Archive of Our Own

Steve sets his pencil down, observing the common room around him. The Avengers Tower is quiet for a change, most of the others lounging, murmuring amongst each other. Steve feels something warm as his eyes glimpse, watching Tony hunched in his corner, then over to Clint and Natasha by the kitchen island. Thor, who's chatting it up with Bruce, laughs like an erupt volcano, voice booming as he tells an Asgardian tale. Bruce, ever the patient scientist, smiles and sinks in Thor's story.

For a moment, his Avengers aren't just a team, but family. A chaotic little family, assembled for a day of rest.

Steve returns his attention to his sketchpad, shading in a skyline he's been drawing of the New York City landscape. He presses the lead into the paper with meticulous strokes, perfecting the shade of a building casting shadows. These quiet moments are a precious gem — after everything they've been through, most especially with Ultron; after nearly losing each other coming out on top... the peace is more rewarding than any public ceremony.

"Sir, I've detected an anomalous energy. Signature layered over a distress beacon."

JARVIS's voice cuts through the peaceful atmosphere, causing Steve's head to snap up in attention. His body, his instincts, tense up and prepare for action. The others, once lost in their quiet activities, also rise with the practiced ease of well-trained soldiers. "The signal is..." JARVIS pauses, which is unusual enough that Steve rises from his chair. "... chronologically displaced."

"Chronologically placed?" Tony echoes, straightening his posture from where he is sat at his workbench. "JARVIS, buddy, have you been watching Back to the Future again? Plain English."

"The signal appears to be approximately fourty years old," JARVIS explains. There's a beat in the pause. "It is being received in real time, however. It is broadcasting a signal. Priority word: Help."

Steve moves towards the holographic display Tony has loaded up, tactical mind already running through many possibilities. An old signal received now... it doesn't make sense, which smells like danger. "Fourty years... 1975."

"That is correct," JARVIS confirms Steve's exact calculation.

"Could it be a trap?"

JARVIS offers no reply, until Bruce joins in the gathering, scientific curiosity evident despite the concern written on his expression. "A temporal echo, maybe, or a ghost in the machine."

Thor rises to his full height, his mighty hammer Mjolnir already in hand. "Whether from this time or another, a cry for aid requires an answer, immediately!"

Steve nods once, almost instinctive a reply, but instincts alone isn't enough when they're dealing with something that bends the rules of time. Time travel, Steve realizes as he takes another quick glance over to Tony, as if wordlessly requesting a technical analysis.

Tony's fingers fly across the holographic interface. "Okay, here's what we know," he adjusts his glasses. "The temporal signature is real, not a recording or trick. The energy readings suggest either a pocket dimension or a localized time slip. Someone... or something... is asking for help."

The tactical implications are unclear, but the moral ones read like the ABC's on a chalkboard. "We need to investigate, full team. If this is a trap we can face it together. If someone really needs help..."

Natasha cuts in smoothly, "Gear up in five."

Steve watches his family - now an arranging team - mobilize with precision. He allows himself a moment of pride, admiration, before he follows suit. Whatever is waiting for them on the other end of the signal, they'll face it together.

As there is no 'I' in 'team'.

Steve braces himself as the ship shudder violently around them. Tony pilots through what appears to be a churning wall of energy over NYC — their New York, and yet… the readings insist it isn’t. Not entirely. “Okay, this is weird even by our standards,” Clint mutters from his seat.

The lights flicker once, twice.

“Everyone okay?” Steve asks, eyes scanning around for anything out of the ordinary. Affermatives come from all sides, indicating that everything is stable. In order.

Clint leans forward to look at the viewscreen, lips curling into a frown. “Okay, is it just me, or does everything look… brown? Are those cars from a museum?”

Steve moves closer to the screen, his breath catching in the back of his throat. The cars Clint points out aren’t museum pieces. He recognizes the way they’re parked along streets, aligned in a row, and soon his brain connects the dots. JARVIS did say 1975, but…

“JARVIS, what’s out temporal location?” Tony asks, although from the tone of his voice, Steve knows that Tony knows the answer.

“Location is the same, sir. The temporal reading is… exactly 1975.”

The crew falls silent. Steve stars at the viewscreen, at the streets that look like the ones he walked before the ice. The architecture, cars, even the quality of light filtering through the windows. The familiarity causes a tightness to squeeze against his chest.

“I recognize these streets,” he says quietly, a low murmur. “It looks like the neighborhood I grew up on.”

Tony’s faceplate reacts, expression caught between fasination and disbelief. “JARVIS, run an analysis of potential hostiles in the area. What exactly is it we’re dealing with?”

JARVIS flickers. “Sir, you’re not going to believe this.”

Clint pipes up, “If time travel and a green giant that smashes whole entire buildings exist, then surely it’s possible.”

JARVIS continues, his voice slowing. “Scanners indicate the area is populated primarily by… civilians. Human children, adult supervisors, and several entities that appear to be composed of fabric, foam, and — if I may add — goodwill.”

Steve blinks hard. “Fabric and foam?”

Tony shakes his head with a sigh. “Define ‘entities’.”

“They appear to be living creatures, sir, but their composition is unlike anything in our biological databases. I hesitate to classify them as threats. One appears to be a large yellow bird. About… eight feet tall and… furry.”

Clint and Natash exchange glances with each other. “This is officially the strangest mission we have ever had,” she declares, and Clint nods once in sharp agreement.

“Well,” Tony says after a moment. “We came all this way. Might as well say hello to some fabrics.”

Steve’s hand twitches, checking on his shield. It’s secure on his back as it should be, but just in case, he keeps an eye out. “We proceed with caution nevertheless. Stay vigilant. Just because they don’t look like threats, doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap to draw us in.”

The group decsend towards what looks like a simple little park. Steve watched through the viewscreen as they approach, his mind cataloguing everything he sees. Children playing Frisbee, adults supervising. The buildings appear so well-maintained and peaceful, Steve isn’t so sure he’s in the United States — or his world — anymore.

The landing is smooth. Tony has always been a better piolot than he gives himself credit for, and Steve wordlessly acknowledges that. The ramp soon lowers, and Steve is first to take point position. His shield is at the ready, but lower, in a more cautionary stance.

The afternoon sunlight beams down on him first — warm, golden in a way that modern New York rarely can manage. Then comes the smell: fresh air, a lack of pollution. The scent of trees and growth. For a disorienting moment, Steve has stepped backwards. Backwards to the past.

The Avengers team stride down the ramp in foundation, Steve at the head, Natasha and Clint flanking, Tony hovering from slightly above. Thor and Bruce bring up the rear as the muscles of the team. Steve takes the scene, and his family, all in for a moment.

Sleek modern armor, advanced weaponry… the kind of tecnology that looks more like pure science fiction and fantasy against this 70’s styled… backdrop, is the only word Steve can describe this place as.

The street ahead is exactly how JARVIS proclaimed. Buildings all in line with concrete stairs leading to colorful doors. Trees, actual, healthy trees growing from the sidewalk. And then, standing in the middle of it all is the strangest being Steve has encountered in all his years. While Clint may be right about the oddities of time travel and green giants, this is certainly something new. Curious.

It’s a large yellow bird — exactly eight feet tall — who stands near a lamppost, talking to thin air. Steve blinks, wondering if this is some sort of illusion, a hallucination to trick the mind into believing all is secure. Nearby, beneath another lamppost are two other, much smaller figures — one orange, one yellow — engaged in what appears to be an argument about a rubber ducky. The yellow creature’s voice lingers in distress.

Steve makes a tactical decision, taking a few steps forward, body language remaining as non-threatening as possible. He raises one hand in a peaceful gesture, as if greeting aliens for the first time. “Excuse me. We received a distress call. Is there an emergency here?”

The large yellow bird leans down — and down, and down — to peer at him with kind yet enormous eyes. “Oh! Snuffy, we have visitors!” the bird says over his shoulder. Soon the bird’s attention returns to steve, his voice gentle and surprised. “Emergency? Oh, I don’t think so. My, your clothes are so shiny! Are you from the future?”

The question is innocent enough that when Steve attempts to reply, no words come through. He’s faced aliens, robots, enchanted humans. He fought in a war and woke up in a different century. But he has never had to explain time travel before, to a talking bird of all things.

Behind him, Tony’s faceplate retreats with a soft hiss. Steve glances back to see his teammate looking from the bird to the argument about the rubber ducky. Then, just ahead, a little blue figure sitting sadly among scattered boxes near a storefront. Tony’s expression cycles — disbelief, awe.

“JARVIS,” Tony murmur quietly into his comm, “please tell me you’re also seeing an eight-foot tall bird and a wooly mammoth.”

“I am detecting a large mammalien entity, sir. However, none of the local residents appear to acknowledge its presence.”

“So either we’re hallucinating together or—”

“Or,” comes the voice of someone familiar. Bruce strides over with scientific fascination with a smile. “Our sensors can detect something the locals can’t see. Fascinating.”

“That is one big bird,” Steve says with an almost exhausted chuckle.

“That’s my name! How did you know?” the oversized canary asks. “Can you see Snuffy? Most grown-ups can’t see him. He’s very shy.”

Steve glances at the team. Natasha raises an eyebrow as if wanting to comment on adding this mission to the list of weird missions the team has encountered throughout the years. “We just broke this time-space continuum,” Tony announces to the team with a hefty sigh, “for this.”

Steve turns back to asess the situation more carefully, mind switching from war strategy to a more tactical analysis. The ‘distress’ they’re seeing is unlike anything else: a rubber ducky argument, scattered boxes. These aren’t world-ending threats or dangerous purple titans.

It’s everyday life.

These are the kinds of problems Steve remembers from before the war, when neighbors helped neighbors, and the greatest crisis of all might be a missing item, or a task too big for one person to handle alone. He lowers his shield completely, resting it against his back. Whatever this place is — wherever they ended up — Steve’s war-ready posture relaxes. There’s no real danger.

Now the next question is: what are the Avengers supposed to do? They came all this way, cutting through time and space. But for what?

Steve watches as the rest of the Avengers lower their weapons, the absurdity of combat-ready stances in this peaceful place becoming apparent to everyone. The residents of this place, this street, begin to approach the group with curiosity. Steve has to admit, their courage and lack of self-preservation is refreshing, in a mysterious sort of way.

“So,” Natasha says, appearing at his elbow like a shadow. “What’s the play here, Cap?”

Steve considers the question with careful thought. They were quick to gear up for what could have been a disaster, a trap. The call itself was real, even if the “distress” wasn’t what they expected. And now that they’re here, these people — neighbors — look at them like they might help. Like they could lend a hand.

“We help,” Steve declares firmly. “It’s what we do.”

Tony lands beside them with a soft thunk of boots hitting pavement. “We’re seriously doing this? We’re goign to, what, solve the Great Rubber Ducky crisis of 1975?”

Steve meets his eyes. “Someone asked for help, Tony. Even if it’s small to you, it can be a big deal for others.”

For a moment, Tony holds in a breath. Then he sighs, betrayed by his own amusement. “You’re lucky you’re convincing when you do the righteous thing.” He turns to address his team. “All right, Avengers. You’ve heard Cap. Let’s asemble… but try not to break anything. All of this looks vintage and would probably cost a fortune in 2015.”

The team splits up naturally, drawn to different situations through either instinct, or sheer curiosity.

Steve notices the small blue monster, still sitting among his scattered boxes. He makes his way over with purpose, caution in his step. This, Steve understands, is exactly the kind of problem he would’ve helped with in Brooklyn, in another lifetime. Helping neighbors carry things, volunteering when a simple favor is out there.

It’s community.

“Hey there,” Steve approaches the monster, crouching down to the blue creature’s level. “Looks like you’ve had a spill. Can I help you with this?”

The blue monster’s posture straightens immediately, sorrow replaced with jolt of flustered energy. “Oh! My goodness, you would help little old Grover? Oh, that is so, very, very kind of you, Mister… Shiny-Star Man!” He gestures vaguely at the star on Steve’s chest. “I was trying to carry all of these boxes to Mr. Hooper’s store, you see, but my arms are not quite as… box-shaped as I had hoped.”

Steve offers a warm, empathetic smile. “I’ve been there. Let’s get you sorted.” He begins to methodically gather the items, his movements economical and precise. He places the hats in one box, the shoes in another, handling the rubber chicken with a bemused sort of dignity before placing it on top. In moments, the mess is gone, replaced by a neat stack of three boxes.

Grover looks between the tidy stack and Steve, his fuzzy blue hands clasped together in awe. “Wow! You are so good at that! You are a professional box-stacker!”

“Something like that,” Steve chuckles, lifting the entire stack with an ease that makes Grover’s eyes widen even further. “Lead the way.”

As Steve follows the delighted monster towards the store, he glances back at the rest of his team. He was right.

They had, indeed, asembled.

Tony, his nanotech suit retracted into a casual Henley and jeans, stands with his arms crossed, observing the heated discussion between the orange and yellow figures.

“But Bert,” the orange one insists, holding the rubber ducky aloft. “He wants to see what the world looks like from the top of the lamppost! It would be an adventure!”

“Ernie, he’ll fall!” the taller, yellow one, Bert, retorts, his unibrow furrowed in severe distress. “He’s a bath toy, not a mountaineer! It’s not safe!”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, fellas, time-out.” He steps between the two creatures. “Let’s apply some basic engineering principles to this. The subject,” he points a finger at the duck, “has a high-density polyethylene composition, low center of gravity. However, the top of that lamppost is a curved surface with potential wind-shear. Bert’s right, fall risk is high.”

Bert grins in triumph.

“However,” Tony continues, a glint in his eye, “that doesn’t mean we can’t facilitate the desired experience.” He taps his temple, and a small, almost invisible drone detaches from his watch. It buzzes over to the rubber ducky, projecting a perfect, shimmering blue light around it.

“Tell you what. I’ll give your friend here a personalized, anti-gravity safety field. He can float up, take a look around, and float right back down. No risk, all reward. Deal?”

Ernie gasps in pure joy, leaving Bert’s mouth agape as the rubber ducky levitates to the top of the lamppost, squeaking in triumph, conquering mountains.

Elsewhere, Thor has discovered the joys of Frisbee.

The children, initially imitated by his size and armor, are won immediately over by his booming laugh. “This flying shield is a marvel of Midgardian craftsmanship!” he bellows, catching the plastic disc with one hand. “Now, watch as I return it with the force of a mighty storm!”

“Thor, wait—” Bruce cuts in, but it’s too late. With the flick of a wrist, Thor sends the Frisbee soaring. It shoots right up into the sky, almost defying gravity as it slowly disappears, flying further and further to the sun.

The children fall silent.

“My apologies, small warriors. My strength knows not its own limits in gentle games.”

Bruce pats his arm gently. “It’s okay, big guy. Just a little too much relative velocity.”

Thor looks to the sky, then to his own hands. He takes a deep breath. A flicker of his old, pre-exile arrogance is replaced by a genuine sense of duty. He has made a mistake and disappointed these small, trusting mortals. That will not stand.

“Worry not, tiny champions!” he declares, his voice regaining its confident boom, but this time laced with purpose instead of carelessness. He holds his hand out to the side, palm up. “I shall retrieve your flying shield!”

For a moment, nothing happens. The children just stare. Then, from the Quinjet, comes a thunderous CRACK! as Mjolnir smashes through the open ramp, a silver-blue streak against the sky. It flies across the street and lands in Thor’s waiting hand with a solid, satisfying thump.

The children’s silent disappointment melts away, replaced by wide-eyed, open-mouthed awe. One little boy whispers, “Whoa…”

Thor gives them a reassuring grin. “A warrior must always correct his errors.”

He spins Mjolnir with a practiced roar of building momentum, lifting off the ground in a swirl of dust and crackling ozone. His red cape billows out behind him as he acsends, a crimson and silver rocket shooting straight up into blue sky. He becomes a speck, then vanishes from sight entirely.

Bruce shields his eyes, watching his friend disappear. “Always has to make an entrance,” he mutters to himself, a fond smile playing on his lips.

The street is quiet again, full of anticipation. Less than a minute passes before a dot reappears in the sky, growing larger with impossible speed. Thor descends, landing with a soft thud that barely disturbs the pavement—a testament to his newfound control.

He walks back to the group of children, expression solemn. In one hand, he holds Mjolnir. In the other, he holds out the plastic red Frisbee, completely unscathed.

“Your shield, my lady,” he says with a slight bow, presenting it to the little girl who owned it.

She takes it, her eyes as wide as saucers. “You… you flew,” she breathes.

Thor’s expression breaks into a warm, gentle smile. “Only to fetch what was lost.” He kneels, bringing himself down to the childrens’ level. “Perhaps this time… we try for a gentler flight?”

Meanwhile, Clint and Natasha have taken a different approach. They stand near the set of green trash cans where the distress signal seems to be strongest. The lid of one can clanks open, and a grumpy green creature with bristly eyebrows peers out. One of the locals mentioned a name, Oscar, who lives behind the alleyway.

“What do you want?” the green creature grumbles. That must be Oscar. “Can’t you see I’m busy having a terrible day? Now scram!”

Natasha leans against the lamppost, her expression unreadable. “We’re tracking a signal. An old one. Priority word: Help.”

The creature — he’s such a grouch! — scoffs. “Help? I don’t need help. I love being miserable. The only help I want is for you shiny tourists to go away and leave me and my beautiful trash alone.”

Clint crouches down, getting on eye-level with the can. “Look, buddy, we’re not here to mess with your… aesthetic. The signal came from right here. It’s got a weird temporal signature. You been messing with any old radios? Anything with a flux capacitor?”

Oscar’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Flux what? I was just trying to fix my toaster. The one from 1952. Thing was making a weird whirring noise, then it went ‘zap’ and all my spoons stuck to the side of the can.” He gestures with a grimy hand to a collection of magnetized spoons. “Best thing that’s happened all day. Now beat it!”

He slams the lid shut.

Clint looks at Natasha, a slow grin spreading across his face. “A forty-year-old signal, received in real time.”

Natasha’s lips twitch into a smile. “Caused by a short in a vintage toaster, creating an electromagnetic, chronologically displaced pulse.” She shakes her head. “This is, again, officially the strangest mission we have ever had.”

Clint nods. “Definitely.”

Steve, having returned from his delivery mission, walks over to join them, a sense of calm satisfaction settling over him. He sees Tony demonstrating drone technology to an amazed Bert and Ernie, and Thor learning the concept of “less power” from Bruce and a group of giggling children.

The distress call was an accident. The emergency was a pile of dropped boxes and a rubber ducky’s thwarted ambition. This wasn't a battle for the fate of the universe. It was just a day on the street.

“So,” Steve says, addressing his two spies. “False alarm?”

“The biggest,” Clint confirms. “And if I’ll be honest, the best.”

Steve looks around at his team — his family — not fighting a war, but participating in a community. They were here to help, and they had, in ways none of them could have ever predicted.

Mission accomplished.

“Alright, Avengers,” Steve says into his comm, a smile in his voice. “Let’s go home.”