Angie had read a blog post once that recommended buying brightly colored luggage to make it easier to find at baggage claims when travelling. The logic had made sense to her, so even though she'd never traveled on a plane before in her life, when it was time for her to buy suitcases to go to college, she'd picked out some that were fluorescent pink, with a neon flower print.

Now though, Angie wished she wouldn't have listened to that blog's advice. She couldn't help but feel faintly ridiculous, following Ms. Finster through SHIELD's halls with her eye-catching suitcase rolling along behind her. She'd tried to counteract the brightness of her suitcase by wearing more subdued scrubs than her usual choices, but for Angie, that meant wearing a pastel purple pair with her gray crocs. She tried very hard not to notice the glances of the agents they passed.

Ms. Finster had briefed her that morning on her assignment, though the instructions were vaguer than Angie would have preferred. Angie and Steve were going to be taken to a SHIELD safehouse called The Retreat. Ms. Finster either couldn't or wouldn't tell her the location of the safehouse. While there, it was Angie's job to "monitor" Steve as he adjusted to the situation, making sure he didn't take a turn for the worse. She was to send up nightly reports via a tablet that Ms. Finster had supplied her with.

"Remember," Ms. Finster said as they drew near the underground hanger that housed SHIELD's jets, "this is a wok assignment. At least try to remain professional." The words were accompanied by a sidelong glance at Angie's decidedly unprofessional suitcase.

"Yes, ma'am," Angie said, her grip on the handle tightening reflexively.

The hanger was large, but there weren't many people around, making it easy to spot the others waiting for them by a quinjet – the others being Steve and Director Fury. Ms. Finster and Angie both picked up their pace slightly to reach them. Angie eyed Steve as they approached. It seemed SHIELD had gotten him some changes of clothes; instead of the old SSR t-shirt, he was dressed in khaki pants and a simple button up, a plain brown duffel bag in one hand. He didn't show any signs of distress, his expression politely neutral.

I don't remember Gramps saying Steve was hard to get a read on.

His stories had indicated the opposite actually, which made this feel a little weird.

"Good morning, Director," Ms. Finster said. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's no trouble," Director Fury said. "You're not late. The pilot is still prepping the quinjet." His gaze settled on Angie, and she straightened her posture automatically. "Good morning, Ms. Thompson."

"Good morning, sir," Angie said. She still didn't understand why the Director would have specifically requested her for this assignment, especially given the awkward scene he'd witnessed the day before, but she didn't want to give him a reason to regret his decision. Then, feeling it would be rude not to address Steve at all, she looked up at him and said, "Good morning, Steve?" She wanted to cringe at the way her voice turned up at the end, making Steve's name a question. But it had only occurred to her as she was saying it that maybe she shouldn't use his first name. He didn't really know her after all; maybe she should have been more formal, calling him Captain Rogers, or sir, or something like that.

Ms. Finster sighed, and Angie felt like she was flubbing up the situation already.

If Steve was at all bothered, he didn't show it. He just nodded politely in her direction. "Morning, ma'am."

His use of ma'am made her want to wilt. She definitely should have gone with something more formal than his first name.

Luckily, she was prevented from embarrassing herself any further by the appearance of their pilot at the top of the quinjet's lowered ramp. "We're ready to go whenever," he said.

Agent Barton?

She didn't really know Agent Barton per se, but Angie had treated him after more than one mission, so she recognized him. He was always friendly, despite whatever injuries he might have, and he was a fan of Angie handing out lollipops, to the point where he tended to ask for his preferred flavors. He noticed Angie, and she saw the recognition flicker over his face before he flashed a quick smile her way.

"Then we'll let you be on your way," Director Fury said. He turned back towards Steve. "Captain. We'll see you in a few days."

I guess this is it.

Angie moved to the ramp, tugging her suitcase behind her, but Steve stepped forward, almost blocking her way. "I'll get that for you."

"Oh, that's not necessary," Angie started to protest, sure it wouldn't be professional to let him carry her suitcase for her.

"It's no trouble," Steve insisted, catching hold of the handle, and at that point there wasn't really a way Angie could argue it without making a scene, so she let him with a mumbled thank you. He picked up her bag like it weighed nothing, even though Angie would have struggled with it if it hadn't had wheels – she'd definitely packed more than five days of stuff, but without knowing where exactly they were going, she hadn't been sure what she might need, and didn't want to leave something behind.

Steve walked up the ramp, and Angie followed behind. She didn't dare look back to see Ms. Finster's expression; Angie was certain it would be disapproving.

Agent Barton strolled ahead of them, pointing out where they could stash their bags before settling in the pilot's seat. Angie took the seat behind his, leaving the copilot's chair open for Steve if he wanted it. He didn't, apparently, choosing to take the seat beside Angie instead. The move surprised her for a moment, but then she remembered that the last time Steve had been in a plane, he'd crashed into the ocean. He probably wasn't thrilled to be back in one this soon after waking up.

Angie glanced his way as Agent Barton took off, trying to assess and see if he was okay. A near death experience like his plane crash more than qualified as a traumatic event; would flying again this soon trigger a panic attack? It certainly wouldn't be an unreasonable reaction.

His hands tightened slightly on his seat's armrests, indicating that he wasn't thrilled to be flying again, but Steve didn't show any other signs of distress, making it hard to gauge how much flying might really be bothering him.

Steve noticed her staring, and raised an eyebrow. "Did you need something?"

Her cheeks warmed. "Oh, no, um, I just – are you doing alright? This morning, I mean." Angie didn't want to directly ask him if flying was upsetting. He was a soldier from the 40's – she didn't think he'd appreciate it, though it wouldn't be anything to be ashamed of.

"No change since you checked me yesterday," he said.

Well. That was probably true.

"Oh, Angie did your checkup?" Agent Barton asked, cutting into the conversation. "Lucky. She's SHIELD's best nurse."

Angie floundered a moment at the unwarranted praise. "What? I'm hardly the best…"

"You're the only SHIELD nurse I've run into that gives out candy," Agent Barton said. "That automatically makes you the best one, in my books." He glanced back at her. "Speaking of, you wouldn't happen to have…?"

"Sorry," Angie said, shaking her head. "No candy with me on this trip."

He pouted, the expression looking faintly ridiculous on a grown man, especially one that Angie knew to be one of SHIELD's best field agents. "Dang." Still, it helped Angie relax, her mouth turning up in a smile at his antics.

A moment of silence followed, then Steve spoke up. "Agent Barton, could you tell me where we're going?"

"The Retreat," Agent Barton said. "Exact location is classified, because that's how SHIELD rolls. Won't take long to get there though. It's a nice spot. Got pond and fishing equipment, if you like that sort of thing."

Steve frowned slightly, probably not pleased about not knowing exactly where he was going to be. "Never tried it before."

"Well, now's an opportunity," Agent Barton said. "What about you, Angie? You like to fish?"

"Yes, actually," Angie said, earning a look of surprise from Steve. She shrugged a little. "My parents were outdoorsy. We'd go on family fishing trips when I was a kid." Camping too occasionally, though Angie had been less fond of those outings. While she enjoyed the peacefulness of fishing, she didn't much like sleeping in a tent, and not having a hot shower readily available.

"Sounds fun," Agent Barton said. "Ever do any deep-sea fishing?"

"Only once," Angie said. She shook her head and smiled at the memory. "It didn't go well; it turns out my dad gets really seasick on the ocean. We stuck to lakes and rivers after that."

Agent Barton snorted, clearly amused by the anecdote. "Well then, maybe you can teach the captain how to fish. Though I'm not sure what's living in the pond."

Angie glanced Steve's way, suddenly uncertain. She wasn't sure if teaching him to fish fell under the list of things Ms. Finster would consider professional, or if Steve would even be interested. "I suppose?"

Steve didn't seem to have anything to say in favor of or against the idea, and the conversation tapered off.

Luckily, the flight was as short as Agent Barton had promised it would be. Not quite half an hour later, they were landing. Steve got his bag and Angie's.

"I can carry mine," she tried to offer, but Steve shook his head.

"Don't worry, I've got it," he said.

She still wasn't sure it was the professional thing to do, to let him carry her stuff. But when Agent Barton lowered the quinjet's ramp, Angie realized she was grateful Steve had insisted. There were no sidewalks or paved ground here; it was all grass and trees and bushes growing up around a large pond, a cozy looking cabin on the other side. Her suitcase wheels wouldn't have been terribly helpful navigating the terrain, and Angie would have struggled with it.

Agent Barton led the way to the log cabin. It had been built almost right up on the pond, with a small covered porch. "No need to worry about anyone finding you here," Agent Barton said. He waved one hand in a circle. "There's an electrified fence to keep people out; we're also a decent way out from any towns, so the chances of someone stumbling on this place by accident are pretty low."

That made sense, Angie supposed, given this was a SHIELD safehouse. Agent Barton led the way inside the cabin. The interior matched the looks outside, with its wooden walls and floors. There was a stone fireplace in the living room, a couch covered by a worn quilt, and a small desk with a computer tucked in one corner. The living room bled into the kitchen, which was small but functional, with all the necessary – if dated – appliances.

Agent Barton jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. "The fridge and pantry are fully stocked; no dishwasher though, sorry. Bedrooms are there and there, and that's the bathroom. That closet has the washing machine, if you need it." He tapped a cell phone that had been left on the kitchen counter. "This has been preprogramed with a couple SHIELD numbers to call, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Agent Barton," Angie said.

He grinned and shrugged. "Just doing my job." He strolled back to the cabin's door, waving as he went. "Enjoy the vacation."

Then he was gone, and it was just Steve and Angie. They stared at each other a moment, Angie at a complete loss as to what they should do now. She'd never had an assignment quite like this before; there was no familiar script for her to follow. "Um, so, which room do you want?" she finally asked.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Steve said, setting down her suitcase. "You can choose."

"Okay, then," Angie said, reclaiming her suitcase handle. "Um, I guess we should unpack?" They were going to be there five days, living out of a suitcase the whole time would be inconvenient.

"Sure," Steve agreed, but he didn't move, and Angie realized he was waiting for her to pick a room.

"Right then," she said, tugging her suitcase along as she went for the nearest bedroom door. "I'm going to do that."

Steve went to the room Ms. Thompson hadn't picked. It was small, and furnished in the same cozy, rustic style as the rest of the cabin. It had a full bed covered with a quilt, patterned curtains framing a window, a small dresser topped with knickknacks to make it homey. Someone had gone to a lot of effort to make the cabin feel lived in. Probably supposed to make the place more comfortable. Steve thought it was a wasted effort.

He dropped his duffel bag on the bed and unzipped it. He didn't trust this place. Agent Barton had talked about the electric fence that kept people out, but Steve would be money it was supposed to keep people in as well. Leaving the boundaries of The Retreat probably wouldn't be easy.

Not that Steve planned to try. Where would he go?

But just because he didn't have anywhere else to go didn't mean Steve automatically trusted SHIELD or Director Fury. He didn't know anything about SHIELD really, except that Director Fury claimed they'd grown from the SSR. Just because Director Fury said it, didn't make it true.

I could ask Ms. Thompson.

Of course, she worked for SHIELD, which automatically made her answers suspect. Though…truthfully, it was hard to suspect Ms. Thompson of anything, really. She was too easily flustered for Steve to believe she would be an effective liar.

The thought made him pause. If she isn't a good liar…that might make her the best source to get information from.

A better source that Director Fury, in some ways. Being an effective liar was probably a requirement for his job. And understandably so, but that didn't make trusting him easier.

Steve finished unpacking before Ms. Thompson, which wasn't much of a surprise, considering the size of her suitcase. How much stuff did she need for five days? He didn't feel like staying in his room, so he wandered back out and scanned over the cabin. There wasn't really that much to see, but Steve wanted to do something, so when he spotted the coffee pot in the kitchen, he went for it. It took him a minute to figure out how to work the thing – who would have guessed the way people made coffee would change? – but he got it working in the end, and leaned against the counter while he waited.

Ms. Thompson came out of her room around the same time the coffee started trickling into the pot, and Steve glanced her way. The oddness of her outfit struck him again; Steve had never seen any nurse dress the way she did. He was used to seeing nurses in starched dresses covered with aprons, white caps pinned in their hair, or their field uniforms, the loose blouse and trousers reminiscent of a soldier's uniform. The uniform Ms. Thompson wore wasn't like either of those. And it was a uniform, he'd seen enough people in SHIELD's medical wing wearing similar clothing to be sure of that much, even if no one else had been wearing a uniform as…colorful as hers. Though the one she wore today didn't have cartoonish cats on it, though the soft purple color still seemed an unusual choice to him.

Just another of the millions of ways things had changed.

She spotted him almost immediately, and paused. The whole situation was clearly unusual for her as well. Steve cleared his throat and gestured to the coffee pot. "Would you like some?" he asked, making an effort to be polite.

"Sure, thanks," she said. She moved to the fridge, opening it to find a bottle of creamer. Steve searched the cupboards for mugs, and found a mismatched set. He picked two at random, and the coffee maker sputtered as it finished. He poured it into both cups and passed one to Ms. Thompson. She poured creamer in hers, then paused. "Did you want any?" she asked, holding up the bottle.

"No thanks," Steve said. He was too used to drinking coffee black; he wasn't sure he'd like it with anything in it.

She nodded and put the creamer back in the fridge. Steve watched as she stirred her coffee, blowing on it a moment before she took a sip.

"So what's supposed to happen now?" he asked. After all, she was the one with instructions from SHIELD, not him.

She looked up at him over the rim of her mug; her eyes were wide and blue, wisps of brown hair that had escaped her ponytail framing her face, and she was pretty, actually. Steve knew more than a few soldiers who would have fallen over themselves trying to win a smile from her, if she'd been around then.

"Whatever you want, I suppose," she said. "I'm just here to make sure there aren't any side effects from you being frozen that we missed."

Steve considered, drumming his fingers against his mug. "Do you think you could answer some questions for me then?"

Her head tilted slightly. "I can try?"

The answer was good enough; and slightly easier to come by than he'd thought it would be. And now he was suddenly unsure what he wanted to ask about first.

"What does SHIELD do, exactly?" Steve finally settled on.

Ms. Thompson frowned. "Oh. Well, they protect people. You know, from threats that police can't handle, or would be too risky for the public to know about."

Too risky for the public to know about? Steve wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. "What sort of things do they not want the public to know about?"

That made her pause. "Well – I don't know, actually." She shrugged, looking slightly sheepish. "I don't have a very high security clearance. It's not needed for my job. I'm afraid I don't know much about the kind of missions the field agents actually go on."

Dang. This wasn't going to be as informative as he'd hoped then, if the information she could give him was that limited. He frowned down into his coffee.

"Peggy Carter started SHIELD." She said the words all in one breath, and Steve's gaze snapped back up to her face. Her skin flushed red, and when Ms. Thompson blushed her whole face changed color, all the way down her neck and to the tips of her ears. Her expression made it abundantly clear that she was aware of the feelings between Steve and Peggy, and the thought made his stomach churn. How did she know that? Was that part of his life just common knowledge these days?

But he shoved that worry down to deal with what she'd actually said. "Peggy started SHIELD?"

Ms. Thompson nodded, her face still red. "Yes! After the war ended, the SSR lasted a few years, but Congress wasn't sure it was really needed anymore. Peggy thought it was, so – so she came up with a plan to restructure it and stuff, and she almost single-handedly convinced Congress it was the best option, so they went with it, and they even appointed her as SHIELD's first director."

It was a shock. Steve didn't know how to respond. He'd barely had time to wonder what sort of life Peggy had lived after him, and he hadn't expected this outpouring of information.

I should have guessed she'd go on to have an amazing life.

Peggy had never been destined for quietness, or obscurity. She'd had too much fire and determination to go quietly home once the war ended. Of course she'd continued the fight.

But it ached that she'd done it all without him. Not that Steve would have wanted otherwise. He could never be that selfish. But it hurt, like nothing else had managed to, hearing about the things he'd missed.

The ceramic mug shattered under his grip, and Steve hissed as hot coffee spilled over his hand. It had cooled enough that it wouldn't seriously burn him, but the drink stung.

Ms. Thompson caught his forearm - and Steve off guard, he hadn't expected her to move that fast. She pulled him towards the kitchen sink, and Steve let her. "I'm alright," he said.

She turned the faucet on to cool, and guided his hand under it. She studied his hand as the water spilled over it. "Doesn't look like you cut yourself. Didn't burn either."

"Like I said, I'm alright," Steve said. "I've had plenty worse than spilled coffee."

She let go of his arm and turned the water off. When she looked up at him, her brows were creased as she frowned. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought Peggy up so abruptly like that."

Just hearing her name sent a stab of pain through his chest. Steve stepped back, picking up a nearby dish cloth to dry his hand before going to clean up the mess he'd made. "Does everyone know about her?" he asked stiffly as he crouched down to mop up the coffee. He didn't say "us". Couldn't bring himself to mention his relationship with Peggy as an "us", because they hadn't really gotten there. He'd waited too long, hesitated too much. They'd shared one kiss, made a promise for one date... and then lost any chance to discover where it might lead.

"Most people," Ms. Thompson said slowly. "People study you."

He looked over at her as he stood, broken pieces of the mug in hand. "Study me?"

She nodded. "There was a whole chapter about you in my high school history book. A bunch of us wrote essays about you. There's a biography written about you. You're mentioned in every documentary about WW2. The Smithsonian opened a whole section about you recently."

The thought was awful. It wasn't just his relationship with Peggy out there for people to know, but his entire life, for anyone who was interested to look. There was nothing private left to him. His jaw clenched and he marched over to the trash can, dropping the mug in.

"Are you okay?" The question was tentative.

Steve didn't bother answering. "I'm going on a walk."

AN: Thank you so much for the support and interest y'all showed for the last chapter! It means a lot to me. If you enjoyed this chapter too, let me know!