Chapter Text
Year: 2010
Location: Cleveland, Ohio
The residential address of Commander Steven G. Rogers, Retired.
Steve woke up at seven AM, as per normal.
He had a shower then dried off and combed his hair in front of the mirror. His hair was the longest it had ever been, almost down to his ears now. He combed it back into a neat style. His hair was dark grey peppered with silver. So was his beard, which he kept neatly trimmed.
Steve didn't mind the silver so much, he thought it looked good on him. He was seventy-five years old, but as his body aged slowly he passed for a man in his forties.
Steve got dressed: soft pants, a white t-shirt with a long sleeved shirt over the top. He put on his slippers, and went downstairs to start the coffee machine.
Every morning like clockwork he made his own breakfast. Steve had thought that retirement would bring a need to eat less food, but his body showed no signs of letting up its fast metabolism so he still needed several small meals throughout the day.
Steve made himself a protein shake in the blender and sipped at it while he cooked his breakfast. Poached eggs, two slices of bacon and toast, and one sliced avocado. A little salt and pepper on top.
When his meal was ready he sat down to eat at his kitchen table. He glanced up at the wall clock. Only seven-forty. He had a whole day ahead of him, and Steve didn't know what to do with himself.
Retirement shouldn't be this dull.
Then again, he shouldn't have agreed to his superior's suggestion of settling in Cleveland. It was a quiet residential neighborhood, and Steve was bored.
He was very bored.
He'd toyed with the idea of changing up his lifestyle. Buy a boat, perhaps, or a van and go travelling by himself. Camp out in the woods. Of course, the issue with those ideas was that Shield wanted to know where he was at all times, and going off grid wasn't something they liked. Steve was still considered an asset, even at his age.
This didn't leave him with a lot of options, and certainly not many he could do from his recently purchased home. He'd been living in this house for one year and five months, and he was running out of things to do in it. Steve had tried house plants and gardening, but plants didn't seem to like him much.
Steve had tried getting back into painting, but he couldn't find any inspiration out here in Cleveland. Steve had tried writing a book, figured he'd try his hand at that and maybe write the next James Bond, but that hadn't worked out either.
He wasn't even allowed to do any consulting work or freelance jobs, or the Shield handler who drove by to visit him every once in a while would purse their lips and tell him that wasn't permitted.
Steve's identity had to be kept a secret, as it had when he'd been an active Shield agent. The general public had no idea that in the early '60s Shield had experimented on their agents with a formula that would change their bodies. Steve had volunteered for the trials and gotten a special serum injected into him. At the fresh age of twenty, and full of ideals about stopping the Commies before they infiltrated America, he'd jumped in feet first as usual. Steve had survived the testing and was the first (well, the only) successful American super soldier after that.
Nearly fifty years later, the Cold War long forgotten while a new Cold War was being waged with memes and bots online, Steve had a different perspective on politics and on his involvement over the decades.
There were things he regretted doing in the service of Shield, and that partly fed into to his post retirement blues currently.
Steve hoped that, sooner or later, a solution to boring retired life would present itself.
He was usually in bed by nine PM.
Steve preferred naps to one long sleep, since he always woke up hungry. That night, he woke up at his usual time of just after midnight. He yawned and put on his dressing gown, stretching briefly before he went downstairs.
He'd make himself a snack, then head back upstairs to read for a while before sleeping again.
But as Steve made his way down the stairs he heard shuffling about, and he knew instantly what it was: intruders.
Steve didn't let on that he'd heard. His hearing had been enhanced by the serum, and given that he looked like an older man most people presumed he didn't hear that well so it gave him the advantage.
Steve faked a yawn as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes cataloguing the movement of black combat boots out the corner of his eye as they took cover in the dark lounge.
So, Black Ops agents, not simple burglars.
Interesting.
Steve put on a performance of acting normal, switching on the hall light and walking toward his kitchen. He heard the agents follow behind him, getting closer, but Steve went into the kitchen and shut the door.
He left the light off. Quickly, he went to the window and slid it open. Steve rolled out the window and dropped to the grass below, barefoot.
Nobody had shot at him yet, so if they had agents stationed outside they were probably watching the front of the house only.
How unprofessional.
Steve ran around back and let himself in the window via his office room. He walked silently to the hallway by the stairs and saw the Black Ops agents, four of them, creeping up to the kitchen door.
The first agent kicked the door open and threw in a flash grenade. Steve used the distraction to close in on the two agents closest to him, punching one in the side of his head so hard he crashed into the wall and made a dent, and grabbing the second agent to use as a human shield.
The two agents up in front turned around in surprise, ready to fire their rifles but Steve shoved his human shield into them, knocking them down. The pile of surprised agents tried to fight back, but clearly these were regular humans and no match for Steve's strength.
One kick from Steve resulted in broken bones, the agents yelling in pain, and a punch from Steve knocked them out cold. The final agent struggling to fight back tried to jab Steve with a syringe. Steve gripped his arm and held him still while he removed the syringe from his grasp.
Steve gave the agent a flat look, then jabbed the syringe into his neck and injected it. The agent squawked quietly then wobbled on his feet, sedated. Steve let go and let him drop to the floor.
So they hadn't come to kill him, they'd planned to take him somewhere.
Interesting.
A radio on the belt of one of the fallen agents crackled, "Alpha team, report," a voice said.
Steve wanted to know who this team was, so he got to work.
From the kitchen he took a carving knife and a plastic bag, and began the unpleasant task of removing the index fingers from the fallen agents. He ziplocked the bag with the severed fingers, and put it in his pocket.
Next he went back inside the kitchen and felt for the gun strapped underneath the kitchen table. Steve took a frying pan and some cooking oil, and put the pan on the stovetop, lighting the flame.
He took out the gun clip and emptied the bullets into the pan to cook. Then he left the kitchen and headed down to his basement, locking the door behind him.
In the basement was Steve's boxing gloves and punching bag, and also a chest full of clothes. Steve opened the chest and started changing quickly, throwing off his robe and pyjamas and pulling on socks, pants, a shirt, jacket, and durable boots.
There was a go-bag in the chest too, filled with cash and a kit that would help Steve get out of here.
In the few minutes that had passed, the stove he'd left on cooked the bullets in the pan. As Steve finished dressing he heard the bullets reach critical temperature and start to shoot off by themselves around the kitchen. A simple distraction, and clearly the agents outside fell for it because heavy gunfire to the front of Steve's house followed.
Steve shook his head. Amateurs.
He put the bag of fingers into a side pocket on his go-bag, and secured it on his back. Then he slipped out the window, which came out on the back of the property, and he jogged away in the dark.
Steve travelled to Boston where he posed as a guest to gain access to the Cherry Cedars retirement home.
It was mid afternoon, and the person he'd come to see was tucked up in a blanket on an easy chair, watching The Golden Girls on TV.
"Hey," Steve said upon entering the little room. "How've you been?"
Nick Fury adjusted his glasses to squint at Steve. He still only had one eye, eye patch over the other. He had a grey-white beard now, and was much older than Steve. Probably ninety-something.
"Well, well," Fury said with a chuckle. "Fancy seeing you here. You come to move in? The service here is pretty good."
Steve approached Fury with a wry smile. "Actually, I need a favor. You still have contacts at Shield, right?"
"Well, I was the director," Fury said gruffly. "Depends on the favor?"
"Got a visit from a wet team last night," Steve said quietly, and offered Fury the ziplock bag of fingers. "Was hoping you'd be able to identify them for me."
Fury held up the plastic bag, peering at the fingers inside. "You know, you could've just used a piece of tape to get their prints?" He tsked lightly under his breath. "Alright. I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, Nick," Steve told him. "I got us burner phones, so call me if you have any news." He handed the older man a small burner phone. "And maybe you should think about going somewhere more secure?" Steve suggested. "If they came for me, they might be coming for you."
Fury snorted lightly as he pocketed the phone, and the fingers. "What are they gonna do, Steve? I'm a ninety-two year old man with liver cancer and a heart condition. They'd be doing me a favor."
"Still." Steve shrugged a shoulder. "You have a gun here, right?"
Fury smiled smugly. "You even have to ask?"