Seventy years, Steve was seventy years older than he felt like he had any right to be. He didn't...
Lost in Time (MCU: Captain America)
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Seventy years, Steve was seventy years older than he felt like he had any right to be. He didn't feel 96 years old.
Then again, he didn't look it either.
Steve Rogers looked the same age he'd been when he sabotaged the Red Skull's plot to attack America. He felt the same way he'd felt during the War.
It had only been a couple of weeks since they'd thawed out his body - reviving him from what he believed was certain death when he plunged into the water. It wasn't clear if it was the serum that made him into a super-soldier, some side effect from that damned glowing cube or just divine provenance that kept him alive, but Steve Rogers was feeling in a praying mood as of late. He had a lot to be thankful for and a lot more people who needed someone to pray for them.
World War II they called it. It was a distant memory for most people today - an apparently fond one given that America won. Winning was a relief but "fond" didn't really describe Steve's memory of fighting the Nazis or of the horrors he'd seen on the battlefield. He didn't know the full magnitude of what had happened after he disappeared, not yet. Shield was slowly feeding him the details of the war at the suggestion of his doctors. They were worried that too much information too quickly, would damage him psychologically.
Steve was made of sterner stuff than they gave him credit but honestly, he too happy war was over to bother fighting a man a third his age who labored under the impression that a lab coat provided absolute authority. Steve would learn the details of what they these men afraid would break him. He would mourn the losses and cheer the victories in time. He could enjoy peace for a moment.
He leaned back on the bench, chewing on his bagel and enjoying the view of central park as he sipped at a hot cup of coffee. New York had changed, but not so much that a man couldn't get a buttered bagel and a black cuppa Joe. He pretended not to notice the Shield Agents doing their best to inconspicuous around him. He hadn't actually expected Fury to allow him out of the house without supervision and the Head of Shield had been polite enough not to mention the protection detail when Steve informed his doctors of his plan to go mass.
Not a request, not a suggestion and definitely not a wish. It was his intention to go to mass. Steve was patient but unless there was a pressing medical reason to do so, he would not be denied his right to worship.
There had been some resistance at first but only at first. Nobody wanted to be the guy who denied Captain America the right to pray. It wasn't a great look.
Steve wasn't Catholic but St. Patrick's Cathedral was a landmark he recognized and he figured that God wasn't going to get all bent up about something so annoyingly political as a denomination of prayer. The experience had been simultaneously comforting and deeply confusing - not the least of which because the service had been conducted entirely in English. Steve hadn't been looking forward to speaking or singing in Latin, his grades in Latin and Greek had been garbage in school, but for the Priest to speak entirely in English just felt wrong. Not that there had been anything objectionable about the Priest or his sermon.
Steve had quite liked it. He didn't understand half of the references the man made but it had been about loving each other and understanding the needs of your spouse. It was just generally nice to spend an hour around people devoting themselves to betterment and hoping for the best in the world.
He couldn't quite tell if he'd shown up horrifically overdressed or if most people had just showed up incredibly under dressed. There were plenty of men and women who showed up in what he would recognize as appropriate church attire but most of them were old enough to have been born before the Great War ended, WWI as they called it now. In an effort to feel like the belonged Steve just pocketed his tie and undid a couple buttons but he doubted he'd ever show up without a proper suit. It just wasn't right.
Though, as he lingered in Central Park enjoying his breakfast, he couldn't help but realize that the shorter sleeve shirts favored by most men in the park would be a lot cooler than his tweed jacket. It wasn't like the heat bothered him, the Super Soldier serum had more or less rendered him immune to extreme temperatures, but it would probably be slightly nicer for hadn't undergone the treatment.
A couple sat down on the bench across from him, a young man and woman - clearly in love. The man cradled his lover in his arms, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. It was a scene as normal to Steve's time and as alien as any he'd seen thus far. Necking wasn't exactly unknown for young lovers on a park bench, even in the 30's. Interracial necking, however, was something that Steve still wasn't quite used to seeing in public but given how prevalent it seemed to be, that was just another way that society had changed.
He smiled at how in love they were. They made a cute couple.
He finished his bagel, brushing off the knees of his pants legs and standing up with a grunt as he twisted left and right to work the kinks out of his back. His joints popped wetly, sending satisfying waves of relief as his spine realigned from the effort. He binned his trash, walking away from the lovers as their public display started getting more public than he felt was strictly proper for a Sunday afternoon in the park.
He strolled along the path, just taking in the sights. Central Park was delightfully verdant, smelling of flowers and wet earth. People were eating picnics as families, playing frisbee, and generally mucking about with their free time. Men and women were seated in various locations with their wares laid out on blankets, offering portraits, personal items and parephenatial of all descriptions for a modest fee. Police Officers on horseback patrolled the park, going to the places that the otherwise ubiquitous automobiles of modern NYC couldn't.
It was amazing how little the city had changed in spite of how different things were. Flying cars didn't seem to have been the game changer advertised by Stark Industries and there were a lot fewer robots than he might have hoped to see. He wandered vaguely in the direction of the Zoo, wondering what new animals he might see that hadn't even been discovered before the war.
A dog scurried over the path in front of him, leash trailing behind it as a woman's voice yelled, "Marco! Come!" in vain desperation in spite of the dog's disinterest. Steve stepped on the leash, pinning the eager creature in place before reaching down to pick up the lead. The dog strained against the leather, looking up at Steve in apparent disbelief having seemingly never previously been unable to break free if it felt so inclined.
It was painfully clear that this woman was entirely out of her depth.
"Sorry Fido, can't have you galavanting around like you own the place." Steve apologized to the bemused canine.
Marco's owner, an exhausted looking woman red in the face from running, came up to Steve near doubled up from exertion. Steve stood there, smiling and waiting for the woman to catch her breath before holding out his hand. "Steve."
"Carol," The woman said in a single, exasperated exhalation. "Thanks… he's a handful when my Husband or sons aren't around."
"I can't say I've seen a dog like this one before." Steve reached down and ruffled the dog's fur. It sat in layers, round floppy bits of skin hanging over each other like a stack of flapjacks. The dog leaned into the petting as Steve shoved the wobbles up and down the dogs body.
"He's a Shar Pei." The woman replied, a Puero Rican lilt returning to her voice as she recovered. "They're from China."
"I've never seen one before." Steve knelt down to rub the dog's belly as it flopped down, pointing its legs skyward and lolling it's tongue out the side of his mouth.
"I'm not surprised, they're not common." The woman smiled as Steve offered her the leash. "They're also not generally fond of strangers."
"I like dogs." Steve replied, standing up and brushing the dust off his pants leg. "China? Really?"
"Oh yeah, it was a big deal a while back." The woman scratched the dog's neck, earning a happy groan from the critter. "The Communists were killing the breed off as a decadent practice so a bunch of Americans mass imported the breed to save it from extinction. It's pretty much just an American breed now."
"Ah - I see." Steve lied. He was going to need to start making a list of this stuff. There was just too much to keep track of without a pen and paper. Steve grinned at the dog. "Are you going to be good to get that one back home."
"We'll see." Replied the Carol jokingly. "He generally doesn't misbehave but every once in a while even a good dog forgets how to be good."
"Aint' that the truth." Steve snorted, noticing the Shield Security detail out the corner of his eye. They didn't seem overly worried about the woman and her dog. Mostly they just seemed like they were putting excessive effort into pretending not to eavesdrop.
"I love the retro getup." Carol said, looking from the leather shoes, to the fitted pants and jacket.
It didn't feel retro to Steve but he supposed that, in and of itself, was a hint to how dated it actually was. The Shield provided wardrobe was full of clothing that was familiar to Steve. He was going to need to get used to the clothing favored by his new contemporaries - regardless of how it would have been considered outright pornographic seventy years ago.
She gestured to his wrist. "Can I?"
"Sure," Steve replied, pulling back the sleeve and showing her the wrist.
"Freaking cufflinks for the park?" Carol let out a whistle, then a laugh. "You going to a wedding or something."
"Church." Steve replied, shaking his sleeve back into place.
"Your girl dress you like that or you do it yourself?" Carol smiled, clicking her tongue against her teeth in thought.
"No girl, ma'am. Just a Sunday." Steve replied, his mind drifting to the woman for whom he would happily have dressed to the nines and the dance he never got to have. "Not really a lot of women in my life."
"Oh, sorry mijo. I didn't realize!" Carol snorted. "It's always the pretty ones."
"I'm lost." Steve blinked. "The pretty ones do what?"
"You're gay." The woman shrugged. "I should have guessed from how well put together you are. Gay men seem to have the best sense of style.
"Oh, yes." Steve nodded. He was, after all, generally happy with his lot in life. "I've got a lot to be gay about these days."
"I've got a perfect guy for you mijo. My buddy John. He's always going on about how hard it is to meet people in this town and he'd love your style." Carol rooted through her handbag and pulled out a slip of paper, writing a telephone number in neat script upon it. "That is, if you're looking to make a new friend?"
"I actually don't have much of a social life lately." Steve replied, taking the slip of paper from her and considering it. He didn't really know anyone and it would be nice to spend time with someone who would just interact with "Steve" and not "Captain America." Who knows, if they got along well maybe they'd go on a double date or something? He hadn't done that since before the war and Joe would probably be able to set him up on a blind date. "A new friend sounds nice."
Steve considered his plans for the next weekend. He'd been trying to catch up on everything he'd missed, starting with the stuff he never quite got around to in the 40's. And he had, come to think of it, booked two tickets for next Friday. There had been a two for one sale and Steve's depression era sensibilities wouldn't let him turn down anything free. "Do you think he'd want to go to Annie with me? I've got an extra ticket."
"You're gonna get along, just fine mijo." The Puerto Rican woman rolled her eyes. "He's a backup dancer for Rent."
"Oh, really?" Steve nodded thinking about it. He'd spent enough time in the USO to be able to have some common ground with this new friend. "I was actually a headliner. Definitely paid the rent for me."
"You are too much mijo." Carol passed him the telephone number and walked away with her dog. "Just tell her Carol set you up with him - and that he owes me one."
"Yes ma'am." Steve pocketed the slip and walked back down the path, making a mental note to ask Fury why his Shield security detail seemed to have gotten a fit of the giggles. Today really was a remarkably beautiful day.
Then again, he didn't look it either.
Steve Rogers looked the same age he'd been when he sabotaged the Red Skull's plot to attack America. He felt the same way he'd felt during the War.
It had only been a couple of weeks since they'd thawed out his body - reviving him from what he believed was certain death when he plunged into the water. It wasn't clear if it was the serum that made him into a super-soldier, some side effect from that damned glowing cube or just divine provenance that kept him alive, but Steve Rogers was feeling in a praying mood as of late. He had a lot to be thankful for and a lot more people who needed someone to pray for them.
World War II they called it. It was a distant memory for most people today - an apparently fond one given that America won. Winning was a relief but "fond" didn't really describe Steve's memory of fighting the Nazis or of the horrors he'd seen on the battlefield. He didn't know the full magnitude of what had happened after he disappeared, not yet. Shield was slowly feeding him the details of the war at the suggestion of his doctors. They were worried that too much information too quickly, would damage him psychologically.
Steve was made of sterner stuff than they gave him credit but honestly, he too happy war was over to bother fighting a man a third his age who labored under the impression that a lab coat provided absolute authority. Steve would learn the details of what they these men afraid would break him. He would mourn the losses and cheer the victories in time. He could enjoy peace for a moment.
He leaned back on the bench, chewing on his bagel and enjoying the view of central park as he sipped at a hot cup of coffee. New York had changed, but not so much that a man couldn't get a buttered bagel and a black cuppa Joe. He pretended not to notice the Shield Agents doing their best to inconspicuous around him. He hadn't actually expected Fury to allow him out of the house without supervision and the Head of Shield had been polite enough not to mention the protection detail when Steve informed his doctors of his plan to go mass.
Not a request, not a suggestion and definitely not a wish. It was his intention to go to mass. Steve was patient but unless there was a pressing medical reason to do so, he would not be denied his right to worship.
There had been some resistance at first but only at first. Nobody wanted to be the guy who denied Captain America the right to pray. It wasn't a great look.
Steve wasn't Catholic but St. Patrick's Cathedral was a landmark he recognized and he figured that God wasn't going to get all bent up about something so annoyingly political as a denomination of prayer. The experience had been simultaneously comforting and deeply confusing - not the least of which because the service had been conducted entirely in English. Steve hadn't been looking forward to speaking or singing in Latin, his grades in Latin and Greek had been garbage in school, but for the Priest to speak entirely in English just felt wrong. Not that there had been anything objectionable about the Priest or his sermon.
Steve had quite liked it. He didn't understand half of the references the man made but it had been about loving each other and understanding the needs of your spouse. It was just generally nice to spend an hour around people devoting themselves to betterment and hoping for the best in the world.
He couldn't quite tell if he'd shown up horrifically overdressed or if most people had just showed up incredibly under dressed. There were plenty of men and women who showed up in what he would recognize as appropriate church attire but most of them were old enough to have been born before the Great War ended, WWI as they called it now. In an effort to feel like the belonged Steve just pocketed his tie and undid a couple buttons but he doubted he'd ever show up without a proper suit. It just wasn't right.
Though, as he lingered in Central Park enjoying his breakfast, he couldn't help but realize that the shorter sleeve shirts favored by most men in the park would be a lot cooler than his tweed jacket. It wasn't like the heat bothered him, the Super Soldier serum had more or less rendered him immune to extreme temperatures, but it would probably be slightly nicer for hadn't undergone the treatment.
A couple sat down on the bench across from him, a young man and woman - clearly in love. The man cradled his lover in his arms, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. It was a scene as normal to Steve's time and as alien as any he'd seen thus far. Necking wasn't exactly unknown for young lovers on a park bench, even in the 30's. Interracial necking, however, was something that Steve still wasn't quite used to seeing in public but given how prevalent it seemed to be, that was just another way that society had changed.
He smiled at how in love they were. They made a cute couple.
He finished his bagel, brushing off the knees of his pants legs and standing up with a grunt as he twisted left and right to work the kinks out of his back. His joints popped wetly, sending satisfying waves of relief as his spine realigned from the effort. He binned his trash, walking away from the lovers as their public display started getting more public than he felt was strictly proper for a Sunday afternoon in the park.
He strolled along the path, just taking in the sights. Central Park was delightfully verdant, smelling of flowers and wet earth. People were eating picnics as families, playing frisbee, and generally mucking about with their free time. Men and women were seated in various locations with their wares laid out on blankets, offering portraits, personal items and parephenatial of all descriptions for a modest fee. Police Officers on horseback patrolled the park, going to the places that the otherwise ubiquitous automobiles of modern NYC couldn't.
It was amazing how little the city had changed in spite of how different things were. Flying cars didn't seem to have been the game changer advertised by Stark Industries and there were a lot fewer robots than he might have hoped to see. He wandered vaguely in the direction of the Zoo, wondering what new animals he might see that hadn't even been discovered before the war.
A dog scurried over the path in front of him, leash trailing behind it as a woman's voice yelled, "Marco! Come!" in vain desperation in spite of the dog's disinterest. Steve stepped on the leash, pinning the eager creature in place before reaching down to pick up the lead. The dog strained against the leather, looking up at Steve in apparent disbelief having seemingly never previously been unable to break free if it felt so inclined.
It was painfully clear that this woman was entirely out of her depth.
"Sorry Fido, can't have you galavanting around like you own the place." Steve apologized to the bemused canine.
Marco's owner, an exhausted looking woman red in the face from running, came up to Steve near doubled up from exertion. Steve stood there, smiling and waiting for the woman to catch her breath before holding out his hand. "Steve."
"Carol," The woman said in a single, exasperated exhalation. "Thanks… he's a handful when my Husband or sons aren't around."
"I can't say I've seen a dog like this one before." Steve reached down and ruffled the dog's fur. It sat in layers, round floppy bits of skin hanging over each other like a stack of flapjacks. The dog leaned into the petting as Steve shoved the wobbles up and down the dogs body.
"He's a Shar Pei." The woman replied, a Puero Rican lilt returning to her voice as she recovered. "They're from China."
"I've never seen one before." Steve knelt down to rub the dog's belly as it flopped down, pointing its legs skyward and lolling it's tongue out the side of his mouth.
"I'm not surprised, they're not common." The woman smiled as Steve offered her the leash. "They're also not generally fond of strangers."
"I like dogs." Steve replied, standing up and brushing the dust off his pants leg. "China? Really?"
"Oh yeah, it was a big deal a while back." The woman scratched the dog's neck, earning a happy groan from the critter. "The Communists were killing the breed off as a decadent practice so a bunch of Americans mass imported the breed to save it from extinction. It's pretty much just an American breed now."
"Ah - I see." Steve lied. He was going to need to start making a list of this stuff. There was just too much to keep track of without a pen and paper. Steve grinned at the dog. "Are you going to be good to get that one back home."
"We'll see." Replied the Carol jokingly. "He generally doesn't misbehave but every once in a while even a good dog forgets how to be good."
"Aint' that the truth." Steve snorted, noticing the Shield Security detail out the corner of his eye. They didn't seem overly worried about the woman and her dog. Mostly they just seemed like they were putting excessive effort into pretending not to eavesdrop.
"I love the retro getup." Carol said, looking from the leather shoes, to the fitted pants and jacket.
It didn't feel retro to Steve but he supposed that, in and of itself, was a hint to how dated it actually was. The Shield provided wardrobe was full of clothing that was familiar to Steve. He was going to need to get used to the clothing favored by his new contemporaries - regardless of how it would have been considered outright pornographic seventy years ago.
She gestured to his wrist. "Can I?"
"Sure," Steve replied, pulling back the sleeve and showing her the wrist.
"Freaking cufflinks for the park?" Carol let out a whistle, then a laugh. "You going to a wedding or something."
"Church." Steve replied, shaking his sleeve back into place.
"Your girl dress you like that or you do it yourself?" Carol smiled, clicking her tongue against her teeth in thought.
"No girl, ma'am. Just a Sunday." Steve replied, his mind drifting to the woman for whom he would happily have dressed to the nines and the dance he never got to have. "Not really a lot of women in my life."
"Oh, sorry mijo. I didn't realize!" Carol snorted. "It's always the pretty ones."
"I'm lost." Steve blinked. "The pretty ones do what?"
"You're gay." The woman shrugged. "I should have guessed from how well put together you are. Gay men seem to have the best sense of style.
"Oh, yes." Steve nodded. He was, after all, generally happy with his lot in life. "I've got a lot to be gay about these days."
"I've got a perfect guy for you mijo. My buddy John. He's always going on about how hard it is to meet people in this town and he'd love your style." Carol rooted through her handbag and pulled out a slip of paper, writing a telephone number in neat script upon it. "That is, if you're looking to make a new friend?"
"I actually don't have much of a social life lately." Steve replied, taking the slip of paper from her and considering it. He didn't really know anyone and it would be nice to spend time with someone who would just interact with "Steve" and not "Captain America." Who knows, if they got along well maybe they'd go on a double date or something? He hadn't done that since before the war and Joe would probably be able to set him up on a blind date. "A new friend sounds nice."
Steve considered his plans for the next weekend. He'd been trying to catch up on everything he'd missed, starting with the stuff he never quite got around to in the 40's. And he had, come to think of it, booked two tickets for next Friday. There had been a two for one sale and Steve's depression era sensibilities wouldn't let him turn down anything free. "Do you think he'd want to go to Annie with me? I've got an extra ticket."
"You're gonna get along, just fine mijo." The Puerto Rican woman rolled her eyes. "He's a backup dancer for Rent."
"Oh, really?" Steve nodded thinking about it. He'd spent enough time in the USO to be able to have some common ground with this new friend. "I was actually a headliner. Definitely paid the rent for me."
"You are too much mijo." Carol passed him the telephone number and walked away with her dog. "Just tell her Carol set you up with him - and that he owes me one."
"Yes ma'am." Steve pocketed the slip and walked back down the path, making a mental note to ask Fury why his Shield security detail seemed to have gotten a fit of the giggles. Today really was a remarkably beautiful day.
Author Note 1
Backpay
Todeswind
Begrudgingly thread marking.
- Location
- Ry'leth
Steve had interacted with various Generals over his time in the Army. His own role in the military, both as an entertainer and as a front-line asset, had him interacting with higher echelon leadership with really surprising regularity for an Army Captain. The dress uniform he now wore wasn't the same one he would have worn during the war but he'd insisted on having one provided, pressed, and prepared so that he could have his formal introduction to his new commanding officer - General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross.
The General was a man forty years Steve's junior, even though he looked about thirty years older than the Captain. The General had a hard edge to him, a bitter grim resolve born of years in combat. He struck Steve as the sort of man who was most comfortable on the front lines but who'd promoted himself past his own comfort levels. "It's a pleasure to meet you there Captain America."
"Rogers, Sir - please." Steve grinned at his superior officer sheepishly as the General lead him over to a conference table. "Captain America was my stage name."
"America is a good name, son. Don't throw away the fact that every Soldier in the Army wishes he could be like you." General Ross walked over to a globe, exposing a wet bar within it. He popped open a bottle that looked older than Steve was with a squeaky "pop" of cracking cork and a wax seal. "You like Whiskey son?"
"Not in excess, but I do enjoy the occasional glass." Steve replied. In truth alcohol hadn't held much appeal for Steve even before the chemical composition of his body rendered the effects of Alcohol pretty much null and void. For Steve it was mostly just a social act, the level of alcohol required for him to notice it would be impractical for social situations.
"Sir - it's working hours and we're in the pentagon. If someone finds out you're drinking on the job it could be your career." Interjected a Major in the General's cadre.
"Major Anders, if anyone finds out a damn word of a meeting with a man who doesn't exist a glass of scotch is the absolute least of my worries." General Ross waved off his subordinate's concern. "And frankly, I feel like the Captain is going to need to have a drink for this."
"Sir?" Steve said the word, implying much with the single syllable as he took the glass from the General.
Thunderbolt Ross didn't immediately answer Steve, choosing instead to walk around the wide table and sit at his own high-backed leather chair. The General took a sip of the Whiskey and make a smacking noise of refreshment before taking a box from one of his subordinates and passing it across the table. "Open it."
Steve cracked open the box and let out a long exhalation through his nostrils. Inside of the box were more medals than he could even identify, all mounted around an elaborate medal hanging from a long sash. It was a five pointed star dangling from an eagle - the Congressional Medal of Honor. Steve swallowed, feeling his heart climbing into his throat. "I don't - I don't even know what to say… Thank you Sir."
"Don't you ever thank me for what you earned, Captain. Ever. You earned every single one of those and there ain't anyone who can even come close to what you've done." General Ross raised his glass, tilting it in salute to the Captain. "You were MIA, so they awarded that to you posthumously. But I made sure they got you the service medals and awards for every war for which you were a submarine POW."
"POW Sir?" Steve arched an eyebrow. "I was frozen."
"Captain, it doesn't become more imprisoned than what happened to you. Just because Hydra imprisoned you by accident after you kicked their asses six ways to Sunday doesn't mean that you weren't a prisoner." General Ross grunted. "Truth is we don't really have a legal category for what happened to you and POW still gets you your full military benefits and pension. So yes, as far as the Department of Defense is concerned, you were held as a POW against your will by Hydra since the 40's."
Ah - paperwork, yes paperwork was the bane of every soldier's existence. If the General classifying him as a POW saved him from years of fighting with the Army's administrative wings to get what he was owed, he was fine with that. "So, where are my next orders Sir?"
"Yes - about that." The General looked sincerely sheepish. "There aren't going to be more orders Captain Rogers."
"I don't understand." Steve replied. "I realize that you're going to have to re-train me to serve now that everything has changed so much but I need to know where you're sending me next."
"Captain - you're not being sent anywhere. You're being retired." General Ross replied firmly. "You're getting higher tenured out."
Steve felt his eyes going a bit crossed as he repeated the phrase, "Higher tenured out?"
"Yes, Captain Rogers." Replied the embarrassed looking General on the other side of the table. General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross was a grim faced ghoul of a man but he couldn't help but sound sheepish as he addressed the Captain in front of him in the way one might expect a child who has done something naughty to address a teacher. His cadre of Staff Officers looked twice as uncomfortable as the general did, looking into their folders and doing everything in their power will themselves to be invisible. "I - I'm sorry but you're just too old to stay in the military."
"I'm entirely able bodied." Steve insisted. "I'm able to do as much as any ten other men in the Army."
"Captain Rogers, even if you did promote in the next cycle you're in your nineties. You were MIA for most of the 20th century because you were frozen at the bottom of the sea. You've hit no fewer than sixteen mandatory retirement criteria for being in a coma for half a decade. I can't justify putting you in front of a board to extend your contract, even your mandatory service ran out before they started airing Happy Days on TV." General Ross replied firmly, even if the General's heart wasn't behind his words. "We'd have to put it up to congress to decide and the exigent circumstances of technology recovered from Hydra prevents us from revealing the circumstances of your recovery. As far as America is concerned, Steve Rogers died in the 40's. We can't bring you back to life without risking the compromise of vital information to National security."
"But… what do I do?" Steve ran a hand through his hair, baffled by the oddity of being retired for extreme old age. "Do I even get to still be me as far as Uncle Sam is concerned or is even my identity too much for the people of the US of A?"
"That's… a more complex subject." General Ross replied nervously. "Obviously you're too important of a resource for us to lose you entirely. Secrecy is going to be a big part of that until we can use you."
"So you're retiring me and just stabling me till you need me? You're just going to hide me away?" Steve snarled angrily. "And what am I supposed to do for money? Dance?"
"Well, I'd start by spending the frankly profane pile you're already owed by Uncle Sam." General Ross snorted. "I mean you are owed seventy years of back-pay and benefits."
"I - what?" Steve blinked, his anger briefly waylaid. "Owed how much?"
Major Anders slid a folder across the table. Steve opened it and his jaw hung open at the number of zeroes on the page. The Captain stuttered in befuddlement, "This… this can't be right."
"It is, Captain. You're entitled to your full pay plus adjustments for combat, hazard, and your various other entitlements since the 40's. The percent of your salary that you directed be put into your pension fund was never given to an heir, so we just added additional funds to account for the money you would have input into it in the intervening seventy years." Major Anders looked remarkably proud of himself as he pointed at the various figures. "And given that you're well past the 40 year watermark you qualify for 100% of your monthly pay rate so that's an additional $4,011.99 a month on top of the lump sum in backpay. It will be higher once we file the paperwork to retroactively promote you in absentia."
"Promote me?" Steve's eyes crossed a bit. "To what?"
"Colonel at the least." Replied the General. "We've never done it before but nobody's going to be brave enough to be the one to tell me not to promote Steve Rogers now that he's alive. It won't kick in till after you retire but it should triple that pay."
"But… but that's… that's too much! I can't possibly be.. I'm a millionaire.. And retiring as a Colonel?" Steve said the last word as though it were at risk of not being true just by saying it out loud.
"Captain America was always more of an honorary PR choice. The Army was going to have to tackle the issue of calling you Captain while promoting you to Major in the 40's - they were just going to promote you and keep calling you Captain for the publicity of it. Honestly I wouldn't worry too much about it. Wealthy men get to have other people worry about that level of nuance and you are a very wealthy man, Sir. Your pension is in excess of $150 million dollars, Colonel Select Rogers." Major Anders smiled. "Compound interest on an annuity over seventy years adds up."
"I guess I'm buying that motorcycle I was looking at last night." Steve let out a long, low whistle. "It's in my price range."
"Colonel Select Rogers, there are entire countries that are in your price range." The General's lips quirked up in a smile. "And it pleases me immensely that I get to force Uncle Sam to cough out as much cash as I feel like one of my soldiers actually earned with his lifetime of service."
"But I… like working." Steve had never had money in his entire life and now he apparently had more money than he'd ever dreamed possible. Even in his fantasies of excessive wealth during the great depression his idea of wealth had been just having a million dollars, let alone tens of millions of dollars. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea of spending that kind of money.
"I believe I can help you with that." Spoke a balding white man in a pressed suit. Steve had seen him before. He was one of the SHIELD agents who Nick Fury had on staff. "My organization's level of secrecy makes it difficult for us to hire qualified personnel. We are interested in hiring you as a civilian consultant."
Steve looked from the Agent to the General and back. "I'm guessing it's not an accident that you're at this meeting then?"
"Shield has decided to impose themselves on an Army matter, yes." General Ross snarled, sending a glare of spite at the agent. "Rogers - you have earned your retirement. You have no more obligation to Uncle Sam. You can do anything you want. Anything at all. Go anywhere, visit all the places that get to be places thanks to you. If anyone from SHIELD or any other damn alphabet even looks at you the wrong way and tries to pressure you into doing something you don't want everyone in the military of the US of A will raise all hell at that. America will keep on spinning without ceasing if you retire."
"And there are many more places that might cease without him." Replied the Agent in a calm tone. "Just because the Army is bureaucratically forced to squander his potential doesn't mean that SHIELD is equally hamstrung."
"Sir." Steve spoke before General Ross got a head of steam behind him. It seemed readily apparent that the General was going to tear into the Agent. "I like to work. You said I can do anything I want? I want to help people. I would at least like to listen to what he has to say."
"If you insist, Rogers." The General conceded, a sad little smile on his face. "You can't blame me for not telling you to just embrace your DD-214."
"This is our offer, Captain." The Agent slid yet another folder over to Steve. Steve flipped it open to yet another, equally outrageous sum of money. "The salary is just an opening offer, we are willing to negotiate for a more equitable deal."
"You want to pay me five million dollars a month for me to work as a contractor?" Steve's eyes bugged at the sum. "Sixty million dollars a year?"
"Plus a housing, travel, medical, and a generous pension plan." Agent Coulson nodded. "You're a strategic asset, Captain. We're going to value you accordingly."
"Quintuple it." Snarled Ross.
"Sir?" Steve's heart stopped. Was the General serious? Would the government pay that much to a single man?
"I'm authorized to triple it." Agents Coulson smiled. "But it's up to Captain America."
"Triple is fine." Steve replied in befuddlement. "What am I doing exactly?"
"What you already were doing, Captain." Agent Coulson chuckled. "Saving the world."
The General was a man forty years Steve's junior, even though he looked about thirty years older than the Captain. The General had a hard edge to him, a bitter grim resolve born of years in combat. He struck Steve as the sort of man who was most comfortable on the front lines but who'd promoted himself past his own comfort levels. "It's a pleasure to meet you there Captain America."
"Rogers, Sir - please." Steve grinned at his superior officer sheepishly as the General lead him over to a conference table. "Captain America was my stage name."
"America is a good name, son. Don't throw away the fact that every Soldier in the Army wishes he could be like you." General Ross walked over to a globe, exposing a wet bar within it. He popped open a bottle that looked older than Steve was with a squeaky "pop" of cracking cork and a wax seal. "You like Whiskey son?"
"Not in excess, but I do enjoy the occasional glass." Steve replied. In truth alcohol hadn't held much appeal for Steve even before the chemical composition of his body rendered the effects of Alcohol pretty much null and void. For Steve it was mostly just a social act, the level of alcohol required for him to notice it would be impractical for social situations.
"Sir - it's working hours and we're in the pentagon. If someone finds out you're drinking on the job it could be your career." Interjected a Major in the General's cadre.
"Major Anders, if anyone finds out a damn word of a meeting with a man who doesn't exist a glass of scotch is the absolute least of my worries." General Ross waved off his subordinate's concern. "And frankly, I feel like the Captain is going to need to have a drink for this."
"Sir?" Steve said the word, implying much with the single syllable as he took the glass from the General.
Thunderbolt Ross didn't immediately answer Steve, choosing instead to walk around the wide table and sit at his own high-backed leather chair. The General took a sip of the Whiskey and make a smacking noise of refreshment before taking a box from one of his subordinates and passing it across the table. "Open it."
Steve cracked open the box and let out a long exhalation through his nostrils. Inside of the box were more medals than he could even identify, all mounted around an elaborate medal hanging from a long sash. It was a five pointed star dangling from an eagle - the Congressional Medal of Honor. Steve swallowed, feeling his heart climbing into his throat. "I don't - I don't even know what to say… Thank you Sir."
"Don't you ever thank me for what you earned, Captain. Ever. You earned every single one of those and there ain't anyone who can even come close to what you've done." General Ross raised his glass, tilting it in salute to the Captain. "You were MIA, so they awarded that to you posthumously. But I made sure they got you the service medals and awards for every war for which you were a submarine POW."
"POW Sir?" Steve arched an eyebrow. "I was frozen."
"Captain, it doesn't become more imprisoned than what happened to you. Just because Hydra imprisoned you by accident after you kicked their asses six ways to Sunday doesn't mean that you weren't a prisoner." General Ross grunted. "Truth is we don't really have a legal category for what happened to you and POW still gets you your full military benefits and pension. So yes, as far as the Department of Defense is concerned, you were held as a POW against your will by Hydra since the 40's."
Ah - paperwork, yes paperwork was the bane of every soldier's existence. If the General classifying him as a POW saved him from years of fighting with the Army's administrative wings to get what he was owed, he was fine with that. "So, where are my next orders Sir?"
"Yes - about that." The General looked sincerely sheepish. "There aren't going to be more orders Captain Rogers."
"I don't understand." Steve replied. "I realize that you're going to have to re-train me to serve now that everything has changed so much but I need to know where you're sending me next."
"Captain - you're not being sent anywhere. You're being retired." General Ross replied firmly. "You're getting higher tenured out."
Steve felt his eyes going a bit crossed as he repeated the phrase, "Higher tenured out?"
"Yes, Captain Rogers." Replied the embarrassed looking General on the other side of the table. General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross was a grim faced ghoul of a man but he couldn't help but sound sheepish as he addressed the Captain in front of him in the way one might expect a child who has done something naughty to address a teacher. His cadre of Staff Officers looked twice as uncomfortable as the general did, looking into their folders and doing everything in their power will themselves to be invisible. "I - I'm sorry but you're just too old to stay in the military."
"I'm entirely able bodied." Steve insisted. "I'm able to do as much as any ten other men in the Army."
"Captain Rogers, even if you did promote in the next cycle you're in your nineties. You were MIA for most of the 20th century because you were frozen at the bottom of the sea. You've hit no fewer than sixteen mandatory retirement criteria for being in a coma for half a decade. I can't justify putting you in front of a board to extend your contract, even your mandatory service ran out before they started airing Happy Days on TV." General Ross replied firmly, even if the General's heart wasn't behind his words. "We'd have to put it up to congress to decide and the exigent circumstances of technology recovered from Hydra prevents us from revealing the circumstances of your recovery. As far as America is concerned, Steve Rogers died in the 40's. We can't bring you back to life without risking the compromise of vital information to National security."
"But… what do I do?" Steve ran a hand through his hair, baffled by the oddity of being retired for extreme old age. "Do I even get to still be me as far as Uncle Sam is concerned or is even my identity too much for the people of the US of A?"
"That's… a more complex subject." General Ross replied nervously. "Obviously you're too important of a resource for us to lose you entirely. Secrecy is going to be a big part of that until we can use you."
"So you're retiring me and just stabling me till you need me? You're just going to hide me away?" Steve snarled angrily. "And what am I supposed to do for money? Dance?"
"Well, I'd start by spending the frankly profane pile you're already owed by Uncle Sam." General Ross snorted. "I mean you are owed seventy years of back-pay and benefits."
"I - what?" Steve blinked, his anger briefly waylaid. "Owed how much?"
Major Anders slid a folder across the table. Steve opened it and his jaw hung open at the number of zeroes on the page. The Captain stuttered in befuddlement, "This… this can't be right."
"It is, Captain. You're entitled to your full pay plus adjustments for combat, hazard, and your various other entitlements since the 40's. The percent of your salary that you directed be put into your pension fund was never given to an heir, so we just added additional funds to account for the money you would have input into it in the intervening seventy years." Major Anders looked remarkably proud of himself as he pointed at the various figures. "And given that you're well past the 40 year watermark you qualify for 100% of your monthly pay rate so that's an additional $4,011.99 a month on top of the lump sum in backpay. It will be higher once we file the paperwork to retroactively promote you in absentia."
"Promote me?" Steve's eyes crossed a bit. "To what?"
"Colonel at the least." Replied the General. "We've never done it before but nobody's going to be brave enough to be the one to tell me not to promote Steve Rogers now that he's alive. It won't kick in till after you retire but it should triple that pay."
"But… but that's… that's too much! I can't possibly be.. I'm a millionaire.. And retiring as a Colonel?" Steve said the last word as though it were at risk of not being true just by saying it out loud.
"Captain America was always more of an honorary PR choice. The Army was going to have to tackle the issue of calling you Captain while promoting you to Major in the 40's - they were just going to promote you and keep calling you Captain for the publicity of it. Honestly I wouldn't worry too much about it. Wealthy men get to have other people worry about that level of nuance and you are a very wealthy man, Sir. Your pension is in excess of $150 million dollars, Colonel Select Rogers." Major Anders smiled. "Compound interest on an annuity over seventy years adds up."
"I guess I'm buying that motorcycle I was looking at last night." Steve let out a long, low whistle. "It's in my price range."
"Colonel Select Rogers, there are entire countries that are in your price range." The General's lips quirked up in a smile. "And it pleases me immensely that I get to force Uncle Sam to cough out as much cash as I feel like one of my soldiers actually earned with his lifetime of service."
"But I… like working." Steve had never had money in his entire life and now he apparently had more money than he'd ever dreamed possible. Even in his fantasies of excessive wealth during the great depression his idea of wealth had been just having a million dollars, let alone tens of millions of dollars. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea of spending that kind of money.
"I believe I can help you with that." Spoke a balding white man in a pressed suit. Steve had seen him before. He was one of the SHIELD agents who Nick Fury had on staff. "My organization's level of secrecy makes it difficult for us to hire qualified personnel. We are interested in hiring you as a civilian consultant."
Steve looked from the Agent to the General and back. "I'm guessing it's not an accident that you're at this meeting then?"
"Shield has decided to impose themselves on an Army matter, yes." General Ross snarled, sending a glare of spite at the agent. "Rogers - you have earned your retirement. You have no more obligation to Uncle Sam. You can do anything you want. Anything at all. Go anywhere, visit all the places that get to be places thanks to you. If anyone from SHIELD or any other damn alphabet even looks at you the wrong way and tries to pressure you into doing something you don't want everyone in the military of the US of A will raise all hell at that. America will keep on spinning without ceasing if you retire."
"And there are many more places that might cease without him." Replied the Agent in a calm tone. "Just because the Army is bureaucratically forced to squander his potential doesn't mean that SHIELD is equally hamstrung."
"Sir." Steve spoke before General Ross got a head of steam behind him. It seemed readily apparent that the General was going to tear into the Agent. "I like to work. You said I can do anything I want? I want to help people. I would at least like to listen to what he has to say."
"If you insist, Rogers." The General conceded, a sad little smile on his face. "You can't blame me for not telling you to just embrace your DD-214."
"This is our offer, Captain." The Agent slid yet another folder over to Steve. Steve flipped it open to yet another, equally outrageous sum of money. "The salary is just an opening offer, we are willing to negotiate for a more equitable deal."
"You want to pay me five million dollars a month for me to work as a contractor?" Steve's eyes bugged at the sum. "Sixty million dollars a year?"
"Plus a housing, travel, medical, and a generous pension plan." Agent Coulson nodded. "You're a strategic asset, Captain. We're going to value you accordingly."
"Quintuple it." Snarled Ross.
"Sir?" Steve's heart stopped. Was the General serious? Would the government pay that much to a single man?
"I'm authorized to triple it." Agents Coulson smiled. "But it's up to Captain America."
"Triple is fine." Steve replied in befuddlement. "What am I doing exactly?"
"What you already were doing, Captain." Agent Coulson chuckled. "Saving the world."
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