-MEMORIES-//Captain America

IX. Heart of the Forties

Author's Note: Embraceable You---Frank Sinatra

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"Doll? D---Doll?"

His voice.

Its music.

Its music; a perfect tune in every sense of the word. Smooth like the roll of a clear trumpet---low, like the pluck of a bass string; all it takes is for the man to say a single word, a single word, and Alice is brought back to Coney Island, 1942.

Taking in a deep breath, she swears she can detect notes of buttery popcorn hanging loosely in the air. In the silence, while the needle of the radio makes its rounds on the face of the black disk within it, the woman notices lingering bouts of laughter and chimes of winning bells still thriving in the space despite it being nearly seventy years later...

Captain America takes another step forward.

A glint of light flickers from his direction, catching Alice's attention. Drifting, her wide, aghast gaze falls onto the shield hovering at his hip.

"Is...is that you? Is that really you?" He quakes, disbelieving of his own eyes, sounding heartbroken and like he's just been stabbed in the chest.

She studies him from afar. Looking for any semblance of familiarity, Alice locates it all in his complexion. Housing the same handsome features as the Steve in her dreams, the woman can't deny it---the two men are one in the same, with them both having the same squared off chin, chiseled features, and, of course, the endless twin pools residing in the whites of the eyes.

A familiar flush dapples her cheeks. She shakes it off.

However, something is different. Her Steve didn't have the physique that the one standing right in front of her does---quite the opposite, actually. Once frail, and dainty, and overall looking like a stray breeze could pick him up and carry him off, this one carries a stature and muscle mass she can only assume all other men pray for.

And pray for heavily.

Warmly, with tears glossing over either frosty iris, the woman thoughtfully, and somewhat hesitantly, sidesteps the table, rounding it.

"Steve."

Alice has changed, too. The serum running through her veins has given her a toned, almost bulky build. Her hair, now a mess of a thing, spills from the ridge of the scalp and goes a decent length past the woman's chest...the lady in pink hardly had it go past her shoulders.

And the scars. Oh, the scars. Alice's pale skin is littered with them---without her Hydra-given uniform to keep the majority of her colorless flesh covered, each and every wound, both past and present, is on display.

Alice then becomes acutely aware of just how exposed she is. The Captain is looking her up and down, utterly slackjawed.

Instinctively, she places a palm back on the stab wound, pressing on it deeply in an attempt to hide the small plume of crimson tarnishing the white gauze. Steve's already seen it; she knows he has.

The Scarlet Ghost, however, is unwilling to let him any closer.

"How," Captain America lows. "H-How---How is this even possible?"

"I don't know." She admits meekly, avoiding his gaze.

The song on the radio has changed. Alice is unfamiliar with this one.

From the tip of the needle, an interlude of brass, woodwind, and string instruments flows throughout the room, clearing the way for a male vocal so smooth and velvety, Alice is taken aback by it.