Chapter Text
Steve shifted carefully on the too-soft mattress, cautious of disturbing the sleeping brunette at his side. He studied the landscape of the ceiling, mind automatically comparing it to the maps that used to be spread over the pitted tables at headquarters, awaiting his next strategy of attack. Gritting his teeth, he forced the thought away, and extracted himself from the clutches of the bedding, knowing that sleep was beyond him in this mood. He dressed quickly, in simple clothing, hoping that some exercise would settle his mind - he’d spent far too much time these last few weeks resting.
He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as the ring on his hand caught several strands. Checking that he hadn't disturbed his companion, he stealthily left the room, grabbing a small sketchbook on his way. With the fall of the Valkyrie and the end of the war in Europe, they were supposed to be at peace now, but leaving a sign of where he had headed would be for the best. Leaning against the wall he quickly sketched out a monkey running laps. He propped the open sketchbook up against a mug where it would be easily spotted, and then he slipped out the door, closing the latch carefully behind him.
The moon shone brightly in the cloudless sky outside. He drew in a deep breath of the still night air, centering himself, before jogging off down the track that led into the fields behind the house. The landscape was filled with undulating hills, simple stone walls and fences dividing the rough terrain into fields. He felt no desire to run along the lanes and roads, but instead to explore this dramatic landscape - similar to what he had experienced in Europe but less ravaged by the tides of war. He kept his focus on the ground in front of him - ever since he’d argued his way back to Britain, the stars had only reminded him of the Howling Commandos; if he let his mind drift, he expected to hear them all around him. An owl shrieked as it swooped over his head, pulling him from his thoughts, and gradually the repetitive motion of running helped calm his fraying nerves, and began to settle his mind.
He carried onward, diverting around bogs and marshy land when he had to. The landscape rose and fell around him. When the sky began to lighten with the hint of approaching dawn, he turned and began to make his way back towards the cottage. At the top of a small hill he paused, marvelling in the isolation of the landscape, with no housing or sign of mankind to be seen, the landscape unmarred by the war. As he stood there, the last rays of moonlight glinted off of something in a nearby hollow between two hills.
Curious, he scrambled down the hillside to find two groupings of stones. One group was arranged in an almost perfect circle. The other was a rough oval, with gaps suggesting missing stones. The shadows of the stones wavered in the rising sun, and for the first time in months he felt compelled to do more than draw simple cartoon sketches. The markings and carvings on the stones stood out with the rising angle of the sun. They were delicate and fine, sweeping back and forth in an endless dance. He slowly made his way around the oval, studying the stones. He wished he’d brought paper and pencil with him. Perhaps he could return tomorrow.
The two larger stones had scattered moss and lichen on them, obscuring some of the finer markings covering them, and he gently traced one line, flinching as something scraped his finger. There was a small streak of blood on his skin, the only sign that it had been broken at all. He rummaged in his pocket, looking for a handkerchief to wipe it away. And suddenly became aware of a humming noise increasing all around him. It seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It enveloped him in it’s hum, resonating in his bones. He pulled his hands from his pockets, vaguely aware of something falling out as he dropped into a fighting pose. The sound rose abruptly, became the rushing of the wind.
All thought of what had fallen from his pocket was pushed away, suddenly, by the overwhelming memory of Bucky plummeting to his death, the wind had pulled their cries away before they could be heard, and blown the tears from his face before they could even fall. He shook himself, but the rushing wind still filled his ears, and glanced down at his feet to see his compass, open to the picture of Peggy. Suddenly he was back in the Valkyrie, her voice in his ear. He thought he knew how Bucky had felt, with the wind cradling him as he fell.
And then the darkness swallowed him and he knew no more.
***
Light spilled suddenly back in the carriage as the train emerged from the tunnel, pulling him away from his memories of the freezing darkness of the Arctic circle. Their small compartment was bright and airy, a far cry from the troop trains he’d endured crossing back and forth across Europe and the speeding metal bullet of Hydra.
He shook the thought from his mind and stood, carefully shuffling through the small briefcase that had been given to him, searching for a journal and his Serviceman’s Guide to Annandale. Peggy glanced up at him as he sat down again, concern clear on her face.
“Everything all right, darling?” she asked, idly fussing with the knitting on her lap.
“Just felt like I oughta to read up on the area,” Steve said, extracting the guide from his briefcase. “Maybe plan some daytrips - I suppose I’ve been busy for so long I forgotten how to sit and do nothing.”
The laughter in Peggy’s eyes made it clear that she was aware of the mess that he’d made of several training facilities back in London, and the panic he’d caused when he snuck out the hospital and onto a plane back in New York. He ducked his head, blushing slightly, and started sketching. Their cover for this mission was a newlywed couple on honeymoon. He wanted to attempt some illustrations of what he’d hoped the day could have been, if this were real, if things had been different.
He started with an archway, penciling in trellises and cascading roses before adding in a vague feminine figure for Peggy herself. He considered her style for a moment before making her dress simple and elegant, giving a large bouquet and long veil most of his attention. Peggy’s hair was pulled up into elegant curls for their imaginary wedding.
Contented with the image, he turned a page and began to sketch out the wedding party - Phillips in a good suit, Howard preening like he had been at the World Expo, the Commandos out of uniform. The lead of his pencil snapped when he pressed down too hard, and he realized that he’d drawn Bucky on the edge of the crowd. He was turned away from everyone, his face hidden. Even in his sketches, in fantasy, Bucky was gone to him now.
He took a deep breath and closed the journal, careful not to crumple the sketch of Peggy, and picked up the book. He missed Peggy’s concerned gaze as she spun her new rings on her finger. She settled back down to her knitting, focusing on it as if it could tell her all the answers.
It was early evening when they finally disembarked at the quiet little station in Lockerbie, and wandered up onto the main street, stopping in at a quiet little tea room near the station. Over tea they ignored the stares from curious locals and enjoyed a simple, hearty meal. The sculpture of winged victory on the memorial outside kept catching Steve’s eye. Her head was raised up, eyes fixed on the horizon, instead of gazing demurely downward like the other memorials he’d seen. Her sword raised up as a shield, not as a weapon.
As they finished their drinks, a nearby clock began to chime the hour. Peggy grasped his arm, guiding him out the tea room and back down the street to the station where an eager young woman was waiting for them.
“Lizzie!” The girl said, “Oh Lizzie, it is good to see you, and on such an occasion! I could scarcely believe it when I got your telegram.” She bounced forward to hug Peggy and coo over her rings.
“Kitty! It’s been so long,” Peggy said. “Thank you so much for your assistance, are you sure that it’s quite alright to borrow the car for so long?”
“If you don’t mind dropping me back off at the farm on the way past, it’s perfectly all right,” Kitty said. “I can grab lifts with the neighbours if I’m desperate to get about, besides I’m likely to be quite busy helping with the farm over the next few weeks. That time of the year again.”
Peggy nodded and smiled, and Steve just focused on following their chatter to the car nearby. Carefully loading in their bags, he climbed into the back seat, despite their protests.
“It’ll let you both have the chance to catch up a little more” he said. “Besides, I wouldn’t like to cause an accident. I’m afraid my driving skills are a little haphazard.” Kitty nodded sympathetically, and Peggy gazed at him for a moment before settling in the driver’s seat.
Following directions up through the greens and browns of an idyllic, rippling landscape, they reached a small group of whitewashed buildings, where Kitty hopped out of the car and waved to the people who stuck their heads out at the noise.
“If you need any help just pop down here,” she said, leaning into the open window. “The farmer’s wife is usually in the house if no one else is about. Just say you’re a friend of mine if you do come down.”
“Thank you, Kitty,” Peggy said. “Good luck with the harvest.”
Steve waved to Kitty as he moved into the front of the car, feeling a little more relaxed than he’d been when they had set out from London. Peggy drove further up into the hills in peaceable silence, although he felt her gaze upon him now and again as he watched the landscape go by.
They reached a small cottage up a beaten track, and unpacked the car in silence. The quiet was broken only by birdsong in the trees around them. He took their bags up to the bedroom and came back down to see Peggy fanning the flames of the stove.
Once the fire had caught, she swung the kettle over to heat through. She looked up as he came over to the small dining table and sat down.
“Is there anything I can do to help you? I know it’s been strange these last few weeks, but I’m sure that things will settle down shortly.” She drew closer to him and took a nervous breath. “With the Peace Treaties signed, we’re starting to send out search parties for the fallen troops. I’m not sure anyone told you, but the Commandos offered to search through the Alps, see if they can bring him back.” Steve’s breath caught in his throat, and Peggy leant against him gently, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind. Her breath warm against his neck.
“Once we’ve finished here you might be able to join them, if you wished. It was felt that a lighter mission might be good for you right now. Give you some breathing space.”
“I know,” Steve said roughly, surprised at the ache in his throat. “I guess I just need some time to - to process what happened. We had to move so quickly there--” He clasped her hands gently in his own, and gazed down at their rings.
“Maybe we should think of this mission as a trial run, see how well we fit together. Running a household, I mean,” Steve added, hurriedly. He blushed and ducked his head. “You get what I’m trying to say, right? I’m still no good at this.”
“Talking to women? No, you’re still not great at it. But maybe, we should give you some practice.” She tugged gently on his hand, still clasped in hers, pulling him up to his feet.
“Perhaps we could start with a dance?”
***
Light suddenly rushed back into his vision, disconcertingly bright, as though time had sped onward without his notice. Steve staggered sideways, catching himself on one of the stones, and took a moment to catch his breath. Even stepping out of the chamber hadn’t felt like this. With his head pounding and his ears ringing, he stumbled out of the circle, pointed himself in the direction that he hoped the cottage was in, and set off, step after stumbling step. It wasn’t too different to being small again, making his way home after a fight. Only this time Buck wouldn’t be there to clean him up afterwards.
Doggedly he continued on, following his instincts and hoping they were right. Eventually he came upon a scene so strange that he was forced to stop. There was no way that he’d have missed a brightly colored temple surrounded by statues and out-buildings, even in the middle of the night. The fluttering of flags strung up from every imaginable surface added to the cacophony assaulting his senses, and his eyes were strained by the reflection of the sun from the gold-leafed roofs of the buildings.
Before he could turn to find his bearings, an unearthly shriek erupted from a nearby bush. His senses, strained to to their limits, gave out. Steve toppled to the ground.
***
Quiet jazz music filled the air as he stirred, familiar notes jarring his rattled nerves. Without opening his eyes he focused on the room, hearing only the steady breathing of another person - calm, settled breathing. Not someone who was nervous about Steve waking up. Good, that made things easier.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes, exaggerating his reaction to the light. It would be better to play at being a regular joe for now.
“Hey there. How you doing?” a voice said. “That was quite a knock you took.”
The man sitting in a small chair beside the bed looked kind. He wore glasses, and his rumpled, curly hair was just starting to turn towards grey. Steve carefully sat up and glanced at the room around them. It mostly looked like he felt it should, but something about it made him wary.
“Where -- where am I?” He didn’t even have to fake the shiver in his voice, that was probably a good thing. Probably.
“You don’t remember?” The man said with surprise. “You’re at Samye Ling, it’s a Buddhist Monastery - you don’t recall coming here? Some of the monks found you collapsed in the courtyard this morning. They asked me to check you over since I have some experience with medicine.”
He stood, and gently examined Steve’s head. The careful probing made his head hurt, but past experience had proved this tended to pass quickly. Steve marshalled his thoughts and decided to hold his tongue until he knew more. This could all be a front, despite how friendly this man seemed. God knows there were plenty of people out there who would love to get their hands on him.
Steve suddenly realized that the man had asked him a question.
“A monastery?” he said, “I don’t know. I don’t think I was coming to a monastery. I can’t remember.” He stared at the wall for a moment, at the flaking paint, before looking up at the man. “Could hitting my head have made me forget?”
“Possibly,” The man said, reaching down into his bag for what looked like a small pen. “Could you look at me for a moment? I just want to check your pupil reactions. You don’t seem to have much of a bump but I just want to check.” He clicked the pen and Steve realized it was a light. A shiver rippled down his spine as he looked where the man indicated.
“I’m sorry,” the man said said suddenly. “You can tell I’m not actually a doctor, my bedside manner is terrible. My name is Bruce. Do you remember your name? Do you have anything in your pockets that might help you understand how you came to be here? Train tickets, anything?”
Steve glanced at Bruce for a moment, then patted down his pockets, surprised to find them empty of everything but a scrap of paper. Frowning, he turned the pockets on his coat inside out. His compass was gone. The receding ache in his skull made it hard to think, but he didn’t recall seeing the light catch on it as he’d left the circle. The pounding in his head and blurry vision meant he could have missed it, though. Realising his silence was becoming suspicious, he tried to remember his cover name.
“I’m… Arthur? I think. I’m sorry, my head aches, makes it difficult to think. All I seem to have on me is this,” Steve said, handing across the blank scrap. “Not very helpful, I know.”
Bruce smiled back at him gently and rested a hand on Steve’s knee.
“I’m sure things will come back in time,” he said. “I’ll get you some painkillers, and then if you feel up to it there’s some benches outside. The fresh air and seeing the place might help trigger some memories.”
Bruce left the room for a moment, returning with two round pills and a bottle of water. The bottle made the chill down Steve’s spine solidify into a cold lump in his stomach. Too many things were different, were advanced beyond what they should be. A light in a pen. Thin, reliable material for bottles. Things definitely weren’t right. He took the pills and sipped at the water, stifling his reactions to the strangeness of it all.
He slowly stood and shuffled out the door slightly stiffly, unaccustomed to the lingering ache in his muscles - it had been years since he’d felt quite so worn out.
The gentle breeze and sun on his skin did feel good, but he retained an element of wariness despite seeming relaxed. Bruce sat beside him, a semi-reassuring presence - his gut said this was a good guy, but until he knew more about what was going on he was refraining from getting too close. He could be a plant, a way to gain his trust.
Suddenly there was an unearthly shriek from nearby and he almost fell off the bench. Bruce turned to look at him in concern. A drab-looking bird wandered past them, and Steve realized the shriek was coming from the bird, not from some strange Hydra experiment. He a waved a hand at Bruce, and settled back to enjoy the sunshine and ignore the growing bite of unease in his gut. No point in worrying more until he had more information.
They sat in peaceful silence until bells chimed somewhere nearby. Bruce stood and stretched, and gestured for Steve to follow him. One of the buildings nearby had it’s doors wide open, and the smell of food drifted along on the breeze. Inside the building, the walls were brightly colored, oranges and yellows alongside deep blues: the mix of colors was strangely calming. Benches and tables were dotted around the large space, and there was what looked like a small gift shop off to one side.
“Do you remember if you have any allergies? There’s menus on the tables if you want to check for anything that seems familiar.” Bruce said.
Steve picked one up and skimmed it. He had no idea what a panini was, but the soup sounded nice.
“I don’t think I’m allergic to anything here.” He was pretty sure he wasn’t allergic to anything nowadays. “Could you maybe get me a soup?” He asked, adding, “I’ll pay you back somehow.” Bruce nodded and headed over to the counter to order.
Steve quickly assessed the room, hoping that there might be something around to help him figure out where he was. He spotted a pile of tattered-looking newspapers sitting on one of the tables, and nonchalantly sat down next to them, hoping he’d get a chance read them before Bruce returned to his side.
Steeling his nerves, he took the top one and glanced over the front page before nearly dropping it from shock. Given what had happened to him in the chamber it was hard to say things were impossible but had he been standing he’d have dropped to his knees.
The date printed at the top of the paper read 2016.
How could it be 2016? He glanced at the next paper in the stack: 2016. If it was true, if it was real, he’d somehow travelled seventy years into the future.
He heard Bruce thanking the clerk and schooled his face. He needed some time to process this, to assess the situation further before he shared any reactions. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his emotions away relying on his experience on the bond circuit to put on an appropriate face. Bruce glanced at him briefly as he sat down, two bowls of soup and bread on the tray he’d brought over.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just … I wonder if I had a date.” He shrugged. “If someone’s noticed I’m missing or anything. Maybe I stood someone up.”
Bruce passed him his soup and bread.
“Things should come back to you given a little time. And if you were in the country with someone, I’m sure they’ll start looking for you soon. Right now the best thing you can do is rest, give yourself some time to recover.”
Steve scowled. That sounded just like what all the staff had been saying in New York before he snuck out onto a flight back to England. Bruce smiled gently.
“And if you need to move while you do that, I’m sure the monks here have some small jobs that you could help out with. All I ask is that you don’t push yourself too hard - I’m not strictly speaking a doctor, and I don’t want you to get hurt if you take something I said the wrong way.”
“Can we ask them after we eat? I’d feel better knowing that there’s something that I could be doing.” Bruce nodded, and Steve started on his soup, grateful for the chance to do something.
***
The monks gladly made up a list of tasks for Steve, and assured him that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed to. Helping to build and repair walls around the gardens brought him a sense of peace - the repetitive nature of the task soothing his wild thoughts. Using the strength the serum had brought him for a purpose that was almost the opposite of what the Army had desired of him: peace and rebuilding rather than damage and destruction. After all the talk of him not being useful, of how they wanted an army like him not just one man, realising he could own himself was freeing. For the first time in a long time Steve realized that even in this strange new place, this strange new time, he might be able to find his own path that would allow him to help others. Maybe he could even live a life that wasn't an endless battle.
Occasionally Bruce sat with him in the gardens, and they discussed the uses of the medicinal herbs and the colors of the flowers. Steve recognised the gesture for what it was - a reminder that there was someone he could speak to, who could help if he asked for it. At the same time, he sensed that Bruce was hiding something too. And perhaps he could tell that Steve wasn’t telling him everything.
Even so, the tranquility and serenity of this place wrapped around him like a blanket. Each day he woke feeling rested; he hadn’t felt this relaxed since he was a child. The repetitive nature of his work here helped him sort through thoughts in his mind - the way he had been manipulated to the benefit of others while he was still reeling from the impact of the serum. The reminder that he was still of little use, that he was an experiment and nothing more. The way he missed the companionship of the Commandos, how he’d felt like part of a family again with them all.
He sighed and shook his head, taking the wheelbarrow for another load of stone to fix the walls. Taking time to process the last few months was fine, but eventually he’d need to work out a plan for what to do next, and see if he could find out anything about what had caused him to suddenly find himself in this time. But for now, all he could do was help out and wait.
By the time he’d been there for a week he had a routine: he would sketch in the early light, and then work until lunch on repairs and maintenance around the compound. The afternoons he left open.
One morning he was sitting sketching the medieval walled garden when he realized he wasn’t alone. He stifled his instinctive reaction to dive for cover, and focused instead on the sketches - the war was over, long over for most people, and this place had so far proven itself to be peaceful. Moments later Bruce sat down beside him, and glanced over at the sketches, before turning his attention to the garden about them. Steve continued to fill in the detail of the moss and lichen on the arches, waiting for Bruce to speak.
“You haven’t really remembered much, have you?” Bruce said, eventually.
Steve put down his pencil and shook his head, waiting for Bruce to continue.
“I have a friend-- a colleague really-- who might be able to help,” Bruce said. “I’m heading to Edinburgh for the final day of a conference tomorrow. You could come with me and we can contact my friend. See if we can find you some answers.”
Bruce smiled sadly. “I know you’ve found some peace here, but if you had been in the area with someone I’m sure that we would have heard something by now.”
Bruce’s voice was gentle, his whole manner almost exaggeratedly so. Steve sighed, knowing that the tranquility he’d found here was gone now. Edinburgh would give him more access to information. He could figure out a means to become a new person in this strange world he found himself trapped in, if nothing else.
“Sure. Maybe a bigger place like Edinburgh can help shake something loose. Not like I have much to lose by giving it a try, right?” he said. Bruce nodded and clapped him gently on the shoulder.
“I’ll go make some arrangements for tomorrow, get a bag sorted out for you. Don’t worry, I’m sure my friend can help -- he’s a little over-enthusiastic at times but he means well.” Bruce said.
Steve smiled at Bruce and picked up his pencil once more, idly adding to the scene on the page before him.
“Let me know if there’s anything you need me to do. I’ll try and finish off some of the walls for the monks today. See you at lunch?” Bruce nodded and walked back to the main buildings, leaving Steve to his troubled thoughts.
***
The little station in Lockerbie had hardly changed. The war memorial still kept her watch, eyes still gazing upwards towards the future, but there were more flowers arranged around her than he remembered, the stained glass flags on the Town Hall windows hinting at a sorrow that he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about.
The train itself, when they got on it, was busy. The interiors were sleek, like Hydra’s plane had been and Steve found himself wishing for the older trains, for the impression of privacy within the carriages and hallways. The journey passed quickly, and soon he arrived in Waverley Station. For a moment the vaulting arches of glass and metal seemed familiar, safe - and then they passed into another part of the station and it became a fusion of familiar styles with more modern features, shining glass and metal scattered around stone and steel. Steve followed closely behind Bruce, reluctant to lose him in the crowds.
Edinburgh was a pleasant city, full of it’s own bustle.
Music seemed to follow them as they wandered up through the cobbled streets, past modern facings on old buildings. Briefly he wondered if he could do the same, change his exterior to fit in here. He pushed that thought aside and concentrated on following Bruce, limiting his focus to the things that he could deal with for the moment.
Bruce seemed to be uneasy. He had checked his watch six times by the time they reached their hotel. Steve took a spare room key at Bruce’s insistence, and in return insisted that Bruce go to the conference and enjoy his final day. Only when they agreed to meet back up in the evening for dinner did Bruce leave him to do as he wished.
Steve ambled down the streets, pausing at whatever caught his interest. The blue-fronted windows of Blackwells drew his eye with their displays: art supplies arranged around sculptures, a beautifully illustrated background behind a series of books. Steve stared at it for a minute, trying to figure out what a broomstick, an hourglass and an owl could have in common.
Intrigued, he headed inside, making his way down to a section of art supplies. He looked at the sketchbooks and pens, trying to decide - he had all day, after all, and the city would make for interesting studies. A shop assistant, noticing his confusion, drifted over to Steve.
Steve left the shop weighed down with a plastic bag full of sketchpads and pencils, and made his way to the National Museum of Scotland. He wandered through the galleries, pausing to sketch out anything that particularly caught his eye; a claymore in a glass case; an ancient harp; an effigy of Mary Queen of Scots. Eventually, he reached the floors on Modern Scotland, hoping that it might be a good starting point to see some of the history he had missed since 1945. It might fill in some of the context of the last seventy years without making him immediately aware of what he had abandoned everyone to.
Although some of the developments were surprising, he could see hints of what he knew within them. Thankfully most of the changes appeared to be for the better - much better health care, far fewer deadly diseases. The evolution in music surprised him, but he could see the roots of his time in many of the changes. He strolled through the galleries and rooms, browsing the changes and shifts in thinking, absorbing them.
He paused briefly in a small corridor, looking out the window as he considered everything he’d seen. The crowd thronging the statue of a dog at a crossroads caught his eye, and he pondered it a for moment before working his way down through the other floors.
In the entrance hall a large group distracted him briefly, their thick New York accents wrapping him in sense of home even as he rubbed away the goosebumps that had risen on his arms as he crossed the floor. A chill went down his spine. Mentally, he shook himself and left, heading into the fresh air and across the road to the statue he’d seen before.
A small panel fastened to the railings told the story behind the dog: Greyfriar’s Bobby. When his master had died in 1859, Bobby had returned daily to sit by the grave, keeping watch for over a decade.
Steve swallowed around the lump in his throat. He hoped that Peggy hadn’t fallen to that same level of waiting, of devotion to him. That there wasn’t a statue of him in a park back home, mobbed the same way this one was. He watched a tour group pat the statue, and looked back at the museum before deciding to move on. Perhaps he should try and find out some of what happened to Peggy and the others. Prepare himself, if there were indeed statues of Captain America for the masses to admire.
He was considering the nearby cafes an elaborate building slightly further along the street caught his eye. It looked like one of the Art Deco high-rises he’d seen springing up in New York when he was a kid. As he headed toward it, he saw that it was the National Library of Scotland and he glanced to his left and saw another library - a beautiful Victorian structure littered with leaded-glass windows. The sign on the gate post read Edinburgh Central Library. He paused a moment, studying the detailed facade and decided to look inside. It would be as good a place as any to start researching the last seventy years. And if it wasn’t then he should have plenty of inspiration for sketches.
It seemed like time was one thing he had plenty of.