CHAPTER 1
Author's Note: Feel free to PM me anytime with questions you may have or if you'd just like to chat. Hope you enjoy! (This story is also on fanfiction.net on my account, HogwartsAsWeKnowIt)
In a New York City apartment...
With gleaming sunlight leaking through the window shades and an alarm clock stubbornly beeping, it was no surprise Steve Rogers was fully awake in a matter of seconds. The cool, slick sheets wrapped around his body were the perfect temperature, and begging him to stay just five minutes longer. But it is commonly known that once you give into that satisfaction of ignoring the alarm clock and instead cuddle contently in the softness of bed, there is absolutely no possible way to rouse one's self. Steve knew this almost better than anyone, waking up at five each morning due to the habits of an Army life engraved into his mind. Judging by how tangled the covers were around his body, Steve realized it had been another restless night of combat nightmares that belonged better in a horror movie than the Captain's brain. The digital clock, now showing 5:02 was persistant in its noise (BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!) and Steve ended up hitting the button with more force than was needed; the slap did its job though, ceasing the annoying sound. Steve sighed, the only sound in his tiny, bland bedroom.
Stepping out into the hall, his barefeet were chilled as they made the transition from carpet to wood. Abruptly, the hall transformed into the sitting room, which was simple and plain, containing only the necessaties: a sofa, center table, a small TV, and a VC/DVD player. Scattered on the table was an assortment of books, videotapes, out-dated newspapers, and a couple remotes. As he passed, Steve picked up the remote and successfully pressed On/Off, causing the TV to revive and blare the News Channel. Frantically turning down the volume, Steve winced at the thought of his neighbors sleeping around him in the condeminium.
With a yawn he entered the kitchen, switching the coffee machine to life and pulling the multigrain bread from a almost-barren cabinet. Like the sitting room, the kitchen contained only what was needed. He owned a compact fridge that was pretty much vacant (as were the cupbaords), a modern toaster, microwave, stove, and coffee maker. A few yards away from the cooking island, which contained the stove, was his eating table, also filled with a vast array of documents. As he waited for the toast and coffee, his focus returned to the news, which could easily be seen from almost any angle of the kitchen. It was the usual crap: a few homocides, a missing person, a shooting downtown, some famous person's birthday, etc. The commercials started, and he muted the screen. Steve then leaned against the counter, the tile freezing his elbows as he stood in his T-shirt, grey sweatpants, and disheveled blonde hair.
DING!
The toaster alerted the supersoldier that his toast was ready and Steve sloppily applied margerine and apricot jam. Pouring coffee, Steve cursed as he turned the pot too soon, spilling all over the freshly cleaned tile. A single paper towel did its job though, and the Captain wadded it up into a ball, making a spectacular shot across the room into the trash bin.
"A three-pointer by Rogers," he muttered in a dramatic announcer voice.
With a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, and a sizzling piece of toast in the other, Steve flopped onto the couch and continued to be bored by the news. He sat there for a while, slowly chewing with his feet up on the table. Still hungry after his feeble breakfast, Steve began to get up to make more. However, as he was standing, a file on the table caught his observant eye. Peggy's Army file was gently picked up by his rough hands. The small picture of her stunning face was enough to stab the Captain's heart with a pain more intense than any physical weapon could produce.
With a sigh that rattled from the botton of his heart, Steve sat back down, deep in thought. He gazed out the window, watching the sun rise against the skyline of New York, with its buildings scraping the sky. His eyes wondered beyond that, to the address he had memorized from Peggy's file.
Maybe, across the Pacific Ocean and through time, Peggy Carter was thinking of him and staring out her window at 57-J Merryweather, of Winchester.
Something was holding him back from visiting his true love. It wasn't fear; it couldn't be fear. He was Captain America, the brave soldier who never backed-down from a fight. But he coudn't help but realizing, deep in his scarred heart, it was fear. True, genuine horror. He remembered Peggy as a life-full, better-than-perfect dame. Her blissful smile, a kiss full of red lipstick... These memories were engraved into his heart by a double-edged sword, and it continued to bleed. Why were they so painful?
Maybe it was because it was just another part of his life that could never be returned. As his hand contracted into a fist, his skin turned white as it stretched over his knuckles.
Why me?
In downtown London...
Kris Taylor sang around the kitchen in a pair of ripped jeans, an AC/DC T-shirt, and Converse. Her lengthy auburn hair flowed around, the drastic layers dip-dyed blonde. The clock read 10:03, but she didn't care, seeing as she was already twenty minutes late for work; she barely managed to hold a job at the Starbucks on City Road. She was pouring a cup of tea when her iPhone 5 decided to join in on the noise. Turning down the radio, she checked her lockscreen to see who it was. "Mom," it read. She dismissed it. A never-ending talk with her mother and a lecture about how she was living her life was not something she needed at the moment. The radio was returned to its original volume, and she continued to join OneRepublic in the chorus of "Counting Stars". After grabbing an apple, her phone, and a leather jacket, she was out the door and into her Prius.
She'd regret not taking that call.
