therighttime | AU Milliways

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AU Milliways

The door opens from one pub to the next. A rosy-tinted, warm little English pub filled to the brim with uniformed soldiers and local girls, crowing and laughing and being alive, really feeling it for the first time in longer than any of them would like to admit.

The woman who is leaving that particular pub is tall - very tall, inches over six feet - shapely in her 1940s olive dress uniform. Her make-up is fresh, her tie in perfect order, her hair is even curled in classic victory rolls (it took three showgirls three hours to make it happen, but they're all used to it by now).

Stephanie Rogers is grinning, flush-faced and filled with joy as she waves to a dark-haired soldier at the bar and steps purposefully into -- another bar.

She recognizes a shift, a difference immediately, and keeps one hand on the knob even as she frowns thoughtfully at the room around her.

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He's not the first. Not even for that particular reason. A lot of men left their girls at home and she and Peggy get the same sort of looks, far off gazes and faint sad smiles. It's sad. Sweet.

Yes, okay, a little annoying, like Peggy always used to insist. But Stephanie's learned to pick her battles and sad, lonely boys far from home aren't the most important target in front of her these days.

So for this man and his look and his sketchbook, she can smile and nod and be the best soldier she can be.

Steve looks at the world with curiosity, eagerness, and willingness. Willingness to jump in, to act. Sometimes that inquisitiveness is trumped by other expressions — like the boy-whose-hand-just-got-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look that crosses his face now. His mouth falls open, his ears feel hot...

He drops his gaze, grinning shyly. After a minute or two, he chances a small, awkward wave.

And then he picks up his pencil.

He's not the best at striking up conversation with women, especially when that woman didn't come with him and is standing a good fifteen feet away. Bucky knew all the lines, how to smile just right — Steve just knew how to be nice. Which is why he motions to his pad, and arches his eyebrows, waving his pencil in the air to ask her permission.

You mind if I draw you, ma'am?

Yeah, he's not good at talking to women, but he's great at miming niceties.

Stephanie pauses, taking in the gesture. When his meaning becomes clear, she blinks in surprise.

It's one of the better lines she's heard over the years. And she doesn't even need Elena or showgirls to tell her how to respond.

Smiling, Stephanie approaches the man and nods hopefully to the seat across from him. "May I join you?"

The look she casts over his paper, his pencils is admiring, a little covetous. It's been a long time since she had the time to draw, much less the materials.

She isn't within ten feet before Steve rises from his seat, quickly enough to cause a groaning of chair legs across hardwood. His palm goes flat against his chest, instinctively holding back the tie that isn't there. He isn't in army dress. He's in khakis, a short-sleeved button-up tucked in and belted, collar left open to show a glimpse of his undershirt.

"That would be nice, ma'am."

He nods, but he gets a little caught up and it ends up looking like a bow, stilted and jerky. At least she's looking at his work. Maybe she didn't notice.

Um.

"Steve Rogers."

He presents his hand, fingertips stained black.

She smiles at his manners, noting the hand against his chest with some curiosity. So he's us to wearing a uniform, presumably military from the way he stares at her. But his gaze isn't insulting, leering. Really, she's inclined to like him, smiling sweet as she reaches for his outstretched hand.

Then he introduces himself and Steph stops with her clean, calloused fingertips a hair's breadth from his stained black. Blue eyes so sweet, so honest, narrow though her smile stays in place.

"I'm sorry. Is that... Are you teasing me?"

"Huh?"

There's something about those eyes. And her nose. And her mouth. There's something about that whole face area that makes Steve blink and tilt his head.

Teasing her?

He glances at his hand, and quickly pulls it back. He almost wipes it on his pants before remembering himself (charcoal. Khakis. Steve, get it together), reaching for a napkin instead.

"What? No. No ma'am, I wouldn't do that. I apologize."

Edited 2012-10-06 05:25 (UTC)

He seems honest. Not just what he says, how he says it, but his eyes when he looks at her. He's vaguely familiar there, in the eyes and the shape of his lips - though, honestly, Steph really shouldn't be examining him that closely.

That he frets for her hands to dirty makes her laugh, soft and short and shake her head. Coincidence, then, in this strange place. Just an odd coincidence, one of the tamer types she'd been warned about.

"Please, don't worry on my account." She glances over his table and the covetous smile turns admiring, lingering on the architecture, the small glimpses of faces. "You're very talented."

She smiles and offers her hand again, a little sheepish. "I'm Captain Stephanie Rogers. Steph, if you like."

He blinks. "Stephanie ... Rogers."

His hand is automatic this time, slowly clasping hers, and where he's used to dwarfing a woman's hand in his shake he finds her grip sure, firm. Capable, like Peggy's. And then the title clicks.

"Captain," he acknowledges, straightening his shoulders. She's tall — really tall, for a girl. Lady. Woman. Thrown even further off than he's used to, he returns the sheepishness with an almost puppy-like lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just dabble. Thank you."

It's not exactly the truth. Part of him feels guilty about that.

Rogers.

Captain Rogers.

He gestures to the opposing seat, politely inviting her to sit.

"Do you ... do you like art?"

"I..." She pauses, knowing which word she wants to use instinctively and hesitating because of it. Her smile is almost apologetic as she takes her seat, shrugging. "I dabble. Do you study, Mr. Rogers?"

He's a tall man. Very tall, actually, though nothing abnormal. It took her a moment to realize as he shook her head, because more notable was how handsome he was. But he's just about her height when most of her own men are a few inches shy and his hand fit with hers comfortably, neither dwarfed nor trying to impress her with strength.

More important than all of this, at the moment, is Steph waiting for him to correct her. Not Mister, not with the hand he'd put to his chest, not the way he'd straightened with her title. He's in the service, or something near enough to and she likes to know when it's all right to address a man comfortably and when to call him sir.

He takes a seat after her, absently scratching behind his ear.

"Actually, it's, uh, Captain."

Catching her eyes, he holds up his hands and laughs. "I'm not teasing you, I swear. I guess it's weird, you and me both being Captain Rogers. But you don't have to call me that. I was in the service a long time ago. Now when people address me as captain it's usually as Captain America. Steve's just fine."

He looks away on purpose. He likes to see the way people react when he tells them he's Captain America. It's vain, he knows it, but it's also helpful to know going in who the other person is interested in: the man, or the legend. Not this time. He's embarrassed, so he picks up a pencil and carries on, forcing himself to count down from ten before he looks at her again.

"I used to study. Fine arts. I've been thinking of picking it back up, but. It's been a long time. My life went in a different direction, I guess you'd say."

Captain America.

Captain America.

Captain Steve Rogers.

It's not surprise or sheepishness or amusement, just a sharp stab of unwelcome anger, possessiveness.

She is Captain America. She had to beg and work and prove herself over and over again and Captain America is a woman, someone the girls and kids back home can look up to, someone the men in the army can follow without fear or hesitation.

He's looked away. Stephanie is staring at him without shame, lost in her thoughts, seeing so much more in his profile, the fall of his hair, the shape of his eyes than she did just a moment ago.

It's not a coincidence she was warned about, it was doubles in all the shapes and sizes and sexes of the world.

Steph inhales suddenly and looks away, down at the table. The pads of paper, scattered pencils, soft erasers.

"In the direction of USO shows and a war in Europe?"

He's not a simple man. On his own soil he's a natural born leader, which means he's sharp, confident, intelligent. There's something in her voice that wasn't there before, and he looks up immediately.

"...Yeah." He blinks, squints at her, tries to understand how she went from friendly and shy to sharp edges. Did he say something wrong? "Have you heard of me?"

Her uniform is familiar. Comfortable. He knows what it means, and he knows it puts her in his home time. But does it put her in his home place?

"Forgive me, Captain Rogers. I feel like I would have remembered you if we were serving at the same time."

"Captain Rogers, I don't think the same 'time' is what we're talking about here."

She's not looking at him but she could feel the shift in him, too. He must have picked up on it but maybe he just doesn't want to think about it yet. God knows she's not a fan of the idea.

One of his charcoal pencils twirls in her fingers and Steph knows she really shouldn't be touching his things. But if she puts it down, the temptation to wring her hands or twist her fingers in her skirt will be unbearable.

"I'm Captain America. Back home."

She's Captain A — oh.

Wow.

Heavens to Betsy.

"So you're ... you're me. Back home." Another Captain America, a Stephanie Rogers, and no wonder everything looks and feels so familiar because it's his, isn't it? It's—

Not his.

"Or I'm you," he adds, running a hand through his hair.

This is so much weirder than being put on ice for seventy years.

There's a sudden flush, high in her cheekbones - until he changes his wording. You're me. I'm you.

She spins the charcoal stick between her fingers, slow, then sets it down. Slow and deliberate, fitting it carefully between two sheets of clean paper.

"That's what it sounds like. I just have the feeling I'd have noticed if there were two Captain America's running around."

The whole world would have noticed, no doubt. What a marketing scheme that would have been. The bonds business would have wept tears of joy to have two Captain Americas, and not only that but one as pretty and as sweet as Stephanie.

Captain Rogers.

Steve's eyes are resolutely on the table. He lifts his arms, sets his hands on the edge; drops his hands in his lap, fidgets, lays his arms on the table again. He pinches a pencil, the fingers of his left hand smeared with soft lead, the fingers of his right chipping at the wood until he works a splinter under his thumbnail.

"Yeah. None of the files I've read said anything about me getting replaced. I don't think that's a secret even Fury and his people could have kept." He frowns at the pencil like it's just bit him. "So, you — tell me about yourself."

Stephanie is watching him. The way he fiddles with the pencil, works the splinter free. She has her own bad habit of ruined nails from the same action and its odd to see it from this end.

"Fury?" she asks instead, a little relieved to hear something she doesn't recognize as her own.

Has he said too much already?

"Oh." He gestures obscurely, shrugging his shoulders. "He's... he's... actually, I'm not sure what to call him. He's the director of an agency I'm kind of a part of."

Kind of.

Director. Not commanding officer.

"A military ... espionage ... law-enforcement kind of — what year is it outside your door?"

Steph's shoulders drop, relieved enough by his answer to smile a little. So they are different, different enough. Steve works with someone called Fury, their paths diverged right away.

"1941," she replies, fingertips nudging at a pencil in front of her. "I don't-- I don't know how much of my life is like yours but... well, I don't know a Fury. The only agency I'm a part of is the US Army."

Edited 2012-10-31 01:39 (UTC)

He purses his lips, and aside from that doesn't react.

After a couple moments:

"Under the command of a Col. Chester Phillips?"

He lowers his voice a titch.

"At the behest of a Dr. Abraham Erskine?"

Her smile drops, eyes wide.

"Yes," Steph says, quiet but firm, and that relaxation is gone. Colonel Philips is no secret, but no one knew Dr. Erskine outside of the project. Absolutely no one.

"No," she says a moment later, then shakes her head, dropping her gaze to the table, jaw working. "I mean, yes, but... Col. Philips is my... he's my superior officer, Dr. Erskine is... he passed away."

A lie, he was murdered.

His mouth goes dry.

'No no, wait wait, what am I doing? No, you have procedure tomorrow. No fluids.'

A grim smile sits uneasily on his face.

"Yeah."

She mentioned the USO, so if she's still in '41 then she must be a few months past all of that. The lab, the shooting, the canned project ... a good man's death. Steve's good at putting the pieces together.

"Never did get to taste those Schnapps."

Edited 2012-11-05 02:51 (UTC)

Steph lets out a breath, shaky.

No, I don't have procedure tomorrow. Drink it after? Drink it now.

Emotion isn't an option she's been able to afford for a while. Steph doesn't cry but she bows her head for a moment, remembering the kind man who'd believed in her.

She lifts her head smoothly, expression sweet as she lifts a hand to get the attention of a passing waitrat. "Hi. Could I get two glasses of Schnapps, please?"

It squeaks and salutes her before trotting off.

Steve looks mildly blanched.

"You–you don't have to do that."

Straightening:

"I should have thought — I should have offered."

Steph blinks at him, surprised blue eyes and lifted eyebrows, but the smile that grows on her lips is slow and warm.

"If you're going to forget your manners around any woman, I guess it might as well be me. Besides, I just bought a whole round for the-- my-- well, some soldiers out the door. Two more drinks won't break me."

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