alone is going to take quite a while, I think, but it has to be done. Everyone uses them on a daily basis, nowadays."

"Who's going to teach me?" Steve asked.

"I'm putting together a team of agents," Hill said. "We don't have any shortage of computer experts around here."

Steve thought for a moment. "You said everyone knows how to use a computer?"

"Yes."

"Couldn't Gabe teach me?" He didn't relish the thought of spending weeks cooped up in one place with a lot of agents fussing over him. Normality was what he craved, he was beginning to realize. So far his time with Gabe had been the closest thing to normal he had experienced since waking up. The young man's determined quest to better himself despite his personal hardships reminded him of his own youth, and of the many down-and-out young men he had known, growing up in his Brooklyn neighborhood.

Hill paused. "Gabe isn't really cleared for something like this," she said slowly, "but I think I could make it happen for you. We'd have to tell him a cover story, though. Otherwise he won't understand why you don't know how to do things everyone else does."

"Tell him I got brain damage," Steve said. "It's close enough to the truth."

"Your brain seems fine to me," Hill said with a wry smile.

Steve shook his head ruefully. "I got a lot of 'what's-wrong-with-you' looks yesterday, sitting with those guys in the cafeteria."

"The problem may be with them, not you," Hill said. She coughed loudly, choking out a garbled word that sounded something like testosterone.

"Not a lot of gentlemen on the STRIKE team," Hill added, "but then, that isn't what we hired them for. You don't kill terrorists with niceness."

As soon as all the arrangements were made and his belongings had been packed up, Hill escorted Steve to the lobby. They arrived just as a crowd of agents began filing out of a conference room on the upper level. They caught sight of Steve standing below, waiting for Hill to finish discussing something with the woman at the front desk, and immediately he noticed faces lighting up in recognition. That must be Fury's briefing that Hill had mentioned, notifying them of Steve Rogers' return. Many of the agents exchanged glances with each other, smiling and whispering to each other, and then, as they came down the stairs toward him, someone whistled and began to clap.

Suddenly everyone was clapping, and Steve found himself surrounded by a knot of agents, all wanting to shake his hand and introduce themselves, and share with him a dozen variations of "We're so glad to have you back!"

Patiently, Steve shook everyone's hands and worked to match faces with names. He had once found this part of the job awkward, once his show had taken off and he'd been mobbed after each performance by people who wanted autographs and photographs with Captain America, but with time and a lot of hard work, he had eventually worked out the right things to say to put people at ease and make them feel like they were noticed and appreciated. He found all those old skills coming back to him in an instant; it was like riding a bike. Nick Fury stood up on the balcony, silently watching the proceedings below.

A pair of men approached Steve. "Agent Rollins, Agent Rumlow," Steve said politely, recognizing them both from the STRIKE team.

"Looking forward to working with you, Cap," Rumlow said, shaking his hand with a friendly smile that creased his cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"It's good to be back," Steve said, pumping his hand — and for a moment, despite the regret that had perpetually hovered in the background of his mind since the moment he woke up from the ice — he meant it. It felt good to be wanted. It felt good to have a place.

Eventually, though, Agent Hill put her arm around Steve and regretfully pulled him away from the eager crowd, guiding him outside to where a black vehicle waited at the curb to take him away.

TO BE CONTINUED

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