Chapter Text
The drive to the depot had been blessedly uneventful, but terribly nerve-racking. Trains were something he had been hoping to avoid. They brought up memories he wasn't ready to deal with. Memories both horrifying and pleasant, but always painful. He'd been tempted to try and exchange the train ticket for a bus ticket, but he knew Philips would find out. If the General was aware of his aversion to trains, he'd recall Steve in a heartbeat to undergo countless hours more of mandated therapy. The doctors were already worried about his other aversions, they didn't need to know about any more.
He'd spent the majority of the ride attempting to concentrate on the mission dossier while putting in a valiant effort to ignore the fact that he was on a train. Though constantly interrupted by his own anxieties, he'd managed to read through the whole file and he found himself quite impressed. Agent Margaret Carter was to be his partner. Born in London in 1921, she was a codebreaker during the early days of the war before joining the SOE. In late 1940, she infiltrated Schmidt's headquarters and rescued Dr. Erskine. She'd then gone on to be a key contributor to the capture of numerous high valued targets. Her record while working at the S.S.R.'s New York office was no less exemplary, once even bringing down an entire heavy water factory. What surprised him the most however, was that she'd actually been the Operations Supervisor for Project Rebirth before she'd been replaced only days after the project had started. It didn't state what, but the files had indicated that something had happened and she'd been reassigned.
For a good hour he had pondered over how different the last six years would have been if she had been there instead of Agent Brian McGee. Would he have still been chosen? Would Hydra have fallen? Schmidt? The plane? They were question that no one had the answers to and maybe it was better that way. Agent McGee had been a decent man to work with after all. His skills in the field were lacking and he tended to be gruff by nature, but there were few people that could strategize the way Agent McGee could. Steve had always held the silent belief that the man belonged behind a desk rather than a gun. Despite that, he still couldn't help but think that Agent Carter would've been a better O.S.
Seeing Grand Central Station for the first time since his enlistment brought about an overwhelming sense of relief at being home, as well as a crushing weight of despair over all he'd lost. This city had been his home, but it'd never be the same again. His life would never be the same.
Not without Bucky.
No. He wasn't supposed to think about him. Thinking about him always brought pain. It made the nightmares worse. No. Thoughts of Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes belonged in the box at the back of his mind. The one labeled "DO NOT TOUCH." He's here to get his mind off everything he's shoved into that box, not to dwell on it even more.
Thoughts pushed back, he makes his way towards the street in hopes of catching a cab. The task used to be a lot harder, back when he was the size of a twelve year old. He supposes that the extra foot or so of height along with the 150 pounds of added weight makes his current build much harder to miss.
"Where ya heading?" The cabbie asks as he closes the door.
"Manhattan, Lower East Side."
With his past, giving out his full address to anyone he doesn't personally know could be considered suicide. He doesn't think the man's a threat but he's learned that looks can be deceiving. And while Schmidt may be dead, Hydra is still lurking in the shadows somewhere. If they were to find him, he'd be dead.
"You in town on business?" The driver breaks the silence, no doubt trying to stave off his bored from a day filled with mindless cruising.
"Coming back from business."
From the backseat, Steve studies the man. He looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties. Average height. A little round about the middle, but fairly fit overall. He wears a grey bowler hat and pairs it with a bushy mustache and his appearance reminds him of Dugan. His voice is deceptively soft and the slight Irish lilt has a strangely calming effect on him.
"Name's Patrick, 'case you were wondering."
"Tom."
He gives an alias.
"Had an old buddy of mine named Tom. Was a stubborn old fool. One hell of a pitcher though. Always dreamed of making it big someday."
"Did he?"
Patrick laughs.
"No. Messed his shoulder up pretty good working at one of them steel mills. Last I heard he went and got himself a wife. When she ain't naggin' him, he spend his time tellin' everyone at the bar all about how he coulda been the starting pitcher for the Dodgers. You a Dodgers fan Tommy? Or you one of them Yanks?"
"Dodgers fan." Steve says with a hint of a smile.
"Good man. Say you listen to the game yesterday?"
"Missed it unfortunately."
"It was a great one too. We got homer first thing outta..."
Though woefully uninformed about the current state of the Dodgers, or any baseball team really, it's nice to have a conversation about something so mundane. Something so normal. Normal. He realizes that this right here, talking to a complete stranger about baseball stats, is the first time he's felt even a semblance of normalcy since he woke up.
Patrick uses an over exaggerated gesture while describing an RBI, and Steve can't help but give his first real smile in over two years. Here, in the city that he loves, away from the sterile white rooms and stiff doctors, he finally feels that things might get better. Steve Rogers, that skinny little kid from Brooklyn, may never be the same, but he just might be able to heal some of the cracks in his heart.
When Peggy first hears the knocking on her door she considers not answering it. She'd picked up a new Agatha Christie book on her way home on Friday and she's only five chapters away from the end. But she knows who's at the door, and Angie won't stop banging until she opens the door or Ms.Fry comes by and chews her out. With a sigh she marks her place and goes to open the door.
"Agh! I can't wait until my career on Broadway takes off. I'm about ready to strangle everyone at the automat."
Angie discards her coat and bag on the hall table before dropping herself onto the couch.
"Hello to you too."
Peggy throws going to look for her hidden bottle of brandy. She fills two glasses with three fingers each.
"I thought our friendship was at the stage where we don't need meaningless pleasantries every time we see each other." Angie pouts while accepting the glass.
"I'm British remember. Those pleasantries are not meaningless. Manners are very important to us."
"How can I forget, English." She takes a sip. "So what have I missed in the three days I haven't seen you?"
"First of all, that's your fault."
"Oh, come on. You know Friday's are my late night at the automat, and I hadn't seen Daniel all week. Do you blame me for wanting to go out with him last night?" Angie whines.
"No, but I've been in quite the mood all week and I've no one else but you to vent my frustrations on."
"That's cause you're horrible at making friends. You've been here what, two years, and you have like four friends."
Downing her drink, she sends her friend a glare and pours herself another three fingers.
"I have plenty of friends, thank you very much." She says.
"Fine. Live in denial if you want. You still haven't told me what I've missed."
"Thompson finally gave me my new partner's file to read. Well, more accurately he gave me it to file, I just took it upon myself to be extra informed."
"Ohh! So tell me about him. Is he cute? Cause your last one looked like his face had been beaten with an ugly stick."
Peggy rolls her eyes and fills up her friends glass.
"There wasn't a picture, not that it matters if he's handsome or not."
"Hey, I'm not saying you should be looking for a guy. I learned the hard way not to mess with your nonexistent love life when I tried to step you up with Jerry. I'm just saying that if you're going to be stuck working with him, it'd be nice if there was something pretty to look at." Angie defended.
"Well, pretty or not, I've very little hopes that he'll be that great of a partner, at least in the skills department."
"Why do you say that?" She asks.
"His service record was in the file. It was all just so...average. There was literally nothing in it that stood out."
"Nothing?"
"No. Not a thing. Hardly any commendations at all either. Not even a purple heart." She says.
"Huh. Odd that he'd go to work for the S.S.R."
"Indeed."
"What's his name?"
"Steven. Steven Grant Rogers."