(1.5) Alternate Ending to "To Those Who Wait"

In which Isabel is not captured by Hydra at the end of the story.

Fine China – Lana Del Rey (lyrics rearranged)

I wore diamonds for the birth of your baby, for the birth of your son

On the same day, my husband to be, packed his things to run

Was bittersweet to say the least; one life begins, one comes undone

I've always been a strong woman of faith; strong like a tree, but the unlucky one

I wore diamonds for the day of our wedding, for our day in the sun

On the same day, my mother to be said she wouldn't come

It's always been that way with me; no time for change, no time for fun

It's always been that way, it seems; one love begins, one comes undone

I'm going down, now, with all of my,

Fine china and fresh linen

All of my dresses with them tags still on them

Fine china and dull silver

My white horses and my ivory almonds

I guess they really got the best of us, didn't they?

They said that love was enough, but it wasn't

The earth shattered, the sky opened

The rain was fire, but we were wooden

All of my, all of my fine china

1.

November 31st, 2012

Steve knocks, rather hesitantly, on the door of the brownstone building. Rap, rap, rap. He pauses, listening to hear footsteps, and hears the creak of a couch as someone gets off it, the cushion compressing with air again. Steve turns and looks around at the street behind him as he waits. The Brooklyn street is bustling, the modern colourful cars zooming back and forth. A mother walks her child down the footpath, dressed in a tight pair of black jeans that Steve can't help but boggle at. A duo of teenage girls walk right past him then, one of them wearing a pair of denim shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Steve hurriedly averts his eyes back to the door.

He's never seen women wear such tight clothing before. Never seen them wear such outlandish makeup or wear their hair so straight and flat. And that music that people blare from their apartments and cars – what is with that?

But it's a new time, he reminds himself. A new time, with new clothing, hairstyles, technology, music, films, television. It's all different, and by God, does he need to learn to adjust.

The footsteps, slow and precise, near closer to the door on the floorboards inside. Steve looks up when the door clicks open, swinging open to reveal a small, frail woman. Her hair has turned almost entirely grey, streaked with darker silver and lighter white patches like salt and pepper. Her face is so familiar, albeit much older and wrinkled. Her blue eyes, though, still hold that childlike spark they'd always had. Steve finds himself a little speechless, not entirely knowing what to say. He'd had it all planned out, knew exactly what he was going to say to her, but it all goes out the window once he sees her.

Becca frowns as she looks at Steve, her eyes flicking over him in his entirety. Steve can see the cogs turning in her mind as she tries to piece together the information like a puzzle. She looks at him, confusion and surprise and some form of recognition washing over her face.

"B-Becca?" Steve tries.

At the sound of his voice, Becca's eyes snap wide open, and her jaw goes slack, her eyebrows rising on her forehead. "Steve?"

"It's me, it's Steve," Steve promises, putting a hand on his chest and nodding his head to her.

Something about his face and the sincerity of his tone clicks something within Becca, the recognition that this really is Steve standing in front of her on her doorstep. The brother she'd been gifted since her birth, considering Bucky and Steve had been friends long before that time. The boy who'd helped her grow up, as well as be there for her older brother and sister for all those years. The man who, when she last saw him, was preparing to volunteer himself for a secret government experiment, taking Isabel with him. The man she'd watched fight the war as Captain America through comics, film reels, newspaper sections, until that fateful day they'd read that he'd crashed the Valkyrie into the ocean. She'd lost another brother that day, and the pain of that still stabs at her heart, even to this day.

Becca's eyes well with tears and she pulls him in for a hug, tight around his shoulders.

"You look exactly the same," she whispers.

"Like I haven't aged a day," Steve agrees. "For me, it's only been a few years."

"And for me, sixty-seven."

Becca pulls away, wiping at her eyes quickly to hide the tears. "Come in, please," she says, ushering Steve inside out of the cold winter air. She closes the door behind him and leads him toward the kitchen.

The house is decorated as though they've stepped back in time, what Steve recognises from the books Fury gave him as nineteen-sixties décor, and it reminds Steve of a dollhouse. The walls are a faint crème with white cabinets decorated with small flowers. The window is covered with a frilly lace curtain that she's slid open to let in the faint light of the day. The floor is made of a hard laminate, faking tiles, that squishes a little under Steve's feet as he walks over it. It's actually a welcome relief compared to the modern world outside, though it may be a bit over the top. Steve lets out a sigh of relief, taking a seat at the barstool on the other edge of the kitchen island.

Becca reaches up with a shaking hand, which Steve isn't sure is because of her age or because of his appearance, and opens a cabinet, pulling out two tiny porcelain cups and saucers with intricate gold flowers on them. She turns on the kettle, flicking the switch rather than boiling the water over the stove.

She drops heaped spoons of coffee and sugar into the mugs, just the way Steve used to take it, the sugar going onto the counter. Steve rises quickly to move toward the sink and clean it up for her, but she raises a hand to stop him, smiling cheekily at him.

"When you get to my age, Steve, you don't worry so much about spilled sugar," Becca laughs. She pours in the milk, managing to miss the mug with that, too. "Or spilled milk."

She stirs the cup and then hands Steve's mug to him. Steve reaches over and takes hers as well, waiting for Becca as she passes him and shuffles back into the daintily decorated living room. She sits carefully in the flower-patterned cushion of the chair in front of the radiator. She pats the seat beside her and Steve takes the invitation, sitting gently beside her and handing her one of the cups once she's ready.

"Thank you, love," Becca says, before her cheeks redden. "Sorry," she laughs. "It's an old person thing, calling people love. In my mind you're older than me, but your appearance says otherwise. Still, it's weird calling you love. Is this weird for you? Because it's quite odd for me," Becca asks, pointing a finger between them.

Steve laughs, scratching the back of his neck. "A little," he admits. "I-… Last time I saw you, you were thirteen. A few years ago, for me, you were thirteen. By my mind, you should be sixteen or seventeen…"

"I wouldn't mind being seventeen again," Becca tells him, looking solemn. "But that was a long time ago."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to apologise," Becca promises, putting a wrinkled hand over Steve's. "You really don't." Becca pauses, looking thoughtful. "I saw it on the news, that you'd come back, and you fought for New York. But I didn't believe it. No one did. Everyone thought it was someone dressed up as you to raise morale. It isn't the first time it's been done over the years."

"That was me," Steve promises. "I'm here, it's me."

"I know that now. You also made a speech, after the battle," Becca says. "When I saw you without the cowl in your Army uniform rather than that new monstrosity they made for you, and when you spoke; I knew it was you. I just hoped you'd come and find us, because I knew it would be hard to get in contact with you. I didn't think it would be easy to get a letter to you in the protection of shield and Stark Tower."

"I would have seen it, I would have answered," Steve promises quickly. "I would have come a lot sooner but life sort of… got in the way."

"I understand. You had a lot to learn and adjust to. Coming and seeing me and everyone else, it would have been very overwhelming. There's still a lot that you missed out on."

"Tell me everything," Steve eventually says into the silence, his tone pleading. There's so much he's missed out on, so much he has to learn. He thinks the best place to start, other than pop culture,

Becca sighs, shifting in her chair to get more comfortable. "Where do I even start…?" She wonders aloud, looking around the room as though it would give her the answer. "I suppose at the beginning, with what you know. All of us, we were at home waiting for the war to end. We were seeing all of your videos, Robbie was reading your comics, and you and my siblings were all sending letters home, saying you were doing well. Mama, Dad, Robbie and I, we were under every impression that all of you would be returning home once you'd finished Hydra. That you'd all come home okay. Then, of course, we got the news that Bucky had been killed in action and that was very… hard to take."

Steve swallows thickly, his eyes getting a little glassy. "I bet it was," he manages.

"That must be still very fresh for you."

Steve nods. "About three months."

"It wasn't your fault," Becca tells him, eyebrow raised as though she were giving her child a stern talking to. "Bucky chose to be there, and he wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else."

Steve nods again. "People keep telling me that," he says quietly, looking away from Becca's critical eye. "What happened after that?"

"Well, a few weeks later we saw on every flyer, newspaper, comic, and magazine that you'd crashed the Valkyrie into the ice somewhere, and that the Army was looking for you. Mama was distraught; she'd lost two of her sons within a few weeks of one another. Isabel stayed with Howard Stark for a few months searching for you, but she came home a few months later alone and they still hadn't found you. Isabel… she was never the same after that. The first few weeks at home were disastrous, she was barely functioning. It took her years to get over it, though I doubt she ever really did. She–"

Steve makes a pained noise, interrupting Becca. "Bec," Steve interrupts, looking away, his hand clamped over his mouth. The tears have pooled in his eyes, a few spilling out down his cheeks. He takes a deep breathe and clamps his eyes shut, trying to dry them up. He's cried enough tears.

"Oh, Steve, I'm sorry," Becca says quickly, putting a comforting arm on Steve's shoulder. "Let's not talk about that just yet," she allows.

Steve nods quickly. He takes a few deep breaths, nods to himself, and blinks away the tears that still threaten to spill over. "Let's talk about you," Steve says, his voice shaking. "You changed your name?"

"Because I got married," Becca says with a laugh, pouncing on the change of topic.

"Tell me about it. Who was the lucky man?"

"His name was William Proctor," Becca says, a gleam to her eyes that hadn't been there before. "I met William about a year after Isabel came home, when I was nearly eighteen. He was just lovely, the most perfect gentleman, and he was our entire marriage. He really did treat me like a princess."

"I wouldn't expect any different for you," Steve says sincerely.

"We got married in nineteen-fifty-two," Becca says. "I was only twenty-one, but oh, I was in love. We married in the same church that Mama and Dad married in, right opposite Prospect Park. Two years later we had our first child; a little girl that we named Clara. She was just so beautiful Steve, and she still is, you'll love her. She looks a lot like me, only with William's lighter hair."

Becca gets up and goes to a small photo album on the bookshelf, bringing it back over to Steve. She flicks through the pages and Steve spots multiple photographs of a younger Becca, a dirty-blonde haired man that he assumes is William, and even a younger Isabel holding a small child, smiling brightly at the camera. Becca stops on a page, showing Steve a photograph of herself and a toddler with light curls.

"That's my Clara," Becca says, smiling wistfully at the camera. "And this was her when she was twenty-one at her graduation from college. She studied mechanical engineering. We were very proud. She's a smart cookie, just like her daddy."

"She's beautiful," Steve says. "You did good."

Becca nods, a small smile on her features. "Having my second child was rather bittersweet. A few months before I fell pregnant, Robbie went off to war. Mama tried to stop him, but he was conscripted, so he didn't have much of a choice. The war started in nineteen-fifty-five, but Robbie didn't go until 'fifty-seven."

"What war?" Steve asks, unsettled.

"The Vietnam War – they may not have told you about it yet. It was the longest US Combat force participation, it lasted near eighteen years. It wasn't pretty."

"I thought the war I fought in would have been the last with how much damage it did, how inhumane it was."

"Unfortunately, there has been many since," Becca says. "The world is a very unsettled place."

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. "So, Robbie, what happened?"

"God, it was just like Bucky all over again. Mama and Dad got a letter in the mail about a year after he left informing them Robbie had been killed in action. He got shot and bled out in the jungle all alone. I had my second child not even a week later, and naturally, I named him Robert. As I said, it was bittersweet; I brought a life into the world, but I also lost my twin, and everyone knows that twins have a connection that no other can rival. We eventually got his body back so that we could bury him, which is more than we got with Bucky. Mama, she was a cot case after that; she was never the same, not until the day she died. She lost three of her five children to the war if we include you, which I know she did. All of her boys. She made me promise that my boy, and any other in the family, would never go to war. I've kept that promise; no other descendant of the Barnes family has ever seen any form of combat."

"I'm glad. That just wouldn't be fair," Steve says with utter sincerity. "Where is William, if you don't mind me asking?"

"He passed about five years ago. Heart attack."

Steve's jaw goes a little slack. "I'm so sorry, Bec," Steve begins, reaching out to take her hand.

"It's a while ago now. We saw it coming, poor Will had a heart murmur and it wasn't his first heart attack," Becca reassures.

"And you're here all alone?" Steve asks worriedly.

"I live here by myself, but I'm certainly not alone. I have my sister and children and grandchildren around me. They come over every day and every one helps me out. And now I have you, one more remainder of my past family that I always thought I'd lost." Becca smiles fondly, her eyes soft and sparkling with happiness. "It's good to have you back, Stevie."

"I'd like to say it's good to be here, too, but…"

"But you aren't entirely sure you want to be here yet. Understandable. Trust me, I think everyone can safely say that we would have preferred you to come home much earlier." Becca pauses. She's gotten much better at spacing out a change in conversation as she's matured. "Out of curiosity, how did you find me? I thought the change of last name might have thrown you a loop," Becca asks quietly.

"Shield," Steve tells her. "When I woke up, they sent me to a retreat so that I could start to catch up on everything I'd missed. They gave me some files where they'd included the contact information for the people I used to know. One of the files was for you. I was confused at first, since you'd changed your name, but I'd never forget your face."

"Who else's file was there?"

"Peggy's, the Commandos'," Steve says. He then hesitates, swallowing thickly. "Belle's."

"You haven't been to see her yet?" Becca asks, but there's no accusation behind her words.

"No," Steve nearly whispers. "I-I haven't been to see her. I have her address, and I've stood on her porch nearly every day, but I never can bring myself to knock. My hand hovers just over the door but I can't do it." Steve runs a hand down his face. "I don't know if I can see her, Bec. I don't know if I can confront all the things I lost."

Becca takes Steve's young hand in her own weathered one. "You have to go, Stevie. Please, don't wait. Don't give yourself something else to regret if you're too late," she pleads, eyes wide.

"I'd just be adding to a very long list," Steve mutters.

"So why make it longer?" Becca pauses for a moment in thought. "No one knows how long they've got, especially not at her age."

Steve pauses, his mind whirring to imagine what Isabel must look like. It's been sixty-seven years since he's seen her, making her ninety-one. He can barely imagine it, except for practically placing Isabel's face over Becca's as a reference.

"There's a lot of things she needs to tell you, and I assume things you want to tell her," Becca continues, breaking through Steve's thoughts with a knowing look. "You need to see her, Steve, for closure. And she needs to see you. She's waited her entire life for you to come home. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for her."

Steve pauses. "Is she angry at me?" He asks carefully.

"She may have thought she was for a while, but she never was, not truly. She understood. She knows that you did what you had to do to save the world, Steve."

"But I didn't save my world, did I?" Steve asks solemnly. Isabel had always been his world, his everything. The one thing he had always wanted to protect, and he'd let her go to save everyone else.

"In a way, you did. You may have had to go, but you left her something that could replace you, at least until you could come back to her."

Steve's eyebrows furrow at that vague piece of information, but Becca doesn't seem willing to offer any explanation, taking a sip of her coffee.

"She won't be mad, Steve. Shocked, maybe. Sad, maybe. Ecstatic, probably. But you, me and everyone else, including her, knows she could never stay mad at you long. She loved you too much. So, go, and don't wait."