“His Part to Play” - 2. Building
Mar. 24th, 2020 11:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
breakinglight11Forever Captain:
“His Part to Play”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~
Summary: “Steve Rogers has retired to the 1940s to build a new life with Peggy. In leaving behind the mantle of Captain America, at last he’s got a measure of peace. Still, Steve will never stop feeling the responsibility to step up as a hero— except he's not sure how much power his actions have at this point in the timeline. Somehow he must reconcile his new life and identity with the responsibility and burden of being a hero out of time.”
Previous chapters:
1. Lost Time
Chapter summary: Steve gets to building his life in earnest.
“His Part to Play”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~
Summary: “Steve Rogers has retired to the 1940s to build a new life with Peggy. In leaving behind the mantle of Captain America, at last he’s got a measure of peace. Still, Steve will never stop feeling the responsibility to step up as a hero— except he's not sure how much power his actions have at this point in the timeline. Somehow he must reconcile his new life and identity with the responsibility and burden of being a hero out of time.”
Previous chapters:
1. Lost Time
Chapter summary: Steve gets to building his life in earnest.
~~~
2. Building
Of course eventually real life intervened. Peggy had managed to call out of work on some excuse or other for nearly a full week, allowing them seven glorious days to enjoy one another undisturbed. But eventually she had to get back to it, and he had to emerge from the haze back to the real world. Now, with some time to himself, it was time to start building his life here.
For a few days more, he permitted himself to remain adrift with his own thoughts. But, military man that he was, it wasn’t long before he started putting things in order. He took a small apartment in a building nearby, an inexpensive place populated by students, artists, and new immigrants to New York. Fortunately, his ready supply of cash preventing too much inquiry into his identity. Anonymity was vital now, even more so than it had been in his time on the run.
He put together a routine, keeping things simple at first, beginning with some order to his days. He would rise early, as was his preference, and go out for a run. Early risers were more common than joggers here, so he would avoid pushing himself hard enough to lap on anyone’s left. His apartment had a shower, if not much in the way of water pressure, but he found himself taking long baths instead, navigating a tub too narrow for his frame while the hottest water he could stand soaked out the lingering ache. Then he would spend the rest of the day reacquainting himself with the New York City he once knew.
He wandered with his old Dodgers cap pulled low, in no rush, often with no destination in particular, through the bodegas, the diners, the ball fields, the parks. He saw movies in the middle of the day, hung out in the bleachers as baseball teams practiced, fed ducks from a park bench by a pond. He would lurk for long hours in the public library, taking in all the books he’d always meant to read but had never gotten around to. He didn’t need much sleep under normal circumstances, but he slept now every night from ten to six like clockwork, until the bone-deep weariness finally started to ease.
Once he felt together again, he set his mind to doing something with himself. Money was not a pressing issue, thanks to the resources he’d been supplied with before he’d left. But now that he felt stronger, he felt like he should make somewhat more use of himself than providing an early morning spectacle for the shopkeepers and ladies sweeping their front steps as he went by jogging.
He began, naturally enough, with Peggy. Chores did not demand much of him in his own small apartment, so he began to take care of things for her. She had far more on her plate right now than he did, and it only seemed right that he make himself useful. He could press a shirt collar since his army days, mend buttons in a pinch, and pitch in any way that called for a little elbow grease. Men were of course still not welcome as guests in her boarding house, so he’d simply gotten in the habit of entering and leaving the way he had the very first time— by scaling the wall and climbing in through the window. She would come home in the evenings to find him washing the dishes in the sink and hanging thing up to dry with a kettle whistling on the stovetop for tea.
“My word,” she said, as he’d handed her a steaming mug in the small den he had waiting warm and clean for her. “I could get used to this.”
She nestled into the sofa, cradling the tea and tucking her feet up beneath her. “If only you could cook, you might be worth keeping.”
She smiled at him then, so adorably that he resolved then and there he would make that happen.
Easier said than done, however. Once he’d joked to Natasha about just how bad he was at it; not something he’d want to inflict on Peggy. But with so much time on his hands now to learn, he decided there was no time like all the time in the world.
His first thought had been to find a book, though compared to what the twenty-first century had to offer he was skeptical. Even if Mastering the Art of French Cooking hadn’t sounded so intimidatingly complicated, it still nearly a decade off. Of course, it hadn’t been the fancy cooking that really endured into the twenty-first century; it was the peasant stuff, handed down by nonnas and abuelas until some rich asshole decided to put it in a restaurant and acted like he discovered it.
It was then that he realized he lived in a whole building of those very same nonnas and abuelas. He wondered if any of them had any stubborn pickle jars around.
So Steve made a point of introducing himself to a few likely-looking candidates to be his teachers. It so happened they were delighted to make friends with a handsome young man with an interest in their culinary prowess. In exchange for carrying groceries and repairs around the house, they taught him secrets brought with them from their villages in Sicily and Oaxaca. From Mama Cantelmi he learned to brown the meat and simmer the sauce, while Senora Reyes taught him about oil and seasoning and salt. Bread baking he learned from a bubbeh, Esther Tannenbaum in 4F, who had him break down an old armoire to kindling and demonstrated her six-stranded braiding technique for her egg-glazed challah loaf. Between stories of their lives, their families, the countries they and theirs came from, they patted Steve’s cheeks and helped him make the perfect plan.
In a few weeks’ time, he felt confident to put things into action. Peggy came in that night, not to the sound of a whistling teakettle, but to the soft hissing of pots on to simmer, and the clicking of china as he set the table.
He glanced up, then dropped his head, grinning sheepishly. “Damn! I’d hoped to be ready when you got here.” It had just occurred to him with some annoyance that he hadn’t figured out anything for dessert.
She tossed her hat and coat aside in the den, stripping off her gloves as she came through to the kitchen. “What’s all this?” she asked, taking in the cloth napkins and the cornflowers he’d set in a milk bottle in the center of the table.
He smiled, drawing out a chair for her. “Give me a minute.” He laid the last few pieces of service ware on the table, then carried the dishes over— a scaloppin’, pounded thin and sautéed with fontina and sage, cilantro-lime cabbage shredded fine, and a basket of little buns, not braided but lovingly coiled into little knots by hand.
She shook her head over the spread, marveling. “How on earth did you manage all this?”
“I’ve been learning.” He popped the cork from a bottle of red— had to be red, Mrs. Cantelmi was firm —with a swift twist of his wrist. “Thought I might try and make myself useful to you.”
“You went to all this trouble for me?”
“Are you surprised?” Steve sat down across from her and filled up her glass. “It’s so you’ll keep me. How am I doing?”
If he hadn’t already been seated already, the look that came into her eyes then would have sent him to his knees. Half ready to throw himself across the table, he watched as she daintily she picked up her napkin and laid it across her lap.
“I’d show you,” she said. “Except it would be a shame for all this to go to waste.”
Suddenly Steve was no longer worried about dessert.
~~~
Next chapter: 3. Reaching
2. Building
Of course eventually real life intervened. Peggy had managed to call out of work on some excuse or other for nearly a full week, allowing them seven glorious days to enjoy one another undisturbed. But eventually she had to get back to it, and he had to emerge from the haze back to the real world. Now, with some time to himself, it was time to start building his life here.
For a few days more, he permitted himself to remain adrift with his own thoughts. But, military man that he was, it wasn’t long before he started putting things in order. He took a small apartment in a building nearby, an inexpensive place populated by students, artists, and new immigrants to New York. Fortunately, his ready supply of cash preventing too much inquiry into his identity. Anonymity was vital now, even more so than it had been in his time on the run.
He put together a routine, keeping things simple at first, beginning with some order to his days. He would rise early, as was his preference, and go out for a run. Early risers were more common than joggers here, so he would avoid pushing himself hard enough to lap on anyone’s left. His apartment had a shower, if not much in the way of water pressure, but he found himself taking long baths instead, navigating a tub too narrow for his frame while the hottest water he could stand soaked out the lingering ache. Then he would spend the rest of the day reacquainting himself with the New York City he once knew.
He wandered with his old Dodgers cap pulled low, in no rush, often with no destination in particular, through the bodegas, the diners, the ball fields, the parks. He saw movies in the middle of the day, hung out in the bleachers as baseball teams practiced, fed ducks from a park bench by a pond. He would lurk for long hours in the public library, taking in all the books he’d always meant to read but had never gotten around to. He didn’t need much sleep under normal circumstances, but he slept now every night from ten to six like clockwork, until the bone-deep weariness finally started to ease.
Once he felt together again, he set his mind to doing something with himself. Money was not a pressing issue, thanks to the resources he’d been supplied with before he’d left. But now that he felt stronger, he felt like he should make somewhat more use of himself than providing an early morning spectacle for the shopkeepers and ladies sweeping their front steps as he went by jogging.
He began, naturally enough, with Peggy. Chores did not demand much of him in his own small apartment, so he began to take care of things for her. She had far more on her plate right now than he did, and it only seemed right that he make himself useful. He could press a shirt collar since his army days, mend buttons in a pinch, and pitch in any way that called for a little elbow grease. Men were of course still not welcome as guests in her boarding house, so he’d simply gotten in the habit of entering and leaving the way he had the very first time— by scaling the wall and climbing in through the window. She would come home in the evenings to find him washing the dishes in the sink and hanging thing up to dry with a kettle whistling on the stovetop for tea.
“My word,” she said, as he’d handed her a steaming mug in the small den he had waiting warm and clean for her. “I could get used to this.”
She nestled into the sofa, cradling the tea and tucking her feet up beneath her. “If only you could cook, you might be worth keeping.”
She smiled at him then, so adorably that he resolved then and there he would make that happen.
Easier said than done, however. Once he’d joked to Natasha about just how bad he was at it; not something he’d want to inflict on Peggy. But with so much time on his hands now to learn, he decided there was no time like all the time in the world.
His first thought had been to find a book, though compared to what the twenty-first century had to offer he was skeptical. Even if Mastering the Art of French Cooking hadn’t sounded so intimidatingly complicated, it still nearly a decade off. Of course, it hadn’t been the fancy cooking that really endured into the twenty-first century; it was the peasant stuff, handed down by nonnas and abuelas until some rich asshole decided to put it in a restaurant and acted like he discovered it.
It was then that he realized he lived in a whole building of those very same nonnas and abuelas. He wondered if any of them had any stubborn pickle jars around.
So Steve made a point of introducing himself to a few likely-looking candidates to be his teachers. It so happened they were delighted to make friends with a handsome young man with an interest in their culinary prowess. In exchange for carrying groceries and repairs around the house, they taught him secrets brought with them from their villages in Sicily and Oaxaca. From Mama Cantelmi he learned to brown the meat and simmer the sauce, while Senora Reyes taught him about oil and seasoning and salt. Bread baking he learned from a bubbeh, Esther Tannenbaum in 4F, who had him break down an old armoire to kindling and demonstrated her six-stranded braiding technique for her egg-glazed challah loaf. Between stories of their lives, their families, the countries they and theirs came from, they patted Steve’s cheeks and helped him make the perfect plan.
In a few weeks’ time, he felt confident to put things into action. Peggy came in that night, not to the sound of a whistling teakettle, but to the soft hissing of pots on to simmer, and the clicking of china as he set the table.
He glanced up, then dropped his head, grinning sheepishly. “Damn! I’d hoped to be ready when you got here.” It had just occurred to him with some annoyance that he hadn’t figured out anything for dessert.
She tossed her hat and coat aside in the den, stripping off her gloves as she came through to the kitchen. “What’s all this?” she asked, taking in the cloth napkins and the cornflowers he’d set in a milk bottle in the center of the table.
He smiled, drawing out a chair for her. “Give me a minute.” He laid the last few pieces of service ware on the table, then carried the dishes over— a scaloppin’, pounded thin and sautéed with fontina and sage, cilantro-lime cabbage shredded fine, and a basket of little buns, not braided but lovingly coiled into little knots by hand.
She shook her head over the spread, marveling. “How on earth did you manage all this?”
“I’ve been learning.” He popped the cork from a bottle of red— had to be red, Mrs. Cantelmi was firm —with a swift twist of his wrist. “Thought I might try and make myself useful to you.”
“You went to all this trouble for me?”
“Are you surprised?” Steve sat down across from her and filled up her glass. “It’s so you’ll keep me. How am I doing?”
If he hadn’t already been seated already, the look that came into her eyes then would have sent him to his knees. Half ready to throw himself across the table, he watched as she daintily she picked up her napkin and laid it across her lap.
“I’d show you,” she said. “Except it would be a shame for all this to go to waste.”
Suddenly Steve was no longer worried about dessert.
~~~
Next chapter: 3. Reaching
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