Prologue

                                    

                                          
Time Travel. Such a fascinating theory to most. The physics of it, the mechanics of it. The mere concept of movement between time. The simple captivation of the idea of the future no longer remaining a dark cloud of uncertainty and the past not being an unflappable weight on one's shoulders; that the present need not define one's worth because it was just a dot in an unending thread of time that would eventually but inevitably pass.
However, while enchanting, the repercussions of the notion of unmitigated opportunities to jump between time escaped nobody, or so Steve thought. 
Why else would no one give a real try at the whole time travel thing? Because — and let's face it — the world wasn't exactly short of geniuses. It hadn't been in the '40s, and it wasn't...now, in the 21st century where Steve found himself unwillingly existing.
The future was...interesting. Good or bad, he was yet to decide.
It had been three years since he had come out of the ice, and some would argue it was enough time for him to adjust himself in the new century, to get behind everything that was different from his life back in the '40s. But those people forgot that 'life back in the 40s' meant he had a life; a life that he had been forced to leave behind.
Granted, his life hadn't been much — the never-ending list of illnesses that would have killed him one day if lack of food, thanks to the Great Depression, or an enemy bomb, courtesy the World War, didn't get to him first — but it had still been something.
He had people whom he loved, people who had loved him back. Maybe he didn't have his life planned out to the t, he hadn't been a futurist, too busy trying to survive the day without coughing himself to death or getting every breath beaten out of his body by the bullies. Maybe he would have remained that same little sickly boy from Brooklyn if not for the kindness and long-sightedness of Dr. Erskine.
Maybe he would have died a pathetic death due to one of his many illnesses in '45 instead of the heroic one that made him a martyr the minute he decided to crash the plane.
And maybe, he would have liked that.
At least, then, he wouldn't have had to exist in a world that didn't care for him.
You've always been so dramatic, Steve. A voice that sounded like Peggy's — oh, dear Peggy, his best girl — rang in the back of his head. The world does care about you. They love you and they respect you, for everything that you did in the War as well as in New York.
Yes, they did. He had seen the Captain America merchandise and the comics. He had visited the Smithsonian enough times to know just what the world thought of the hero — although his reasons for those visits were much different than the others'.
The world did care about Captain America. But was that sentiment extended to Steve Rogers too? He didn't think so.
Many would ask: What's the difference? Steve Rogers is Captain America. They are the same person.
But they weren't. Captain America was Steve Rogers but Steve Rogers wasn't only Captain America.
Steve Rogers hadn't ever been a futurist and he hadn't had his life planned back in the '40s but he hadn't wanted to sacrifice his life either.
The decision to crash the plane had come easy and natural to him because innocent lives were at stake. People would have died. He couldn't have that on his conscience, not when there was a way for him to help.
Waking up in a completely different century, surrounded by people he didn't know, being informed of deaths of people he did know: it had been a hell he hadn't known he'd deserved.
The plane hadn't been a painful sacrifice, this was.
And for a very brief flash — standing in the middle of the road, people rushing by to get on with their daily lives, each having somewhere to go, the date on the huge screens glaring at him, making him feel small, unwanted, abandoned, left behind — he had regretted his decision. Be it the one to crash the plane, or the one to agree to the serum, even the one to enlist in the army: he had regretted it all.
The moment was gone as soon as it had come but it had been a bitter, ugly one.
He probably should have been thankful for the second chance at life but what good was a second chance when he didn't have anybody to share it with.
Or at least, that's what he thought until life threw another curveball his way, and damn if this one didn't hit him straight between his eyes.
~~~~~
"Bucky!"
"Who the hell is Bucky?"
~~~~~
"Cap? You alright?"
No, I'm not. Steve smiled. "I'm fine." Please help me. I feel like I'm drowning. "Just thinking."
"Don't worry your big head too much." Natasha's smirk, from where she was seated in the backseat, only spelled trouble. "I don't want to see you back in the hospital so soon just because your brain collapsed under the monumental pressure of thinking."
"You're not funny." Steve's eye roll was belied by the involuntary quirk of his lips.
Natasha's shoulders lifted up in a nonchalant shrug. "Maybe you just don't have a sense of humour."
No, I don't, because I don't belong here. "Maybe." Steve looked away, his eyes instead settling on the passing scenery as he tried not to give away too much of his feelings. He was under no delusion that he could fool either of his company.
Sam was a counsellor who dealt with traumatised veterans on an everyday basis and Natasha was a trained spy. Steve had nothing on them when it came to hiding his feelings. He was simply grateful to them for not prying.
He straightened up with a mental sigh when Sam rolled the car to a slow stop, the barely audible noise of gravel crunching beneath the wheels somehow reminding him of his life. He didn't think it was a parallel his SHIELD-appointed therapist would like too much.
Oh, well! It was a good thing then that SHIELD was gone.
His walk up to the main door of Sam's house was uncharacteristically slow for a super soldier, following in after Sam after he twisted open the lock even more so.
And really, it was a strong testament to just how muddled his brain currently was that none of his super-soldier instincts had picked up on the fourth presence — of an intruder, obviously — in Sam's kitchen.
Or maybe the woman was just talented considering how surprise was practically radiating off of Natasha's whole figure.
"Who are you?" Sam's tense voice demanded.
Steve didn't really know the stranger all that well to comment — one meeting wasn't enough to judge someone — but he really didn't like the grin that she flashed, however polite it was.
"I'm Adina. You must be Sam Wilson. Pleasure."