It’s The Sixties, man!
Peter woke up in an unfamiliar room. He was lying in a bed, wearing clothes he didn’t recognize. Sunlight streamed in from a window somewhere. He turned over comfortably and opened his eyes, not sensing any immediate danger. There was a worrisome tugging in his gut and a prickling at his neck, though, which made him uneasy. He sat up, unwilling to throw the covers off. The bed was wonderfully warm, and the gray sheets were soft and thick, even though they weren’t terribly fancy. He looked around, studied the room he was in: beige walls, a clean hardwood floor with a small woven mat lying by the bed (which sat in a sparse, iron bed frame and was bolted down). There was a window on the wall across from the bed, high up and close to the ceiling. There was a lattice of bars over it, though, as if to remind him that he wasn’t staying at a motel.
The rest of the room was empty. It was a small room, but large enough that one couldn’t climb to the window from the bed. At least, not someone without superpowers.
Peter climbed up the walls easily. Someone had dressed him in a clean white undershirt and a pair of navy slacks, which seemed a little fancy for the whole affair. It came back to him then, all of a sudden, why he was probably in that room in the first place. He didn’t remember much from what had happened, only that he’d hallucinated and seen the dead relatives of the people in his life who he had at one point known. How had he hallucinated, though? Had he been drugged? Another upsetting memory came to him in the form of Maggie falling to the ground with a bullet in her side, and then being hit by a stun gun or a tranquilizer himself. It had to have been a strong one to have knocked him out for so long. It appeared to be late afternoon, and he’d broken into the base with Maggie around four in the morning. It couldn’t have been much longer after that that they had been trapped in that first room. He would find her and break her out. But first he had a little escaping of his own to do.
It wasn’t hard to break the bars and then covertly smash the glass of the window. It was fun to jump down from whatever floor he was on to the ground below him, and it was rather pleasing to find himself in a comfortably warm and leafy garden. He walked from there, barefoot, down the street, and this was the hard part. The people were freaking him out. They all had old-fashioned clothes on, and he even passed a woman with a beehive hairdo. There were stores advertising color TVs, and a bookstore filled with some…very blatantly racist books. Maybe it was just because it was Texas. Or maybe…, thought Peter to himself, I’ve somehow traveled back in time!
He looked around with wonder at everything. He probably looked a sight; he was without shoes, turning around and around in the street and staring at everything with wide-eyed wonder. It was Dallas, alright. But not any Dallas that he ever could have seen.
There was a newspaper stand at a corner. He went over to it, ignoring the judgeful stares he was getting from the clientele there. He picked up a newspaper, scanned the front page: November 18, 1963 .
Holy shit , thought Peter. Holy freaking SHIT.
He sprinted back immediately, dropping the paper on the newsstand. He went back in the direction he’d come, back through the streets, and approached the building with greater caution. It was an unassuming building, but then again, all evil places looked unassuming from the outside. It had a cinderblock look to it, square and gray and covered with grime. There were windows set into the ashen sides, though, most of which did not have bars. Peter circled the building once, gauging an entry point in the way that Bucky had taught him. He passed through the pleasant garden in the backyard and noticed an ideal-looking window above the trellis of the garden. Quickly, he climbed up, and finding the window unlocked, let himself in.
He was now in a hallway that looked acutely similar to the room he’d been in before: plain, unadorned walls painted a dirty eggshell white, dusty wooden floors that were uneven in places, and a few old-looking candle sconces on the wall that didn’t seem to have ever been used, judging from the lack of melted candle wax and presence of rust, in abundance. There were three doors that Peter could see in the hall, all painted the same color as the walls. He didn’t hear anything from those rooms, so he went down the stairs which he had also seen at the end of the narrow hallway. The stairs bent off suddenly to the right from the hallway, and were almost crammed against the walls. Peter fought the urge to jump over the banister and run to the hall below, where he could already hear voices. He could hear Maggie’s vice, for certain. She sounded angry, she was talking quickly and snappishly, and the voice responding to her had an equally irritated tone.
He descended the stairs slowly, stopping at every creak to make certain that no one heard anything out of the ordinary. Finally he reached the bottom of the staircase and took a left turn, walking all the way down the hall to the first door on the right. He was nervous, though. He could hear what they were talking about with enough clarity that they might have been speaking loudly into his ears.
“I don’t think Doestoevski was a communist. I really truly don’t.”
“Well, how do you explain just about all of his Notes From Underground ?”
“I just did. He was not a communist, and I am not a hypocrite!”
Peter chose that moment to kick in the door. It slammed down, and he found himself staring at Maggie, the woman and the man. They were all holding cups of tea and Maggie had a small book in her lap with her thumb jammed between the pages and was looking very indignant.
“Ah, Peter, took you long enough,” she said in a businesslike manner. “I escaped twenty minutes ago.”
Peter looked back and forth between her and the two strange people and the tea. “Maggie- what?”
She sighed and stood up. The man and woman both looked very defensive, and the latter had drawn her gun. Peter was more interested in what Maggie was doing, however. She went over to the side and pulled a chair - the fourth of a set, it seemed, and the other three were occupied - up next to hers. She reached over to the small coffee table that sat in the middle of the small circle of chairs and began pouring him a cup of tea from the teapot and cups which sat there.
“How do you take your tea? I always forget.”
He immediately sensed something was wrong. They’d never had tea together before. Maggie hated caffeinated beverages. They made her hands shake. Something was wrong. Not dangerous, not yet, but wrong.
He smiled at her and scratched his ear. Signal received. It was their code that they’d made up some time ago in case of emergencies or sticky situations.
Maggie nodded almost imperceptibly and made only brief eye contact, but Peter still caught the confirmation. His suspicions were true that something was off. “A spoonful of sugar, and a dash of milk, thank you,” he said. He was mirroring her polite mannerisms and formal speech patterns.
She handed him the cup and motioned for him to sit down. It was then that he noticed the unnatural shape on her side. It seemed that she had been allowed to keep her clothes, but there was some fabric bunching up beneath it. When she sat down, he caught the barest glimpse of white cotton gauze wrapped around her side. It was dashed with red. He tried not to stare at it and sat down.
“I don’t believe I’ve introduced you all,” said Maggie, balancing her teacup on her knee. “Peggy, Howard, this is Peter.”
Peter almost dropped his teacup. So this was Howard Stark. There was no way it could be anyone else. And Maggie seemed to already have figured out that they were not in the right time period, hence her earlier warning. Peter smiled amiably at Peggy and Howard. “How do you do.”
The woman - Peggy - lowered the gun slowly. “Fine, thank you.”
There were a few moments of silence while Peter stared, open mouthed, at Stark.
“What’s wrong with him ? Why’s he starin’ at me like that?!” frowned Howard. His words were directed at Maggie.
Peter shook his head a little and laughed with brevity. He replied, “No, I’m sorry. It’s just- you’re Howard Stark , aren’t you?”
Howard laughed now too, obviously feeling less nervous than before. “Yeah, yeah, that’s me.”
“Hah! I-I apologize if I scared you by staring. I’m just a tad starstruck , you know? I’ve read your papers on electromagnetic theory. Your paper from, um… last year… was amazing. The one on the uses of kinetic friction when dealing with projectiles? Incredible! I especially enjoyed your theory on palladium radiation.”
Stark frowned slowly and stared accusingly at Peter. “I haven’t completed my theory on palladium radiation yet. It hasn’t been released to the public.” He leaned forward in the chair and set down his cup. “So how the hell do you know about it?”
Peter froze for half a second and then spoke. “Sorry. I must be thinking of something else.” He sipped his tea and then nodded. “I remember now- I meant your theory on gamma radiation. I always confuse the two.”
Stark gave him a confused look, because how the hell would someone who clearly is into science mix up gamma and palladium? Peter knew it was a lame excuse, but he sipped his tea again innocently. He could feel Maggie giving him the stink eye next to him. She clearly hadn’t yet told them she and Peter were from a different time period.
Peggy was clearly more confused now than she had been before. “Enough of this, please. The reason why I suppose you’re both here now is because you two broke into a very important room, containing very valuable information that the Soviets would just love to get their hands on. Who better to send to retrieve this information than a couple of kids in weird costumes?”
“No, Peggy, we weren’t breaking in, not on purpose-” started Maggie.
“-then how come you both had deadly weapons on you?”
“You make a good point. But the break-in was entirely accidental.”
“If it was accidental, then why were you both carrying strange guns?”
“Okay, yes, another good point, but we hadn’t meant to break into that particular place.”
“Then where did you mean to break in?”
Peter and Maggie looked at each other. Peter spoke first. “We’re- um, we’re from the future?”
Howard and Peggy looked at each other. Howard started to giggle. “If I had a nickel for every time a Soviet spy tried to pull that one on us, I’d have a lot of nickels.”
Laughing indignantly, Peter spoke again. “It’s true. And we can prove it to you.”
Howard was suddenly quite serious. “Please do,” he said, holding Peter’s eye contact.
“No, let’s not,” said Maggie. She laughed uncomfortably. “We’re not from the future. Peter hit his head. Earlier. Musta been when he fell.”
Peter turned his gaze toward her now. Why was she stalling like this? “I didn’t hit my head- Maggie, can we talk really quick?!” he said urgently. She had a very calculating look on her face. She didn’t quite seem to know what to do.
“Sure, Peter. Sidebar really quick.” She stood up, but Peggy pulled the gun out again.
It was trained unflinchingly on Peter. “Move and I shoot,” said Peggy.
“Okay,” said Peter. He reached up very quickly, barely sensing it as a bullet skimmed past him. He felt himself reach out with one leg to kick Maggie out of harm’s way, but she’d already leapt aside. The bullet continued to travel through the air. It was followed very quickly by broken bits of metal and handgun parts, embedding themselves in the wall and flying through the doorway. Peter shoved Peggy, which he admittedly felt bad about, and then punched Howard very lightly in the stomach (which he felt even worse about). Three-point-two-eight seconds after the initial gunshot had fired, Peter and Maggie were standing outside the building, unharmed, and having climbed very quickly out a window.
“What the FUCK is wrong with you?!” Maggie hissed.
“I-I- uh, I’m sorry but I didn’t know what to do !” retorted Peter very quickly. He glanced around. There was an odd feeling in his gut. His hair stood on end. “Shit. They’re coming.”
Maggie let out an exaggerated groan, but sprang into action. She grabbed Peter by the arm and tugged him through the garden, down a street and into a back alley. It all was very quick. She turned back to look at him with the same exasperated glare. “We can’t tell them we’re from the future.”
“Why the hell not? Woops, here they come-” And again they dashed off, this time perching on a rooftop.
Maggie backed away from the edge of the roof. “Because they’ll lose their shit. It’s the sixties. Cold War in full swing. JFK is two inches from a deep and bloody grave.”
“Wait-wait-wait, how do you know all that? How’d you figure that out?”
“Well, Peggy’s hair, Stark’s clothes, use of the term Soviets- it wasn’t impossible to decipher.”
“Oh. I saw it in a newspaper.” His ears pricked up again. “Dammit, they’re not gonna give up- can’t find a decent spot for a secret conversation these days-” They jumped to another rooftop, and then landed in a street. They half-walked half-jogged to a park across the street.
“I mean, it’s not as if there’s much they can do to disprove it, that we’re from the future. No records of us exist here. We don’t exist,” said Maggie. Sudden realization dawned on her. “And I don’t know about you, but this year - 1963 - was pretty damn tumultuous . And we know a lot about all that stuff. Because it’s declassified in 2025.”
“Oh my God, you’re right. Wait. What’d you say before?”
“When?”
“Like seven paragraphs ago.”
“Um- something about Soviets, Cold War, JFK-”
“Yeah, that. JFK.” Peter grinned. “I mean, I don’t expect that there’s any other way home other than through John FitzgeraldKennedy. In fact, without him, there’s absolutely no way home.”
“You lost me there. What do you mean?”
Peter smiled. “We’re gonna save his life.”
Maggie stopped speed-walking to glare at him. “And just why would we be doing that?”
“Because if we do that, then we can convince Mr. Stark and Ms. Carter that we’re from the future.”
“And why would we do that ?”
“Because they’re our only way out. They’re our only resources. They’re the only ones who can even start to build a time machine to get us back home.” Peter let out a very shaky breath at the end of the sentence. He’d said it all so quickly that it hadn’t even really sunk in with him that this was their plan.
“Okay. Okay. Say that your plan works,” stated Maggie. “We tell them how to stop JFK’s assassination. They magically build us a time machine?”
“Well-”
“Peter. Peter . Did Tony Stark tell you how to build a time machine?” Realization was dawning on Maggie at that moment, almost as she was saying the words.
Peter grinned apologetically. “Yea-a-a-h, he did, but there’s one part that I don’t know how to make, and Howard Stark has it. That’s why we need him.” He said it more confidently now. “Howard has the key to it all. He’s our way home.”
“No way home, save for Howard Stark. I never thought I’d be in this position.”
Peter shrugged. “Me neither. Here they come now. Let’s just go back to their place, now that we’ve had our sidebar.”
“Yes. Wonderful idea,” said Maggie.
They both turned right back around and started walking the way they’d come. They walked until they wound up back at the cinderblock building. They broke in from the garden window and had time to pour themselves a fresh cup of tea. Peggy and Howard stumbled in a minute later, both thoroughly winded and nursing fresh bruises from the earlier tussle.
“Okay,” panted Peggy, and she aimed the gun again at Peter, who was innocently sipping his tea. “We need to- we need to have a bit of a full disclosure , I believe.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Peter cheerily. He put down his tea. Maggie kept sipping on hers. Howard collapsed delicately into one of the chairs with a very faint (but very long) sigh.
Peggy straightened her back. “No lies.”
“No interruptions.”
“Deal.”
“Good.” Peter ran his right-hand thumb over his left-hand knuckles worriedly. It was a nervous habit of his. “We are from the future. 2025, to be exact.” He took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. “The president is going to be assassinated in four days,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Say more,” said Peggy. She didn’t seem too fazed.
Peter cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “Well,” he began. “John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s going to be arriving in Dallas this week. On November 22, he is going to be driving in a poorly-planned motorcade through the streets of Dallas. He will be with his wife, and with the Governor. The motorcade will make a sharp turn. This turn will slow the car down, allowing a sniper in a nearby textbook shop to shoot him and the governor three times. The last shot will kill the President. The man who will kill him is named Lee Harvey Oswald.” Peter sat back with a sigh. “I think,” he added.
Peggy let out a very slow sigh. Howard was sitting bolt-upright in his chair. He was gripping the armrests very tightly, as if the room might begin to tilt and send him flying.
“That was very detailed,” said Peggy professionally. “How do we know we can trust you?”
“You don’t,” replied Maggie. She sat back in her chair. “But if you don't trust us, the President’s life is at stake.”
Peggy set down the gun and ran her hand over hair. Her face was set in a practiced and blank expression. She was entirely inscrutable. “Assuming that this information is correct,” she began, and then stopped very rigidly. She was staring at a spot just to the right of Peter, somewhere on the floor. “Assuming that this information is correct,” she began again, slower this time, “we will have to act on it. Any threat to the President’s life is pressing.”
Howard looked over at Peggy very quickly. “How are we gonna do this? I’m not a government agent, and SHIELD needs reasonable grounds to act upon. This threat is, er, untrustworthy .”
Peggy started back to life very hurriedly. “A threat is a threat, Howard. We can’t just do nothing at all. That’d be treasonous.”
“Fine,” said Howard. He looked at Maggie. “I suppose we’ve got four days, then.”
“Yes we have,” agreed Maggie, and she added a bit more cream to her tea and took a sip.