It's a chilly morning that finds Sarah pushing the large heavy door of the Inner Sanctum open a few days later.
Wong still hasn't returned from Kamar-Taj, but he's prone to disappearing for long periods of time when he finds a research topic to fixate on so it's not exactly unusual. Annoying, for sure, but not unusual.
"Master Drumm?" She calls out into the empty foyer. Her words echo, the light a little dimmer in here than usual. She takes the first step onto the staircase and then another, but silence is the only thing that greets her.
It's only as she comes to the first landing that she sees it. A note, pinned to the side of the bannister.
S, it reads, we have been called back to Kamar-Taj and will be away for a brief time. Please call if you need anything urgent.
And below the main text in a messy scrawl that could only belong to Wong, Please leave coffee on the side table.
She snorts at the note, shaking her head, caffeine dependent wizards. Sarah descends the staircase and places Wong's weird coffee milkshake and Drumm's flat white onto the side table next to the door. A second later it vanishes in a flash of bright light.
Satisfied that her job is done, she turns to leave only to find a note pinned to the front door. Thank you.
She pulls it off the door, shaking her head fondly at her wizards' antics, "You owe me."
#
When Sarah landed in 2011, the first thing she did was go to the Smithsonian. Well, actually, the first thing she did was binge an entire series of The Great British Bake Off with Wong and sob into the lopsided victoria sponge he baked for her, but that's beside the point.
The Captain America exhibit wasn't fully open then, but the public could go in and see some of the initial memorabilia and displays while they finalised the rest.
She lasted ten minutes before she promptly threw up in the ladies bathroom.
She tried to go back, just once, after she got her apartment and found a job, but the vacant stare of the Howling Commandos, those familiar faces in an unfamiliar setting, the blown up planes of the Sergeant's face - well.
Wong said it was probably for the best, that perhaps leaving those memories in the past would help her move forward. She's still not sure if she agrees with him.
The exhibit's been open for a while now to glowing reviews. Polly visited the weekend before with one of her many, many, grandchildren and spent an entire shift regaling every member of staff about how great the exhibit was and how much her grandchild had enjoyed it.
But Sarah has always preferred the little museum built into the crumbling apartment where Steve Rogers spent his childhood years.
She spent every weekend there for the first two months living in Brooklyn, walking from room to room in the steps of Captain America, soaking up all the knowledge she possibly could about him and the man she loved, and tried to reconcile the Sergeant she knew with the man memorialised through his friendship with one of America's greatest heroes.
Today, she jogs up the steps to the tiny museum, the wind nipping at her heels. The last days of Autumn are curling around the city, the trees finally shedding their fiery leaves and baring their branches proudly.
Her heart clenches at the thought. A whole year has now passed, a whole year of working in the library, babysitting Pete, watching the Great British Bake Off with Wong - a whole year without her Sergeant.
IronMan, the cat, curls around her ankles, pulling her from her thoughts. She smiles and reaches down to scratch him under the chin, before heading up towards the third floor. The tiny museum is deserted, but that's hardly unusual for a mid-week afternoon.
"Sarah, hello, dear."
"Ted, hi," she grins at the curator. Ted Matthews is a bit of an odd fellow, and not just because he always wears a tweed jacket come rain or blazing sunshine. He just has this look in his eye, like he is keeping some secret she will never be privy to.
"Not seen ya about for a while," Ted smiles. "Everything alright at home, dear?"
"Aye, all good," she moves to grab her wallet, ready to pull out the five dollars she always donates whenever she visits when Ted speaks up again.
"No need to donate, dear, we just received a huge donation."
She blinks at him, "A huge donation?"
He smiles, a small sad smile, "From the Smithsonian."
"Oh…oh!" Sarah's eyes widen, "They're taking some of your exhibits, aren't they?"
Ted sighs, "Not sure how they heard about our wee corner of Brooklyn, but yes, they've negotiated with the Rogers and Barnes' estates to borrow some of the exhibits. Unfortunately, they're our best ones, so we'll be closing for a bit while the exhibit runs its course."
"That's…" Horrible, horrific, terrible- "wonderful news! Congratulations!"
"Hm," Ted eyes her carefully, and then says, "You know, we've got some exhibit material we never display. I could show you, if you like? To tide you over until we open again."
Sarah's mouth opens, and her voice comes out in a near whisper, "Are you…are you sure?"
"Positive," a bright smile spreads across the old man's face. Then he beckons her towards the threadbare red velvet curtain that usually hides the staff lounge, "This way."
Sarah stumbles after him as he shuffles away, her traitorous heart leaping into her throat. Something new she's never seen before, another piece of the Sergeant to fold away.
Ted pulls back the curtain, pushing open the door to reveal a dusty office filled with threadbare sofas, an old coffee machine and a desk covered in cardboard boxes. Sarah's gaze bounces from one end of the room to the other, taking in the picture frames of the team celebrating awards, newspaper cuttings hailing the success of the museum, soaking up everything she can set her eyes on.
The older man shuffles towards the desk, pulling out some smaller cardboard boxes from the top of the pile. Sarah, is scrawled across the top in thin, shaky handwriting.
"Have I ever told you," Ted's gruff tone draws her eyes away from the boxes and towards his watery gaze, "why this museum was founded in the first place?"
She shakes her head.
"My Father served during the Second World War, he was conscripted not long after I was born," he smiles and shakes his head a little. "He was a great man, and considered it an honour to serve his country, but it was difficult for him out there.
"Ye see, my Father was a giant of a man, used to scare people off with one look, so he did. My sister and I thought it was brilliant, but my Father, while he was fighting, struggled with it."
Sarah's heart clenches, and she reaches out to gently touch Ted's shoulder, "I'm sorry to hear that."
He shrugs, "It was the experience of a lotta men like him. He got on with it, pushing through until he was injured on the frontlines and was sent to the medics to recover. Nothing serious but enough to get him outta the fight for a bit." Ted pulls one of the boxes towards him and starts to tug it open, "Met his best friend there. One of the nurses."
He shuffles through the top contents of the box until he finds what he is looking for and pulls it free. Sarah's heart starts to thud in her chest as he pulls out an aged photograph, "Turns out she knew a lot about Jane Austen, my mother's favourite author."
He slides the photo across the table and Sarah reaches for it slowly.
"He was sent back to the fighting not long after that, but they kept in touch until she died. Her body was never recovered, and he always swore up and down that she was too strong to be taken out by a random bomb," Ted smiles, "He made me swear if she ever turned up to tell her something from him."
The photo, yellowed and cracked with white scars from age, shows a large burly officer and a nurse smiling at each other in a medics tent, a book perched between them. Sarah swallows a gasp at the sudden sight of William Howard, one of her favourite sergeants immortalised next to her.
"I…"
"He told me, sonny boy, if you ever meet her you need to tell her that she saved my life." Ted smiles.
Sarah's eyes are watering and she sniffles, wiping at her face, "I…this is my grandmother."
The words are a weak protest and Ted looks at her knowingly, "Yeah, of course it is."
She sniffles again, fingers tracing the worn planes of her old friend's face. She glances back up at Ted; she can see it now, the echoes of Billy on his face and in those bright eyes.
"How long have you kept this?"
"Since he died. He passed in his sleep a few years back, my Ma had died a few years before so it wasn't too big a shock.," Ted says gruffly. "I used to think he was mad, holding out hope for his friend, but kept the boxes anyway. Imagine my surprise when you swanned into the museum he founded one Friday afternoon."
"He founded?"
"Yeah, to honour the memory of her Sergeant and his best friend the way she would have wanted him to be remembered."
Oh Billy. Her chest aches at the thought, at the memory of all the people she was forced to leave behind. She feels the watery smile grow on her face before she can stop it, "He was her best friend too. She wouldn't have left if she could have avoided it."
"I think he knew that," Ted nods. Then he hesitates, "There's a whole bunch of things in this box, after her Sargeant died, all her belongings were sent to my Father. I kept hold of it all, just in case."
Her fingers trace the brittle cardboard, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," he shakes his head. "I'll leave you for a moment, let you gather your thoughts. Then maybe, we could have a cup of tea and share some memories?"
She smiles widely, "I'd like that."
He nods, then vacates the room. Sarah slides a hand under the lid of the cardboard and slowly lifts it. Inside are a few knick knacks she vaguely remembers, books and notes and a music box her mother left her when she died. But right on top, amongst the dusty photos and tiny glass figurines, is a dried daisy. It looks a little bare, having lost some petals over the years, but it is mostly intact.
She reaches for it with a trembling hand.
-I woulda brought you oranges if I could find any, but this'll have to do-
Sarah cries.