Caught
After Clint and Natasha leave for their investigation, Steve paces around the apartment restlessly. His cough has cleared up enough that Bucky is no longer plying him with tea every evening, and walking to work no longer put him on the verge of an asthma attack. He is even feeling well enough to start feeling stir crazy again by the lack of assassination attempts. Grabbing his coat, because he knows that Tony, or worse Natasha, will complain if they catch him outside without it, Steve decides to celebrate his reclaimed health with a walk around the block.
The past few days have been unusually frustrating. Between Bucky, Natasha, Clint, and Tony Steve wonders if it’s possible to be smothered to death. Perhaps that is why the assassin hasn’t struck yet? He’s letting the others do the job for him. He’s so deep in thought, mentally complaining about over protective friends and overly weak lungs that he almost misses the recruitment sign plastered to a street light. He stops and does a double take.
Tony had mentioned that he had joined the army. He considers the sign thoughtfully.
“You don’t join this early,” a voice says behind him. Steve looks over his shoulder as Tony casually strolls up to him wearing a dapper suit. He looks almost out of place in such a poor neighborhood.
“You said it took a few tries. How early did I start trying?”
“Don’t know,” Tony shrugs.
“Then this is going to be my first attempt,” Steve says decisively.
“Can’t you just go home? Try to join up on Natasha’s shift or something,” Tony complains.
“I’m sick of doing nothing, of waiting around feeling useless. I’m doing this,” Steve says.
“Fine, better than you blowing off steam by getting into fights I guess,” Tony says, “just don’t say I didn’t warn you when they reject your scrawny butt.”
Steve glowers at him for a moment before turning back to look at the sign. He commits the address to memory. It’s not that far away. Steve heads off, Tony trailing slightly behind, not even trying to be inconspicuous.
~*~*~*~*~
Thor and Bruce discuss powering the machine, while Steve sketches on the couch with a spare notebook and pencil. He’s putting the final details of Natasha, her hair pinned back in a very smart 1930s style. It’s from one of his new memories. He’s been drawing to keep everything straight in his head and help with the headaches. They’ve been getting worse.
The pencil Steve was using clatters to the floor.
“Thor, he’s seizing,” Bruce shouts. Thor and Bruce rush to Steve’s side bracing him against the couch.
“Doctor!” Thor practically yelps as Steve flickers beneath their hands.
“Dammit, they better not have gotten him shot again.”
The seizure subsides, and Steve blinks back into awareness.
“Captain, what happened?” Thor asks worriedly, keeping a hand on Steve’s shoulder.
“It was trap,” Steve mutters, still half lost in his new memories, “there never was a recruitment center on 3rd Street.”
“I’ll get Natasha on the line,” Bruce says standing up.
“No, there’s no time. They shot Tony and moved me to the other side of town,” Steve says standing up. He shrugs off Thor’s hand. His shield is propped up on the side of the couch. He picks it up, fitting it comfortably on his arm, “You need to send me back.”
“You can’t go back. We already decided, it’s too dangerous. You might erase yourself from time,” Bruce says following him.
“And if I don’t, then I’m definitely going to die.”
Bruce and Steve stare at each other; Bruce with worry, Steve with his legendary stubbornness shining through in full force. Bruce blinks first.
“Thor, power up the machine,” Bruce says quietly.
Thor raises his hammer as thunder begins to rumble.
~*~*~*~*~
“Stupid,” Steve curses to himself. They had gotten careless. The assassin hadn’t made a move in so long, they had gotten sloppy.
Steve had watched Tony go down with a grunt. A pistol to the back of the head had been enough to daze him but not knock him out of the fight completely. A bullet to the back, however had done the trick. Steve had never seen anyone shot before, his own shooting notwithstanding.
There was so much blood. Too much blood. Steve runs, slipping on blood slick concrete. His stomach flips over as he tries to catch his balance. He grabs Tony’s arm to—to what? He certainly can’t carry Tony out of here, but he isn’t going to leave him behind either. He tugs on Tony’s arm.
“Come on. Come on.”
Tony groans and coughs up blood. Steve’s not a doctor, but he knows that it’s a bad sign. Steve barely notices the hand on his arm until it’s too late. The man who shot Tony drags Steve by the arm as if he weighs nothing. Desperate not to leave Tony, and never one to go down without a fight Steve kicks with all his might.
He lands a lucky kick on the man’s kneecap and he grunts, letting Steve go. Steve allows himself a smirk of satisfaction as he runs back to Tony. He only makes it a few feet before a solid blow to the head sends him crashing to the floor. Strong arms surround him, pinning his arms to his side and easily lift him off the ground.
He shouts something in German and a second man appears. He’s a burly man, with dark hair and a scowl.
“Tony!” Steve shouts.
The second man grabs Steve’s legs and together they haul outside and into a waiting car. As the car starts moving Steve briefly considers jumping out, but it would be pointless. The only thing he would succeed in doing is hurting himself and they would merely catch him again. For now, it is better to wait for an opportunity.
Steve monitors the route they take carefully, memorizing everything. He always had a good memory. He could draw whole portraits on memory alone.
They drive to what used to be a bustling street, lined with shops. However, ever since the Depression hit the street has been empty as one shop after another shuttered their windows for good. An old bank sits on the corner. It was one of the first to close. Steve remembers before the depression when it was open. It was a grand building, with marble floors and high windows. He used to go with Ma to cash her paycheck each month. Just walking through those double doors made him feel rich.
Those doors have been closed for years now and a fine coat of dust covers the marble floors. The men drag Steve inside. They bring him to the back of the former bank and tie him to one of the office chairs left behind when the place closed.
The first man has his gun out again, holding it steady at Steve’s head. Steve glares back defiantly.
“You have no idea how eager I am to shoot you,” he says, with a thick German accent, “but first I have a few questions for you.”
Steve doesn’t say anything.
“How did Tony Stark and the other avengers follow me to the past? The machine was designed to only be used once.”
Steve shrugs as best he can, “I don’t know anything about that Mister.”
“What did they tell you about the war?”
Steve doesn’t bother answering.
“You are useless,” The man says, “but at least now you will never be a thorn in our side.”
Maybe if Steve didn’t know how much getting shot hurt he would be able to stare the man in face as he dies, but he does know. He’s intimately familiar with the feel of a bullet smashing through muscle and bone. It might make him a coward, but Steve closes his eyes.