Thaw

Four

"MARY MARGARET LUKE AND JOHN!"

Steve awoke with a start, shooting up into a sitting position. There was a cacophony of scraping and banging that followed the exclamation which had extricated him from his dream. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand; 3:45 a.m. glared at him in an icy blue glow. He shivered slightly and turned away, trying to ignore the agitation the colour inspired.

I'm just tired. It'll pass.

The noises intensified, and a string of colourful threats followed, directed at whom, he wasn't sure. He didn't even know who was yelling. Slowly he got up and padded silently across the darkened bedroom, trying to focus his hazy mind to remember what the hell had happened before he fell asleep.

We were in a cold room, there was a big mirror, and a small bed. We? Who was.... Oh. There was a woman, wasn't there? Yes, she sat on the bed and talked to me. I didn't know her, but she looked familiar....

He paused in the hallway that guided him closer to the ruckus, squeezing his eyes shut to concentrate.

Come on, eidetic memory, don't let me down.

Suddenly he remembered everything. The dream, no, the nightmare he'd been having a few minutes ago, it was real. This was reality. He was trapped in a time not his own. He'd been treated like a hostage, until-

"JESUS MARY JOSEPH AND THE CAMEL!"

-Tony Stark happened.

He quietly entered the enormous room that was called a kitchen. It was bigger than the entire walk-up that he and Bucky had shared not that long ago.

I guess it really was that long ago.

The only telltale features of its intended purpose were the oversized fridge and undersized stovetop tucked into a sleek area of shelving and counters. The brushed steel and black elements shone like they had never been touched.

"SON OF A MOTHERLESS GOAT!"

That might not be too far from the truth, he told himself with amusement. Tony was flying around in what could only be described as a whirling dervish, apparently failing fantastically at cooking. Her face was flushed, her eyes darting around frantically as she threw the pot she was brandishing into a tiny sink he hadn't noticed before, covering it with a tea towel as if it would make it disappear. She ran a hand through her short, wild hair and sighed, surveying the disastrous consequences of her entering the kitchen.

Steve's fingers twitched at the sight of her. She was in a ratty old shirt and sweatpants, she had a smudge of some sort of food on her nose, her hair stuck up like she'd been mildly electrocuted, and boy, was she beautiful.

I need a pencil.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, her head whipped up and their eyes met. "Rogers," she gasped, her cheeks becoming redder. "Damn. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I forgot that, well that is, I don't always realize how loud I am, and, I mean, uh-"

"It's fine," he interrupted with a slight smile. "I've had enough sleep for a couple lifetimes, anyway." He came toward her curiously, glancing at the burner that she'd pulled the pot away from. It was smoking, and there was an odd smell in the air. "Were you making porridge?"

"Um, yeah," she replied, looking at the hidden failure in the sink. "Didn't go so well. How did you know?"

"Bucky burnt the porridge every single day," he laughed, and she looked up at him in surprise. "I recognized the smell." He leaned forward and opened a cupboard that was mostly bare, save a frying pan or two. Pulling one out, he placed it on a less outraged burner and nodded toward the fridge. "You got eggs?"