Chapter 21: Coming Home

When they asked him where he wanted to live Steve told them he preferred Brooklyn.

The apartment was everything he could ever have hoped for when he was twenty years old. There was furniture that wasn't stained and torn, chairs that weren't broken, clean rugs on the floor, and a kitchen stove that looked like it worked. The ice box was nearly as tall as he was and when he opened the door to peer inside it was filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, expensive cuts of meat and three gallons of milk. Despite the obvious age of the building, the walls were pristine and the floors didn't sag. The bed was actually Steve sized and all the pants and shirts in the closet appeared to actually fit. He was reasonably sure that he could turn around in the shower without hitting anything. There was a machine installed in the window that kept the place cool. He wished Bucky could be around just for that. He'd always hated the hot days the most, while Steve despised those cold winter nights. According to Coulson this place wasn't anything special; in fact it was smaller than the average apartment most people lived in. He went on to explain that it was the best they could do on short notice and if it turned out to be unsatisfactory it wouldn't be any problem to find something more spacious.

"The bedroom is bigger than the largest apartment Buck and I lived in," Steve told him after taking a deep breath.

There was a lot of stuff to go over. How all the appliances worked didn't take as long as Steve thought; everything pretty much automatic. The television was another matter. It was a thin rectangle of glass attached directly on the wall with a plastic stick covered with tiny buttons that made the gadget work. When Coulson told him there were over three hundred channels he could choose from his first thought was why. Did people just sit on their duffs and watch television all day? The next thing they covered was money. Steve learned that most people didn't use it any more. Instead of cash they handed over little plastic rectangles just like the one Coulson used to pay at the coffee place during Steve's first excursion outside (the one where he was trying to run away didn't count in his opinion). The SHIELD agent said money from his bank account would be electronically transferred to whatever establishment he used it at. When Steve grimaced and told Coulson the only bank account he'd ever had didn't have enough money in it to pay for more than three of those foofy coffee drinks he got a really big shock. He was rich.

Apparently Howard had placed ten thousand shares of his company into a trust for Steve in 1943. After nearly seventy years of spectacular growth Stark Industries was one of the world's most valuable conglomerates and thanks to numerous stock splits Steve was worth than the combined incomes of everyone who lived on the block where he grew up. It wasn't Howard's generosity that surprised him. The man had funded half of Project Rebirth out of his own pocket, not to mention spending a third of his net worth to purchase a chunk of vibranium that he crafted into the shield. He made sure that Steve and his men had everything they needed to bring the fight to Hydra. So he understood the impulse that motivated Stark to set aside part of his fortune, even if Steve had made it clear to the other man that he considered most wealthy people to be little better than leeches living off the sweat of their fellow Americans. What he couldn't comprehend was why the money was waiting for him seventy years later. The Howard Stark he knew was a complicated man, but above everything else he was a realist. Why would he set aside a chunk of his money for a dead man?

By the time Coulson left him alone several hours later Steve had a driver's license, debit card, a birth certificate, and a lease for the apartment all in the name of Steven Grant Rogers, age twenty-five, recently discharged veteran. There was also one of those little devices that everyone was always staring at. According to Phil it was a smart phone and he proceeded to show Steve a few of the many things it could do; taking pictures, displaying maps, and even making phone calls. There was a contact list with three names; Coulson's along with Barton and Romanov. The other man fiddled with the devise and added a forth name; Agent Melinda May.

"You're training won't begin until next week, but there's no reason why you can't get a head start Captain."

"I'll think about it," Steve answered reluctantly.

"Please do. You should know that regardless of your concerns someone will be assigned to instruct you in hand to hand fighting. Since it isn't something you have a choice about it seems only sensible to pick that person yourself."

"And you think I should stick with Agent May?"

"Yes I do. She still wants to work with you and other than Romanov she's the best."

After Coulson left Steve decided to test out the kitchen. It took the best part of an hour to fry up a steak with mushrooms and green beans and eat the best meal he'd had since that French café just outside Orleans. By the time the dishes were done it was three-thirty which gave him plenty of time to get to the arch by five o'clock. Natasha's instructions were precise as to the place and time, but she didn't really say anything about how he should get there. He opted to do a little sightseeing on the way.

There were fewer people on the street than Manhattan, but they seemed just as strange to Steve. The clothes, the cars, the mannerisms, even the expressions on their faces were a blunt reminder that he wasn't in any version of Brooklyn he remembered. The stores and shops that lined Flatbush Avenue were every bit as unfamiliar. There were still plenty of small business just like in his day, but none of them were recognizable. Footlocker seemed to sell shoes, and he recognized the fancy phones in the window of a place named Sprint. Further on was a food joint called Subway and a tiny storefront with the word Lotto plastered over the window in huge letters. He kept going and noticed that while some of the names repeated the vast majority where small outfits that sold a lot of stuff that people needed in his time, except none of it looked like the shoes, clothes, or even food he had known. The sudden feeling of despair that welled up from deep inside of Steve was almost painful. At the next intersection he stopped to gather himself.

After several deep breaths he closed his eyes and thought about Bucky. He could almost see his friend right next to him walking down this same street, something they had done plenty of times, mostly to kill time during the summer when Buck wasn't working, which was pretty much always by the time he was thirteen. They spent a lot of time walking the sidewalks of Flatbush Avenue the summer Steve was brought into the Barnes family, window shopping and going on about what they'd buy for Mrs. Barnes and Buck's sisters when they finally came into some dough. It was a harmless pastime, just two kids dreaming of a better life, about being able to do something for people who had done so much for them. Buck always had a way of making Steve feel like he mattered, that he was a part of the family and not just an extra mouth to feed. Even after Steve's transformation his friend still treated him the same way; as the little brother who still needed his protection.

Bucky didn't care how Steve had changed physically; he still saw him as the guy who didn't know the meaning of self-preservation. Back home that could get you a bloody nose or a shiner; in Europe it could mean a bullet in the head. None of the brass seemed too worried about that and his fellow commandos didn't know Rogers well enough to call him on his bullshit, at least for the first few months. When it came right down to it the only two people that could make Steve listen were Peggy and Bucky. They were the pillars that propped him up when all he wanted was to crawl in a hole and pull the dirt over his head. They were the reasons he survived the war without going nuts. There were a lot of moments since he woke up in that phony room when thinking of them seemed the only hope he had of keeping that hard won sanity.

Eventually he forced himself to move, letting his feet take him toward his destination, trudging along on autopilot. It wasn't until Flatbush veered left into Prospect Park that Steve shook himself out of that stupor. As he walked along the avenue he began to notice things that prompted memories of home. Couples holding hands as they strolled along down the street or navigated the paths he could see beyond the wrought iron fence that delineated the park. Even if their smiles were meant for each other, seeing their happiness gave him a bit of hope. That a few of the couples were of the same gender startled him, but Steve could see the same expressions of devotion. He filed that away for more thought. There were kids in the park playing catch, tag, along with other games he didn't know. There was even a group of girls skipping rope. Two of them at either end swung the bright blue line as two or even three other girls hopped in perfect rhythm to each other and the flashing line as it moved around them. He stared at them of a while feeling an urge to hop the fence and join in the fun. Too bad there wasn't enough time.

It was five minutes to five when he wandered up to the Soldiers' and Sailors' Arch. When Natasha had asked where he wanted to meet it was the first place that popped into his head. He'd gone there after his first attempt to enlist in the Army had been rejected. The motto 'The Defenders of the Union' chiseled into the marble had inspired him to keep trying. It was a memorial to those who had fought to save the nation from the greatest threat it had ever faced; exactly the same privilege Steve had wanted for himself. At the time he felt jealous; he wouldn't have had any problem going off to fight during Lincoln's time. Certainly that cause would have been everything he could have asked for. Saving the Union and doing away with slavery were ideals worth dying for. With some effort Steve shook himself from that particular fantasy and started surveying the Grand Army Plaza.

It was a large circular space paved with cobble stones close to the arch and concrete beyond the circle of shrubs ringing the stone monument. At the outer edge large white stone blocks formed a final boundary which enclosed the plaza and the cluster of trees north of the arch surrounded the Bailey Fountain. A steady stream of people passed through the space mostly traveling either north or south. All but a few paid the arch no attention at all intent on reaching their various destinations. So far as Steve could make out none of them had red hair. He was in the middle of his third inspection of the plaza when Natasha pulled at his sleeve.

"Act like you've been here Rogers," she huffed tugging him toward the street, "and stop gawking at the short skirts." She turned to look behind her nodding in the direction of a tall blond woman standing near the edge of the plaza. She was indeed wearing a very short skirt.

"I never even noticed her," he said. The gal in question winked at him and sauntered away.

"Of course you did, you're a man." Natasha declared, steering them toward a cab that had just pulled to a stop at the curb just beyond the pale slabs of rock.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," he groused as he folded himself into the back seat.

"How many times did you happen to notice her legs?"

"Ah…I don't…alright it was three…or maybe four," he stuttered, embarrassed at how easy the woman had fooled him.

"Male Psychology 101," Romanov told him a small smile on her lips. "Don't feel bad Rogers she's one of the best when it comes to letting men see what they want."

"I guess I should feel flattered if SHIELD assigned the best to keep an eye on me."

"I told you how it would be," she countered one eyebrow raised.

Steve didn't understand SHIELD's obsession with keeping him under surveillance. He agreed with their demand that he remain a secret from the public since that was something he wanted as well; at least for now. What he didn't agree with was the notion that he needed someone to watch over him. As soon as they were belted in the cab served into traffic.

"Phone," she muttered slipping hers out of the back pocket of her black slacks. Steve fished it out and wordlessly handed it over. She put it on her lap and snapped a picture, then flipped it over and repeated the process.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you a free upgrade Rogers," she answered her mouth twisted into a sly smile. "Couldn't do that until I knew which one Fury gave you." She handed his device back and spent a few minutes furiously typing on her own. By the time she stopped the cab was across the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan.

"Where are we going?" Steve asked as the vehicle lurched between lanes weaving around the cars and trucks that clogged the street.

"Thought you might like a closer look at Stark," she answered.

"He's here? Didn't you tell me he lives in California?"

She just smiled and abruptly the cab swerved to the curb. Natasha said something in a language he'd never heard before and the cabbie smiled and bowed his head in reply. She placed some bills in his hand and she grabbed Steve's sleeve again pulling him out of the cab. Directly across the street a tower of steel and glass stretched into the sky. There was a circular base of eight stories surrounding the edifice which rose to ninety stories. To Steve the building looked lopsided; one side ran straight up while the other was angled so that they joined right below a cone of glass and metal that capped the building. There was something else, maybe a sign or just letters. The angle was poor so he had to squint to read what it said. Then he turned his gaze on Natasha.

"Didn't think I was gonna meet a building," he said a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Stark Tower," she corrected. "It's where Stark stays when he's in town."

"Of course it is," he drawled craning his neck to take in the structure. "The guy isn't shy that's for sure."

"No, shy wouldn't be a word I'd use to describe Stark. More like insecure."

"Really? He's loaded, and from what you and Barton said he's a genius. How's that add up to insecure?"

"Stark is brilliant when it comes to machines. Not so much with people. Kind of like you and dames Rogers."

"How do you know so much about the guy?"

"I was his executive assistant," she muttered shrugging. "It was an assignment," she went on at his confused expression.

"You spied on Stark?"

"It's my job," she answered. "Fury was worried about him, thought he was hiding something."

"Was he?"

"If we're going to talk about Stark I need a drink," she told him.

The joint she took him to was unlike any bar he'd ever seen. From the Asian symbols over the door to the wood and glass tables without chairs where people stood drinking their fancy drinks and eating. Pretty much everyone in the joint was his age (minus the ice). Most were dress casually but there were some suits and skirts among jeans and leggings. Natasha went to the bar and came away with a bottle and two glasses. He followed her to the back and through a door. Inside there was a table with actual chairs. Once they were seated she poured some into the small, cloudy glass and slid the drink across to him. Then she offered him the bottle and told him to pour one for her.

"What is this stuff?" He asked after he'd complied.

"Sake," she answered, sipping the liquid slowly.

"Booze doesn't have any effect on me," he told her.

"It's not about the alcohol," she answered. "It's about the burn."

"I see," Steve rasped after downing the sake in one gulp. The burn he experienced was gone within moments thanks to the serum. Still he got the attraction and reached for the bottle to fill his glass again, but Natasha snatched it away.

"You can't pour your own glass," she hissed.

"Why not?" Because he didn't think dispensing booze was beyond his abilities.

"Tradition," she told him as she carefully measured the cloudy liquid into his glass. "When you drink with someone, you're supposed to pour the other persons sake. It's a sign of trust."

Did he actually trust Natasha? Tipping his head back he emptied the glass. Instead of swallowing the fiery drink he held it in his mouth until his eyes started to water then allowing the sake to flow down his throat. "Damn," he muttered hoarsely. This time that burning sensation lasted several seconds.

"You're supposed to sip it Rogers," she admonished pouring another drink. They spent a minute enjoying the sake in companionable silence. When Natasha finished her glass Steve filled it again.

"So tell me about Stark," he said leaning back in his chair.

"He's pretty much spent most of his life defining the word asshole," she answered with a shrug.

"Then why offer him to me as an alternative to SHIELD?" He demanded.

"That wasn't my idea," she snapped after tipping up her glass to finish her sake. She pushed the cup over to him and he filled it.

"So this choice isn't really one at all," he said leaning forward.

"It is a choice Rogers just not a very good one."

"Then why offer it to me?"

"Clint thought giving you an alternative would make things easier for you."

"And you don't agree," Steve guessed.

"I don't think you should need an alternative, but if you really do then Stark is the only one you're going to get."

Before Steve could muster a retort there was a knock on the door. Romanov said something that sounded vaguely German and the door opened revealing a girl with purple hair who looked maybe fourteen. She came forward and placed a cardboard box on the table, stealing a glance at him on her way. Natasha said something to her and the girl looked at him again lips curled into a grin. Then she scoped up the hundred dollar bills Natasha had placed on the table and scurried out. The SHIELD agent took a knife from her boot and neatly sliced the box open. Inside was a phone that looked exactly like the one Coulson had given him just a few hours ago.

"Already got one of those," he said which provoked her to laughter.

"Why do you think SHIELD gave it to you Rogers?"

He opened his mouth to answer and abruptly closed it again. He already understood it was more than just a fancy phone. Coulson had explained that he could search for information, find out where he was and take pictures with it. He could make calls or communicate via what Coulson called texts; little messages you tapped out on a keypad that appeared on the screen. Except that the only person in this century he wanted to talk to was Ziva, which he didn't think was a good idea right now. He looked at the phone again and thought about Romanov's question. It was an amazing device. With it he could communicate with anyone on the planet, look up the answer to any question he could think of, create a visual record of the world around him. So what other records could it generate and who would be looking? He pulled it out of his pocket and placed on the table next to the duplicate.

"Explain it to me," he demanded resisting the urge to reach out and crush the contraption.

"It's about control," she told him in a flat voice. "Every SHIELD agent in required to carry a SHIELD phone at all times whether you're on a mission or visiting your grandmother." She took her own phone out and laid it on the table next to the other two. "The agency can use it to keep tabs on our location, who we talk to and what kind of information we gather. It can be a listening too device when the need arises."

"You're telling me that thing records conversations."

"It can," she said with a shrug. "If you're meeting with a contact every word said will be recorded. Most of the time the phone is set to register keywords; for example a person's name or a certain location. In your case Rogers it's a pretty good bet that Ziva's name would set it off."

His first reaction to what Romanov told him was indignation mixed with a healthy dose of covetousness. Besides lots of people shooting at him the biggest problem he had on ops during the war was figuring out where they were. Most of the missions started with night parachute drops which meant that they usually ended up at least twenty miles from the target. On occasion they lost days finding the objective and twice Steve had scrubbed an operation because they were so far from where h=they needed to be. With one of those phones they would always know where they were. Better yet, the pilot wouldn't have to rely on dead reckoning to navigate in the darkness. They would be able jump within a few miles of the objective and attack the same night. In fact there was only one problem he could think of, but it was big enough that Steve thought it was probably a good thing that smart phones didn't exist when he was fighting the war. While it would be great to not be lost most of the time the flip side was that Steve and his men would always be in communication with the higher ups. Colonel Phillips was a good leader who didn't have a problem if the mission didn't go to plan as long as it was a success. Unfortunately the people who gave the colonel his orders didn't feel the same way. They expected their directives to be followed exactly and constantly complained about the fact that once he was in the field Steve pretty much ignored them. This was something he would have never been able to do if they were just a phone call away. He wondered how Natasha managed it.

"I have a hard time believing you let Fury keep you on his leash," he told her. "You don't seem like someone who would put up with exposing her private life."

She nodded and picked up the duplicate phone. "One of the things I've learned over the years is that the less people know about you the better off you are. Now don't get me wrong; I trust Nick Fury without reservation, but that doesn't mean I'm giving him all the control."

"So how do you manage it?"

"It's not so hard now. I have an understanding with Nick. I do the missions and when I'm off duty my life is my own. It wasn't like that when I started," she explained. She drained the glass of sake and motioned for him to fill her glass. "When Clint brought me into SHIELD he went against Fury's orders. He was supposed to kill me."

"What?!" He barked because Steve couldn't make sense of what he'd heard. "Why would he do that?"

"Back then I was the enemy Rogers," she answered in a flat tone. "I sold my skills to the highest bidder and I was damned good. The only reason Nick didn't throw me in prison or kill me was that Coulson backed Clint. Even though they both believed in me that didn't cut any ice with him. I had to prove I was trustworthy before he stopped watching my every move. That's the boat you're in now."

"How can I be an enemy Romanov?" He growled brow furrowed. "I don't know enough to be a threat to anyone."

"You know the biggest dirty secret SHIELD has," she said glaring at him. "So you're going to be watched closely. That's the deal Rogers. That doesn't mean we can't do something to make things a little easier."

"We?"

"Shup up," she grumbled placing the new phone in his hand. "This is Phil's idea," she went on glaring at him. "He thinks you need a little help."

"What kind of help?"

"Counterespionage. When someone is spying on you return the favor."

"I wouldn't know where to start," he admitted.

"That's why you're getting this phone Rogers," she responded with a smile. "It doesn't need you to know anything."

Sorry for taking so long to get this out. Any feedback is appreciated.