Hi again. Thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that followed and favorited it. This chapter is one of the longest and was actually where the idea for this story started, so I hope that it flows well and isn't laborious to read. I researched a bunch of stuff to make sure this was authentic so any historical facts about objects and when they came into being are true. Any feedback is, as always, appreciated.

Responses to reviews:

Guest ( Armand) Absolutely no problem, here is another! I hope you enjoy it.

Guest (sœur) Bonjour Sœur Deux. You really should get an account or alternatively you could just walk along the hall and tell me you liked it. No Agent Clarke this time but soon he will be back which I am sure you will just love.

Princess Prettypants – I think you share Coraline's sentiment about how bad S.H.I.E.L.D's resources are. And as for Agent Clarke, I'm afraid you'll just have to wait and see. There is a long ride ahead of Coraline and co, so everything is very much subject to change.

TortoisetheStoryTeller – I figured who better or more qualified to teach someone 70 years of history than a historian, and this chapter was the birth of that little idea so hope you like how it turned out. Any romance is a very long way off, and still not 100% set in stone, and I can say with certainty that Coraline will have a large role with the rest of the Avengers, though it will not be just her current profession that gets her to that position. That's some light spoilers there for you though it'll be a while before they come to fruition.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters aside from my own OC. The rights of the other characters belong to Marvel and its affiliates.

Enjoy!

As she was pushed through the door by Agent Clarke's glare, the dappling of the weak New York sunlight caused droplets of dewy summer day to dance across the faded carpet.

She watched the beads of light scatter as the shadows of the door shutting behind her chased them back to behind the window, before she put down the grocery bags carving welts into her fingers and took in the rest of the apartment.

It was nice, she supposed. Dark and beige and dreary, but OK size wise and she was sure for near central Manhattan it was much better than the average. Boxes formed cardboard turrets everywhere where there was enough room to stack them, but despite their obvious infringement on the shape of the room, she could still identity a desk in one corner and a small kitchen shadowed in the other. After reintroducing the red marks on her fingers to the bag handles, she knocked a light switch with her elbow and started her cautious advance through the box town turrets.

On reaching the nearest counter and again depositing the bags, she looked back around her at the now slightly brighter room.

And then she sucked a gasp in through her teeth.

A closer inspection wasn't even needed to see that someone had already left a sizeable amount of stuff in the flat. The stacks of boxes – none of which appeared labelled to her barely concealed horror – were piled full of stuff.

Some appeared to hold books, all with faded yellow pages and curled corners. Another appeared to come straight out of someone's garage – or perhaps a cellar of a building that had collapsed in the 50s with everything still inside. Coraline's eyes widened as the historian side of her squealed in glee. Some of the technology in that one box had been on the museum's wish list for years. Her fingers traced the dial of a rotary phone as she peaked underneath it and almost verbalised her inner excited thoughts as she recognised the ivoried keys of a 1940s typewriter.

"Ok, Cora, concentrate," She muttered to herself as she forced herself back over to the abandoned groceries. "Focus on the task and then you can go home."

As she put the now very meagre looking amount of food into the respective fridge and cupboards, she chastised herself for slipping back into the habit of talking to herself. Not that that was unusual. Everyone talked to themselves at one point or another, but as far as she was aware dedicated arguments in locked rooms with only yourself to listen were a little beyond normal, and after getting that far once in the midst of a particularly stressful semester, Coraline wasn't too keen to encourage the habit even a little bit.

Sighing, the young woman rested her head against the cool door of the fridge, while internally her brain scrambled for a plan.

Unpack the food. Check.

Destroy the cardboard castle in the living room. Eh.

Cora glanced at the less than enticing living room, before rooting through the near empty shopping bag until she found what she was looking for.

In one hand she clutched a 20 pack of biros.

In the other: 1000 yellow post it notes.

aAa

Steve Rogers was tired. He was tired and irritable and sick to death of being asked over and over the same questions while receiving the same looks as if he was in a zoo and his caged box was the prized exhibit.

The act of opening the door with a key was foreign to him. After signing up, after the serum, doors were either already opens, opened for him, or his for kicking down. He couldn't remember the last room he'd owned with a key,let alone using a key to open a door to one,. It had probably been back before the war had started, before Hawaii had taken a pounding and America had sworn revenge.

The last time he had used a key, he realised with a small slither of horror, as he opened the door, was in 1940, before his mom had died.

After that the door had always been open at Bucky's –

Steve shook his head as if to clear the memory away and opened the door.

The apartment was dark as he shut the door behind him, making the one light on even more obvious.

Cautiously he crossed the room to the lamp that illuminated a small circle of the countertop. On the counter – in the glow of the light's orb – a small square of yellow paper was stuck to a closed manila folder.

Steve unstuck it from its position – hesitating again at the unfamiliar tackiness on his fingertips. Directing the lamp light onto the paper's surface, the scribble scrawled writing on it became clear.

'Hello Captain Rogers. I was the one to organise your apartment, so I've labelled some things to help you out. You might want to turn on the main light -C.'

This was completed by a large arrow being pointed back towards the door.

Not knowing what else to do, Steve followed the arrow's direction back towards the door, and groped around for the small lever to pull that would bring light back into the room. When he didn't find it he sighed and leant against the wall in exasperation.

A slight click at his shoulder had him internally cursing for already having broken something and why the hell couldn't they just tell him what these things looked like. When the room was lit up, he paused in his internal monologue.

Huh, so the click was the light switch?

He shifted off the wall as his eyes rapidly got used to the brightness. As the minuscule white dots faded out of his vision, he noticed the clock across the room.

3.00. And judging by the unique yellowed grey of a New York night, it wasn't the afternoon.

He switched his attention from the clock as he realised that the yellow tint wasn't just behind the curtains.

The apartment was clean, orderly and entirely bland. Sealed boxes were piled up on the kitchen work surfaces and the small table to his left. More appeared to be stacked against the corners of the room, and on the bookshelves to his right.

Not that that was what caught his attention.

No, his attention was entirely captured by the hundreds of little yellow squares with black ink strewn across them that appeared to be stuck to everything in the room.

One such square fluttered to the ground behind him as he stepped away from the wall completely. He picked it up delicately, avoiding the sticky end this time.

'It would probably have been easier just to start with this light, huh? This is a light switch. A little different to what you are used to, but works the same way – C'

The corner of his mouth formed the beginnings of a smile, something so foreign to him at the moment that he soon dismissed it.

Instead he walked to the nearest yellow square attached to the wall next to the door and squinted at the writing on it.

'These are Post-it Notes by the way. Invented 1974. –C'

There it was. Just another in the long line of slaps in the face that reminded him that he was so far from anything familiar. He gritted his teeth as he followed the Post-it note arrow to the left again.

'Sorry if that was a bit sudden to announce. It must be pretty tough being in your position. –C'

"Yeah, C," He sighed as he scooped the Post-it notes into his palm as he continued to read. "Just a bit."

'Coffee in the kitchen. Will help. –C'

Not having a better idea, he crossed back to the kitchen, bumping another light switch tentatively to add a little extra illumination this corner of the apartment. Sure enough, this corner was also covered a light layer of yellow squares. Obediently, Steve found the one marked coffee and then paused again, not knowing whether heating water was different.

An arrow answered his question to a post it notes with smaller arrows around it.

'Kettle works on electricity. It's already filled with water. Just push down the little blue lever and wait until it pops back up. –C'

He followed the instructions, and jumped slightly as a gurgling noise broke the silence of the room. Chiding himself for his own jumpiness –you've knocked Hitler out over 200 times dammit – he scanned the cupboards at head height till he found the right one.

'Mugs – C'

Thank you C, he thought as he chose a mug from the diverse selection of white china or white china. He enjoyed a moment of satisfaction as he spooned some instant coffee powder into his mug. Spoons hadn't changed and C had left one in a mug for him. Coffee powder had been all but a staple in rations, so here were two things in this unfamiliar world that were normal - friendly.

The large silver box emitting light whirring noises was not friendly, at least not in how it looked. The post it notes for this one was much appreciated, just to give the soldier some context as to what the hell he was looking at.

'Refrigerators. Also called fridges. Keeps things cold – started to become common at the end of the 1940s. –C. Milk inside.'

The cold was unpleasant. Not that he remembered going into the ice, not really, but the slight prickling of coolness on his arms as he opened the door and reached inside for the again labelled milk was not a comforting feeling by far.

He did, however, pause when he realised that aside from the milk and some orange juice – a fruit he barely remembered the taste of ,what with rations and the Depression restricted any foods to what was edible and cheap – there was also a few other glass dishes of foods in the fridge. He picked up the label for the first one, the poor handwriting getting easier to read as he got used to it.

'Shepherd's Pie. I don't think this is a common American dish today, so you probably didn't have it either. It's lamb mince and vegetables topped with potato. Cook in oven. Stick to army rations for now. Maybe try it tomorrow – C'

Steve hummed as he replaced the sticker on the dish. He wasn't hungry – didn't really remember what hungry felt like. Still if it had been made for him, it would be rude to waste it. Especially when he knew others would have cried to see it wasted back Then.

The little lever on the kettle popped, and sure enough the water that he poured over his coffee grounds was boiling. Steve added milk and stirred, before taking his too hot coffee over to the desk across the room.

The boxes that had seemed chaotic at the time now seemed organised. He noticed that while the first two were open, the other five were taped down. A number of post it notes on the wall above them, each baring one letter each, spelled out 'Technology'.

On closer inspection each box had a decade in big letters written on it in thick black ink. Of course each also had a post it note attached.

'Technology: 1940s. Stuff you might have seen, some maybe not. I'm sure you will work it out quickly. –C'

He didn't look into the box, instead moving to the next one, almost eagerly though he denied himself that emotion in light of how unpleasant his overall situation currently was.

'1950s: Highlights include transistor radios, liquid paper to white out mistakes on typewriters, also the hydrogen bomb though I doubt they put one of those in here –C.'

He chuckled at this one despite himself, C's slightly dark humour getting to him even where the always familiar taste of coffee couldn't. He picked up the next yellow square, hoping for more of the same, for a little more reason to laugh to get the dust out from the cracks in his brain where bitterness had entrenched itself.

'1960s – Do the first two boxes first. Someone should help you with anything from here onwards. –C'

His inklings of humour dissipated at this. Back to reality and the organisation with a bird logo that wasn't the SSR and never would be.

He continued reading the next post it dejectedly.

'I don't know who it will be that will help. I'm sure I'll have to write a report or handover or something as I am meant to be in London tomorrow for work at 9.00am. –C'

London? C was British perhaps. Like Peggy – no, he didn't want to think about that. He crumpled that note in his palm forcefully, ripping the next one from the table instead.

'Hopefully they'll be nice –C.'

He softened a little at this, but the ruthlessness at getting through all these notes hadn't changed, as that note was dropped and the next one – this time stuck to the pile of stacked boxes on the bookshelves against the wall – was yanked off.

'I organised the stuff in these boxes as it looked as if anything pre-2000 was boxed up and sent here. The open boxes in your bedroom are things I thought you might want. Your army uniform is there too. I didn't touch that –C.'

He exhaled shakily at this, a mixture between anger and sadness. In a few strides he was at the entrance to the door marked bedroom by another of those stupid yellow squares. That to was ripped off, as the soldier opted for the opposing room. He didn't even read the door, because clearly it was a bathroom and how stupid did C think he was if he couldn't work that out by himself.

He opened the one cupboard in the bathroom, eyes scanning the labelled products, reading but not really taking it in.

'Toothpaste- 1950s invention but I think you had something similar –C .'

He had to bring the paper closer to read the tiny and even more scribbled footnote to that post it.

'This is not what I thought my Masters would be used for!'

He didn't let himself enjoy that small moment of humanity from the post it note person, instead moving on silently.

'Soap, bottled and a bar. I'm fairly certain you don't get to Captain in the army without knowing how to use soap –C.'

'First Aid kit – I'm sure you know how to use it, but if not just follow the instruction booklet. Or alternatively, don't get hurt–C.'

'Deodorant. Spray/ read instructions. I draw the line at explaining this to a grown man - C.'

He stopped at this, clutching the post it as he leant against the cool of the bathroom tile. He breathed in and out a couple of times, calming himself slowly. With movements that didn't feel like his own, he walked into the bedroom, his bedroom he supposed, and bypassed the uniform he couldn't quite bare to see on its display model, instead going straight for the closet built into the wall.

'Clothes inside. I sorted through these too ( I hope you don't mind too much). I tried to keep it to things you might actually wear, but the rest is with the rest of the decorations in your spare room –C.'

The Captain didn't bother to look inside. Clothes, or at least the one C had picked out for him, didn't change. At least he hoped not. And if they did, he really didn't want to deal with that now.

He crossed back to the bed, eying it warily with all its pillows and bed linen and sheets. He really doubted he would be getting much sleep tonight – or this morning as he supposed it was now. Especially not with that cushioned monstrosity for a resting place. Dirt in Hitler's backyard would have been more comfortable.

He huffed as he groped at the wall for the light switch for the smaller light perched on the bedside table. That is until he saw the post it attached somewhat precariously to the cable leading out of the light stand.

'Bedside lamp. Turn on at switch on cord – just like a normal light switch –C.'

He did as was ordered and the light flickered into life. Its glow illuminated one solitary note on his pillow.

Let me guess, he thought as he unstuck it from the too soft fabric: Pillow. Put head on.

'Goodnight Captain Rogers –C.'

Oh.

Steve smiled and rather than leaving the last yellow square with the wad of the others in the waste paper basket , he stuck it back down on his bedside table, right next to the unfamiliar light switch cord.

After rooting through the cupboards to find the stack of folded fabric labelled 'pyjamas', Steve changed and slipped under the too soft covers.

He stared up at the ceiling as the birds and horns of a familiarly strange city started to wake up. Sighing he turned on his side and screwed his eyes tightly shut, hoping that his soldier's instinct to sleep anywhere it was offered would kick in.

Sure enough, as the drowsiness that shouldn't really exist after however many years unconscious began to seep in, he felt his thoughts get fuzzier in the dawn light.

"Goodnight C," he muttered before the honks and shouts of daylight drowned out his thoughts and he drifted into sleep.

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