No copyright infringement intended.

Quick warning before you proceed: this is fiction, so please keep that in mind re:views expressed in this chapter. I've done my best to research as much as I could and I hope I've done this justice.

-3-

Tilda tried to follow Winifred's advice as much as possible. There was no internet to look up recipes after all. Or how to clean something properly.

So she contended herself with mixing cheap vinegar and water, to scrub the bathroom, for example. A trick learned by her actual grandma.

And James was too gracious to mention that he'd had enough of stew for a lifetime. Or grilled cheese sandwiches. Or French toast (when they had dry bread left over), to trade off porridge for a day.

She didn't mind the gossiping ladies, or doing the laundry, shopping, and most of the chores around the apartment.

The grocery shopping at least got her out of their four walls.

Having to figure out where the best closest store was located, what they sold, for how much... It felt like planning some sort of military expedition. A mission of utmost importance.

She had to dress up to go too. Apparently it wasn't acceptable to go in your house dress. No, you had to wear a nice dress, gloves, a hat, and purse, which if possible all matched. Stockings were mandatory as well, which was ridiculous. On so many levels.

Never mind that she could hardly pin her hair down, applying red lipstick without smudging it was a whole new level of torture.

Fortunately, James was earning a good salary, and his kleptomaniac tendencies spared them some rather big expenses.

But she still worried about their financial situation.

And Tilda hadn't talked to her friends for months now.

They must be out of their minds by this point. Wondering where she was. Whether she was still alive. What she was doing that was more important than reassuring them.

Would she ever see them again?

As the months sped by, the new routine settled more and more, and Tilda began to lose hope.

There was no one they could ask, no one who'd be able to send them onwards.

She missed her chosen family like a piece of herself had gone missing.

There was no one to bitch about the finicky stove, or the old ladies surreptitiously checking her belly whenever she left through the front door of their apartment.

No one to share her success with, when she finally managed to bake a good apple pie for Sunday dinner.

James wasn't much of a talker, but he was there. Sometimes. Only, he couldn't understand why she was burning rejection letters in the stove, or why she filled notebooks with observation after anecdote.

After half a year, Tilda had applied for more jobs on this side of the time stream than the other with nothing to show for it. She'd assimilated well enough for a housewife, but she never really wanted to be one.

She had no friends, no one who knew her well.

If she vanished again, only Winifred and Bucky and James would miss her. Probably.

...there was no way back, was there?

By coming here, they'd already changed the timeline irreversibly, hadn't they?

They were trapped here, weren't they?

Tilda kicked the couch with her naked foot, hissing "Fuck!"

Tears welled up in her eyes, which she angrily wiped away with the palms of her hands.

She wanted to scream, to shout, to hit something.

Instead, she hit the ridiculous throw pillow. Beat it so much, the case burst, raining feathers everywhere.

Throwing herself on the couch, Tilda allowed herself to cry without restraint. For once in her life.

She cried until she was gasping for breath, her eyes burned, snot dripping from her nose.

Tilda was never a pretty crier. This time, she might have outdone even herself.

Even once there were no more tears, she continued to sob. She couldn't stop herself.

Oh god. She was stuck in 1940, fake married to someone who spent the majority of his life as someone else's weapon, tortured into behaving.

She was stuck, friendless, jobless, without any opportunity to return.

And even if there was, could she really bear it if her friends wouldn't recognize her? Had never known her?

When James snuck in through the window, he found her still lying on the couch, clutching the other pillow, feathers stuck in her hair and on every available surface.

It was the first time he offered her a hug.

Tilda clung to him like they were conjoined twins, sobbing into his shirt.

James experimentally patted her back, holding her until she calmed down.

Her eyelids fell shut of their own accord.

The last thing she consciously noted was being lifted and carried.

She dropped into an exhausted sleep before even touching the bed.

When Tilda woke up again, James had cleaned up the mess she'd made. The only surviving feathers were stuck in her hair, tickling her every time she moved her head a certain way.

The smell of melting cheese filled the apartment.

Her belly growled, deciding for her what to do next.

Tilda slipped into her clog-like house slippers, pulling one of James' sweaters over her dress.

It felt like being hugged by him. Warm, comforting. Safe.

She closed her tired eyes, and breathed in the scent of his aftershave - something unobtrusive, light. Tilda had no idea what the scent was actually supposed to incorporate, but it had somehow become one of her favorites.

There was a knock on the door frame.

"I'm as decent as I'm gonna get," she called out, voice rasping uncomfortably in her throat.

James winked at her. "Oh, I thought you were naked."

A reluctant grin spread over her face. "Charmer."

He carried a tray, which he set on the night table.

Tilda spied two plates with grilled cheese sandwiches.

"Come on," he encouraged her.

"Thought you didn't like to eat in bed?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"I'll have you know that no one's ever complained about that before. Besides, there's exceptions for every rule."

Tilda snuggled back under the covers.

James slid in next to her, their shoulders touching.

"No one ever complained, huh?"

He winked at her. "Has no one told you yet? I'm a ladykiller."

Oh god, that was so bad it was funny again.

Tilda burst out laughing, leaning more against him, throwing her head back. Full on belly laughing.

When she calmed down, she muttered: "You're hilarious."

"You laughed."

She grinned at him. "Touché. Thanks for cooking."

"You're welcome, doll."

There was a new softness in his eyes now.

They proceeded to eat their comfort food in companionable silence, side by side. Still touching.

It was the best dinner since January Ten, 1939 - in Tilda's opinion.

Just don't tell Winifred, dear reader.

Perhaps in response to Tilda's meltdown, James returned from work earlier.

They had a standing date to go for walks in the park on Sundays. Much better time spent than listening to a Catholic priest rage against the evils of war and what evil sinners they all were.

Neither James nor Tilda needed someone to tell them that.

They were perfectly aware, thank you very much.

James cooked for them on Sundays, breakfast and lunch.

In the afternoons, they got dressed for their weekly visit to the Barnes's, bringing cookies or cake, depending on how Tilda's experiments had gone that weekend.

This week, Bucky invited them to go dancing with him and Steve on Saturday.

"What a wonderful idea," Winifred exclaimed, to nods from her less talkative spouse.

James and Tilda exchanged a look.

"Come on, it's gonna be fun," Bucky wheedled.

With a thoughtful nod, James agreed.

Tilda poked his leg under the table, which. Not a good idea. She almost broke her finger.

This man was built.

Sighing, she accepted her fate. "Sure, sounds good. Where do we meet?"

Bucky shrugged. "Steve and I'll come to your place if that's alright?"

James and Tilda exchanged another look.

"Sure. Already looking forward to it," Tilda lied through her teeth.

Oh god, she was a horrible dancer. Music and her didn't mix if she was supposed to make it. Or move to it.

Chances were that she'd either be stiff as a board, make a fool of herself, or spill something.

Or all three.

Meanwhile, Bucky had a reputation for being a bit of a skirt chaser and a great dancer.

Tilda knew firsthand how graceful James could be. There was no doubt he'd be a good dancer too, memory problems or not.

(She had noticed that he wasn't sure of himself some times, even when he downplayed it. She wasn't stupid, unobservant, or distracted by outside forces. He may be good, but Tilda wasn't bad either. Also you could only check the date of the paper so often first thing in the morning.)

The rest of the dinner, they talked about the war raging in Europe and whether the US should join in.

George, who was rather reserved in most situations, vehemently declared: "They should support the Brits. This dilly dallying won't be of use to anyone."

Tilda decided she liked him a bit better than she already did.

James sought her hand under the table.

She entwined their fingers, continuing to eat or drink with one hand.

Winifred sent her an amused look, clearly well aware of what they were doing.

"War is awful and I wish it on no one, but those Nazis must be stopped."

Bucky squirmed in his chair, picking up his glass to drink. He was avoiding everyone's eyes, but peaking in James's direction.

No wonder the boy was scared stiff of being sent to Europe or Africa. To fight in the war. (He didn't know about the Pacific theater, which was somehow even worse in some aspects than the European.)

He had a good idea what his future looked like, considering his actual potential self sat at the same dining table right now.

"I think you're absolutely right," Tilda said, breaking up the awkward, loaded silence. "I saw some idiots painting a swastika on the wall in the back alley yesterday. All that nonsense about Aryan superiority can go -"

James gently squeezed her hand.

Tilda closed her mouth before she fully engaged in Rant Mode.

"Well. It can go where the sun don't shine. That's my honest option. Charles Lindbergh and his fellow racist, anti-Semitic pricks can follow suit."

Everyone was staring at her now. Great.

At least no one was making Bucky uncomfortable anymore.

"You seem to know a lot about this," Becca muttered.

Tilda grinned sharply. It probably looked low-key like a deranged mass murderer and less like a regular housewife.

"You have no idea."

Winifred was frowning. "What do you mean? Why are you so upset about this?"

Judging by her tone, she was genuinely curious.

Tilda was tempted to run a hand through her hair, but instead fastened her hold on James'.

"What they're doing is killing thousands of people. With their isolationism born out of fear. There's no excuse for sending away people desperately fleeing for their lives. There is never a good excuse for packing them back off to go right into the jaw of the monster trying to swallow them whole. Yes, this economy is sh- less than ideal. But surely there are ways of helping those refugees?"

George was nodding, along with James and Winifred.

Bucky looked thoughtful, but agreed.

"But why are they our problem?" Charlotte, the youngest of the bunch, asked. "Why can't they just stay home?"

Tilda took a deep breath. "Because the Nazis have taken their homes and their possessions and their families. They don't have anywhere else to go."

"How is that possible? Shouldn't there be some sort of outcry?"

Oh boy.

Tilda sent Winifred an apologetic look. She probably ruined dinner. Whoops.

"There should, and there is, but people don't want to listen. They don't want to share and they don't care if someone else gets hurt because of it. In fact, there are some people out there who are perfectly fine with hurting others. For no reason. They're bullies and they should not have the power they wield."

Charlotte bit her lip.

"Are you a German who fled here too?"

Tilda tried to bite down the tears welling up in her eyes.

"No. No I'm not."

In fact, her blood family was probably participating in the Hitler Youth and their girl equivalent at this moment.

And it drove tears to her eyes. Of anger. Of disappointment. Of frustration.

"But my parents were German. And I hate to see what that country has turned into," Tilda said quietly.

Bucky slung an arm over her shoulder, while James began to rub a thumb over the back of her hand.

Winifred changed the topic to dessert.

James held her tightly that night, watching over her sleep like a bodyguard sent by Morpheus. Not the creepy Edward Cullen way, but the 'I'll wake you when there's a nightmare' way.

Tilda appreciated both him and the gesture.

Regardless, her dreams were haunted by the black and white images of Holocaust survivors, of those who had not, of mountains of gold teeth, glasses, clothes, and shoes. Of names on a long list of people who had been deported, tormented, killed, and enslaved.

Pictures that had been branded into her mind when she was a child. When they began to teach her generation what the one of their grandparents and great-grandparents had done.

What they had looked away from, accepted. Tolerated in silence.

And listening to people glorify the Nazis and their cause was a slap to the face.

Anyone with some empathy and compassion should be horrified. Should listen to what the refugees were saying, before they were sent to their deaths.

Instead, America was more concerned with itself. Happy to stay ignorant, or pretend ignorance at least, mired in racism, open antisemitism, and xenophobia, all the while marching in the streets were Nazis.

Tilda wanted to puke.