They climbed a flight of stairs, and then Eleanore led them down a bright yellow hallway up to a cherry wood door marked 216C. She unlocked it and let Steve into the apartment, along with the dog.
"Sorry, but can you stay here for a second? I'll just run and get you a pass for your bike so it isn't towed." She appeared calmer, but still cautious.
Steve nodded, and she gently shut the door behind her. He could detect her running up another flight of stairs to the third floor, but only because of his enhanced hearing. He reached to flick on the light switch near the door, and surveyed the room he'd walked into.
There was a kitchen to his right, and a small doorway leading to what looked like a bathroom to his left. The kitchen actually had a gas stove, which Steve found remarkable. Some things did stick, he supposed. The counter was old, stained wood that matched the cupboards, and the floor was linoleum. A small machine that emitted coffee smells, but with no pot, stood on the counter next to a silver toaster and a knife rack, with a sink next to them. The refrigerator was next, and there the kitchen ended, cut off by a wall that served as a divider and held a small island counter top, which had a few barstools around it. A small light covered by a white shade hung from the ceiling above this island, and directly under it was an artificial white rose along with a sprig of lilac in a clear glass vase. Everything looked very clean, though unmilitary.
As Steve explored the area, the dog trotted off. Steve jumped when the light in the next room came on, and he went over to investigate. The dog had gone into what seemed to be the living room with a long couch and coffee table against the picture windows, which were covered by blinds and a valance. The living room was open to the kitchen and the entryway, and from there proceeded to a darkened bedroom situated to the left which housed a queen-sized bed, a desk, and a dresser, and a small closet. To the right was another bedroom, Steve found, only this one had a smaller bed, another desk, and a wardrobe-dresser-cabinet. All of the walls were a classic creamy white, except for the one that faced the outside in the living room, which was bare brick mortar. Other than the kitchen, the rest of the apartment seemed to have hardwood floors. The dog— Jet —completed his rounds of the place and began turning lights off, leaving only the living room and kitchen illuminated. Steve wondered what it was looking for, then shook it off as Eleanore came back in the front door.
"Jet's done his rounds and given you a tour, I suppose?" she asked, cheerfully. She set her bag down in the living room, and moved into the kitchen. Steve was relieved when she moved on without a reply from him. "I don't know what you like, so I'll make what I like, and then you can decide whether to eat it or not." She got out a large pot and began pouring water into it from the sink's faucet. "Have a seat anywhere."
Steve glanced at the various chairs stationed around the small home, deliberating. Should I take a seat on the couch so she can cook in peace? Or would—
Eleanore appeared in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. "Here, come sit at the island while I cook."
Easy enough. He followed the order, and she placed a glass full of water in front of him.
"The only thing else I have to drink is milk. Whole milk. Let me know if you want some." She turned and lit the burner for the stove, placing the water-laden pot above it.
What other type of milk is there?
Steve caught a whiff of gas before it was burned up by the fire. The dog came and sat near the door, watching both of them and occasionally walking over to inspect Eleanore's work. She cooked for a while, getting out boxes labeled Rotini and Farfalle, which turned out to be types of pasta, and she dumped them into the pot without measuring. Then came olive oil; just a touch, "To keep the noodles from sticking."
Steve still wasn't sure what he should be doing except sitting where she'd told him, until she plopped a cutting board, a knife, and some cooked chicken breasts in front of him.
"Sort of strips, that you wouldn't have to cut with a fork, please." And she went back to stirring the now-boiling pasta.
Steve did cut the chicken. It was cold, a bit like he felt inside. The knife was sharp: another similarity to his emotions.
"SHIELD knew it was happening?" For conversation starters, it wasn't his best. Oh well, he never had learned to talk to dames.
Eleanore slowly turned and seemed to measure her words, even as she kept stirring. "It's not that they knew. Dr. Rouldkin had been with them a long, long time, and they trusted him more than they should have. From what I understand, he has researched the Super Soldier Experiment his entire career, and he leapt at the chance to study you." She winced, whether from her words or the heat of the water he couldn't tell. "He took it way too far, but had not submitted his research or findings to SHIELD. Another week like that, and it would have been Director Fury instead of me chewing him out."
"Why was it you?" Steve felt his control slipping. He carefully put the knife down and took the napkin she offered, wiping his hands and then resting them on his legs.
"When you said something this morning about the tests, I was concerned." She took the noodles off the burner and turned it down to low. She opened a cupboard above her head, taking out a strainer, and placed it in the sink before pouring the pasta and water into it with care. Her back was to him, so Steve couldn't see her expression. She put a pot holder down on the counter, placed the pot on it, and poured the noodles back in, sans water. "I didn't think they were hurting you, but it sounded suspicious. Also, I've met Dr. Rouldkin before, and he never gave me a good impression. I went to class, then came back to get my access card from Mar— Agent Hill —and then I looked up what tests they'd run on you today in one of the research labs apart from the one you were in."
She opened the freezer, put a bag of peas in the small box sitting on her counter and turned it on. Steve watched as a light went on inside the box, and a strange humming filled the room as the peas inside rotated. Eleanore, meanwhile, was stirring white sauce into the the pasta, along with other spices that she selected from the overhead cupboard to her left.
"So why did you confront him instead of calling someone…" older, stronger, taller "else?"
"That's a good question." She dumped the peas into the pasta, followed by the chicken. It smelled pretty good as she mixed it. "Probably because I just usually do things myself instead of asking someone else. I can take care of myself, you know. Also, because I don't always plan ahead. Also, having Jet around gives me a power complex, like a Chihuahua who hangs out with a Great Dane."
Steve had to smile at the mental imagery, and glanced at Jet, who gave him a superior look. He felt some of his anger melt into humor. "I don't know, you seemed to have it under control. Especially when those guards picked you up."
Eleanore turned and smiled at him, rolling her eyes. "That sense of humor will get you places. Not the White House, but places." She reached some bowls down from a cupboard, and started serving the meal.
"I've already been to the White House," Steve returned easily.
"Way to one-up." Eleanore handed him a bowl, "Eat it while it's hot. Parmesan?" She thunked a green container filled with off-white powder in front of him, and then turned back to pour the rest of the pasta into a ceramic container, which she then placed in the fridge. Next, she started washing the dishes she'd used, which was done very quickly, and finally she sat down across from him at the island.
Steve shook a little of the substance from the green container onto his pasta, hoping it would taste OK.
"Now, do you want to go over the documents, or do you want to watch a movie?"
Steve thought about it, weighing his residual anger against the pasta he hadn't tried yet. More anger would make it taste bad. "What movie?"
"Anything you want. I thought something from a little after your time, like maybe John Wayne?" Steve shrugged at her. "Or we could see something more modern as an immersion tactic."
"I've heard of John Wayne." Steve said, thinking that an older movie might ease him into the modern lifestyle more quickly.
"The Duke it is!" Eleanore swept herself off the barstool and waved him over to the couch, where she set her bowl on a coaster. Steve followed with his bowl and now-empty glass, but she took the glass from him and refilled it, getting herself one as well. She handed the glasses to Steve and went into the left bedroom, returning with a rectangle, which she then opened to reveal a computer screen. Across the room from the couch was a reasonably large television not unlike the one in Steve's room, and Eleanore plugged the computer into it and turned it on.
"Let's start with True Grit," she proposed.
Steve just shrugged and said, "You're the boss, ma'am."
"I told you, it's Eleanore. Or Elle." She was still fiddling with the computer until it shared its display with the television, and a blast of music shot out of the speakers. "Immersive!" she joked, before turning it down.
"It's Steve to you, then." He decided that the entire SHIELD staff calling him Captain Rogers was enough.
"Huh? Oh, OK. Have you tried your pasta, Steve?" Eleanore came back to sit on the couch on the opposite end.
"No, and neither have you." It occurred to Steve that this was a very strange situation. For a young woman to have a strange man in her home, after only meeting him that day, and serving him supper, and watching a movie together… "Is your, ah," he gestured ineffectively into the air, "boyfriend going to be angry about this?"
"What? No, he's not the jealous type. Also, this is just hanging out and watching a movie, which two friends can do now without being in a romantic relationship. Are you uncomfortable?" she looked at him pointedly, and somehow paused the movie's opening credits.
"No, it's just… This is new, and not something I would have done before. I guess." Steve decided that, if she was comfortable, then he could be too. The dog sauntered over and flopped himself onto the couch between them, which added distance and ease to Steve's mind.
Eleanore resumed the movie, only to pause it again immediately. "Do you want your own apartment?"
"Um…" Steve had thought of moving out of SHIELD's barracks, and that idea was more appealing than ever now. "Why?"
"Because there's one down the hall that just opened up. One bedroom, one bathroom, and it looks like this," she gestured grandly to the room they were sitting in, speaking more quickly. "It's really clean. I helped my landlady clear it out, paint it, and wax the floors. I even cleaned the bathroom, although it wasn't gross. The previous tenants were clean, they just lived there a long time, so Mrs. Hirsch and I touched up the place a bit."
"I can look at it sometime," Steve offered, unsure of how to go about renting an apartment now.
"It's…" Eleanore looked at her phone, "Seven-thirty. If you want, you can look at it now?"
Taken aback, Steve hesitated. Eleanore seemed to recheck herself, and shook her head.
"Sorry, I know I rush into things. You have plenty of time to think about it. A few days, at least, before the ad is even online." What does that mean? What line? "Really, don't worry about it now."
"I just… Know what? I'll see the apartment." The thought of living at SHIELD much longer made him feel sick again. He wanted to be on his own, and at least looking at an apartment would give him somewhere to start.
"Really?" Eleanore didn't wait for an answer, but leapt off the couch and rushed out the front door.
The dog looked at Steve and yawned. "She's… high-energy," he said in reply to its gaze.
"I have the key!" Eleanore appeared at the door, and Steve could hear someone else descending the stairs more slowly than she had.
Steve stood and walked to where Eleanore was waiting, and she darted across the hall to a door that near the head of the staircase. It was marked 216A, but otherwise looked the same as Eleanore's door.
"Don't open it until I meet the man!" an older woman reached the bottom of the stairs. She had gray hair, and stood a head shorter than Eleanore, but she carried herself with poise. She looked Steve up and down and asked, "So have you rented in D.C. before? Do you have references?"
"I'm a reference, Mrs. Hirsch. Captain Rogers hasn't lived in D.C. recently, so he doesn't have anyone to reference him yet." Eleanore unlocked the door with a flourish, and gestured for Steve to enter.
He did, followed closely by Mrs. Hirsch, the dog, and finally Eleanore. The apartment was much the same as Eleanore's, but instead of two bedrooms it only had the one to the left of the living room, and an extra closet attached to the kitchen.
"Quiet hours are at ten o'clock on weeknights, midnight on weekends." Mrs. Hirsch was holding a paper and a pen, and reading from it. "No parties of more than twenty people, including residents. No loud music, no noise complaints from neighbors. There's a storage area on the first floor for this apartment, about as big as that closet," she pointed, "And one pet per apartment, no exceptions. A fish counts as a pet." She glared up at Steve, "No drug deals, and no punching the walls."
She seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Steve said, "Yes ma'am. I can promise all of that." He didn't know why he was promising, since he hadn't decided to live there yet.
Mrs. Hirsch eyed him again, and held out the paper and pen. "Here's your application. Let me know if you find someplace else instead. Nice meeting you." And with that, she left Steve and Eleanore to explore the apartment.
"She's a little anti-social, but once she gets to know you she gets better," Eleanore said. She moved to turn on more lights, and Steve looked into the bathroom and closet spaces.
He actually found himself picturing his old apartment in Brooklyn and comparing it to this one. The nostalgia overwhelmed him, and he forced the thoughts away. This apartment was everything he needed, and more. He was actually thinking of moving in, which surprised him greatly. He slowed himself down, standing motionless in the doorway to the living room, and thought about this decision carefully. He would need all new furniture, of course. He'd have to get to know the neighborhood, but he already knew one neighbor. The closeness to Eleanore was going to be different. When Steve had lived in Brooklyn, Bucky had been quite a ways away, although the distance was nothing to them. At least it wouldn't be too lonely.
A sound from the other room brought Steve out of his contemplation. He moved to investigate, and found Eleanore in the bedroom inspecting the closet with a look of concentration. Seeing Steve come in, she brightened up and smiled.
"What do you think?" she asked casually. Steve could see the excitement she was trying to hide in her eyes.
"It'll be nice. Different. I'll have to invite you and… Jet," the dog glanced at him from where he stood at Eleanore's side, "over for dinner. Once I'm moved in."
"Wait… You'll take it? That's great! I'll help you fill out the application." Eleanore breezed around him and out the front door, and Steve followed her back to her apartment. He vaguely listened to her describe the rent, the deposit, and the process of hooking up the Internet. When she showed him where and what to sign, he read all of the document carefully, and it brought back some discomfort from earlier that day.
Eleanore picked up on this, and allowed him to read the agreement over in peace while she rewarmed their supper. By the time she was done doing that, Steve had signed and dated the application, and was refilling his water glass in preparation for the movie.
They sat together in companionable silence through the beginning, and Steve smiled when Mattie caught up to Cogburn and La Boef. The plot wasn't too intense, and Steve felt himself winding down, stealing glances at Eleanore, who actually looked tired.
It was probably a long day for her, too, He realized.
It was ten o'clock when the movie ended, and they both stood and stretched. Eleanore smiled at Steve, who then swept up their dishes and washed them in the sink as she protested.
"You're the guest, just let me clean later."
"I'd be a pretty terrible guest if I didn't help at all, ma'am. Eleanore." Steve found there was no drying rack, so he ended up handing the rinsed dishes to her, while she pulled the water off them and put them away in their cupboards.
That done, Eleanore and Steve both looked at the folder still sitting on the island.
"Now or later?" Eleanore asked quietly.
Steve thought about it, and decided they might as well get it over with. "Now, if it's… not too late at night?" Halfway through, he'd noticed how long he'd been there and remembered how tired normal people got.
"Now is great," Eleanore turned to the refrigerator and pulled out some milk in a gallon glass bottle. "Any for you?"
"Sure," Steve watched as she poured them both a glass.
"OK, let's get to work." Eleanore pulled a bar stool over to Steve's side, and sat the folder between them. "I'm going to organize these by date, but why don't you tell me about the tests you remember most clearly, and I'll find and explain those first."
She has a plan for everything. "There was one today where they put a needle in my back and took some fluid out." And it hurt. And I didn't even ask why it was done. He felt anger creeping up on him again, and he forced it back. He'd use it sometime when it was good for something.
"Let's see…" she shuffled through the documents, putting them into piles he didn't know the meaning of. "Here's a lumbar puncture. Today's date, so this sounds like what we're looking for." She put the paper between them, on top of the folder. "OK, 'lumbar puncture to test patient's spinal fluid and pressure'. Here," She almost fell off her stool, but righted herself and ventured to grab her computer off of the Television stand. "I think we'd better move to the floor. More room."
Steve grabbed the papers and followed her as she settled on the living room rug and began typing on her keyboard. "What are you doing?" He was genuinely curious. Computers still seemed like miracles to him, even after seeing Stark's flying car.
"I'm looking up the procedure. Here," she patted the floor next to her, and he sat so he could see the screen.
Not that I know what I'm looking for. Or at.
"Look," she showed him a display titled Mayo Clinic and below that Tests and Procedures: Lumbar Puncture Spinal Tap. "It says just what they put on here," she held up the paper they'd read from. "Let's see… risks." She moved her finger over what appeared to be an opaque rectangle underneath the keyboard. Steve saw a tiny arrow move over the screen, and come to rest on Risks. She tapped the rectangle, and a new series of words and images appeared on the screen.
I wonder if she'll show me how these work.
"Do you have a headache?" Eleanore was staring intently at the screen, but looked up when he didn't answer right away. "Steve, do you have a headache?"
"No, and they asked me that several times after the test. Why?" He felt apprehension growing again. Medicine had come so far, and apparently it had taken doctors' principles with it.
"It's a risk associated with the procedure. But it is very rare," she spoke reassuringly, and Steve found himself comforted without knowing why.
"Are you doing… emotional control right now?" he wondered aloud.
"No, I'm not. I really don't use it much." Eleanore was still intent on the screen, "Are you experiencing discomfort or pain in your lower back?"
"No."
"Looks like this test is taken care of," she reached for the folder, and asked him to mention more procedures.
Over the next hour, they checked over every test mentioned on the sheets. The running experiments were the most boring, and Steve wondered why they'd kept doing them. The most disturbing were the ones that had taken his DNA and blood.
"It looks like they took almost everything they could in hopes of replicating you," Eleanore twisted so her back popped, and then faced him again. "How are you feeling?"
"Pretty well, for someone who may be cloned soon." Steve had asked earlier, and Eleanore had confirmed that cloning was probably possible now. Or maybe super-soldiers are obsolete with all this new technology?
"But really," Eleanore shut the laptop— a new term he'd picked up from her — and downed the last of her milk. "Steve, it's OK to feel angry about this. It's fine to feel whatever you feel. This was wrong."
"But it's done, and anger now won't change what happened," Steve countered pleasantly. "Really, ma'— Eleanore. The army used me as a show-monkey once. Like in a circus. This is just something else to watch out for. I'll try to stay away from doctors."
"Not all doctors are like this," Eleanore protested. "Most of them actually want to help their patients. I imagine Dr. Rouldkin was the same, when he was younger. I read up on his research this afternoon, and it looks like he just got more and more frustrated trying to reproduce your serum." She sighed, "I'm not that old, so I can't say I understand it, but he must have been so excited to work with you, his childhood hero."
Pretty understanding towards that doctor.
"But," she stood and took the refilled folder back to the counter, "he was wrong, and I will be having meetings with and about him this week. You can be there, if you'd like."
"I would like to be there," Steve half-grinned at her and felt a smile sink into his voice, "if only to keep the guards from getting to you again." She laughed, and he liked the sound. "I'd also like to get an I.D. with clearance level… Black, was it?" Then maybe I can access my own medical records... If someone shows me how.
"Oh, haven't they given you one?" she seemed puzzled. "We can do that this week as well. Can I see your phone?"
"Um, sure." Steve was unsure why she'd want his cell phone when hers looked more high-tech. He handed it over, though, and she pressed the button that woke it up and started messing around with the screen. Since the phone was clear, Steve could make out her name and a number along with several other things, like her address. It was all very quick and precise, and Steve hoped she'd show him how to work these futuristic machines soon.
"There," she said, handing it back to him. The screen was dark again. "I put my number in, and so you can call me anytime, and I sent myself a text so I have your number too."
"Alright, um, great." Steve understood the calling, but had no idea about the 'text.'
Eleanore yawned, and Steve looked at his watch— it was nearly midnight. "Sorry for keeping you so late, ma'am—"
"It's Eleanore, and I'm sorry for yawning rudely." She smiled again, "It'll be nice to have you as a neighbor. Knowing Mrs. Hirsch, you'll be able to move in by next week."
"Great, well," he moved toward the front door. "Good night. And thanks for supper and… everything." He hadn't realized how lonely he'd been this past week, but having the feeling removed emphasized its absence.
"It's not problem. Drive safely, and— when would you like to meet again?" she asked before, "Oh! Wait here, I'll get you a copy of my schedule."
"OK," Steve responded to empty air, as she darted to her bedroom and emerged seconds later with a sheet of paper.
"See, my classes are usually done by two PM, and I'm pretty much free the rest of the day unless I have an exam."
The blocked time grid was easy enough to understand, and Steve noted that she'd labeled eight AM through nine-thirty AM as "personal time" on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. He decided to ask later.
"Um, should we meet again tomorrow?" He hoped it wasn't too soon or too much at once. "Anytime is fine, though, really."
"Tomorrow at three will be great. Meet me at SHIELD, or I'll probably meet you there, and we'll go over the I.D. card and talk to some people about your testing and treatment." Her expression brightened, "You can meet Darren, too, if you want. He'll be at SHIELD tomorrow afternoon, working on something or other."
"Sounds great," Steve shrugged as he exited her apartment. He felt almost nervous about meeting anyone new, but at the same time, he was hoping to make more friends.
"Good. Okay, see you tomorrow. Have a great night!" Eleanore was holding the door open, and Steve waved as he headed down the staircase.
He took the permit off his motorcycle and put it in his pocket to potentially use later. Then he started his bike and drove out of the parking lot, almost smiling to himself, even as he thought of the grim events of that afternoon. It was nice to have someone to talk to in this century.
Steve found himself tired when he got back to his room in the barracks, and he settled in for a deep sleep filled with dreams of a laughing mutant, an evil doctor, and a blue-eyed dog.