[Personal Log] The Return
Nov. 1st, 2014 12:46 amIt had happened in an instant.
He was arguing with Q, demanding answers, demanding clemency, angry and concerned over his missing teammates, frustrated with being kept on the ship against his will. All he did was move to his room to grab his duffel, and then there was a high-pitched chime and a flash of light and suddenly he was kneeling in a parking garage.
The parking garage, below headquarters at the Triskelion.
Exactly where he had been when the Enterprise first picked him up.
He stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and stared at the world around him for one very long minute.
---
The first thing he does is dig out his smartphone and turn it on. The display reads 12% battery (not bad for going to the end of the universe and back), the time and date (exactly the day he left, give or take a few hours), and 14 missed calls. Only 14 missed calls? It's no trick, then; Q sent him back exactly as he said he would.
The first message is from Barton. No space flu, no alien babies bursting out of my stomach yet. Psychological warfare? Call me. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. The next two are from Commander Hill, and there's another from Director Fury himself. They want to know what's going on.
The three that follow are from Nat, and all vary on a similar theme, though with more obvious restraint in her voice. She's on the verge of panicking, and he can tell.
A tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding uncoils from his shoulders.
He calls his supervising officers as soon as the last message ends. He had been on his way to see Director Fury, and if he hasn't missed his meeting entirely he at least owes the man a briefing. That goes about as well as expected, with strict instructions to get inside immediately. Steve loiters in the parking garage for five more minutes instead.
There's protocol, and then there's looking out for one's team.
He dials Natasha's number.
---
The battery of tests at S.H.I.E.L.D. stretch on for three days. Hill and Fury had already been briefed by both Clint and Natasha. Natasha had even been surprisingly candid about everything that happened.
Steve was less so.
He believes you have to work with the system, be trustworthy, loyal, a team player -- to a point. He doesn't always trust Fury, and he has been prodded by enough men with clipboards to know that if the wrong thing comes out of his mouth, he could be sitting in a clean room for months. He can't do his job from inside S.H.I.E.L.D., so he tells them what they need to know and reserves the rest.
---
He steps out of his own shower and fumbles around for a towel.
It's 6:15, five days after coming home.
Usually he waits until after his morning run to clean up, but evals at S.H.I.E.L.D. ran late the night before, and all he wanted to do when he got home was get some sleep. He pulls a carton of juice out of his own refrigerator (sitting next to a Tupperware with one of Natasha's chocolate cupcakes he's been saving), pours it into his own glass, and changes into his own jogging pants.
The sunrise looks wrong as it slats through the blinds.
Like the world is tilted .5 degrees to the left.
His world.
(His world?)
---
Routine is good, comfortable, reaffirming. That's what they tell him, anyway. He starts wondering if everything he experienced really was some sort of illusion, if the shared experience with Natasha was just a trick of the mind. This is reality, and there is nothing to indicate it will be changing anytime soon.
But Steve surprises himself. He starts longing for time on the ship, with Bucky, with Peggy, conversations with Captain Hunt, and Genesis.
Nat always did want him to make connections.
Making them on a spaceship probably wasn't what she had in mind.
---
On the sixth day, he sees him.
---
He's been running surveillance for the last twelve days.
The subject seems fairly routinized, which doesn't come as a surprise. He hasn't tried to engage, but Steve still keeps his senses alert, watching for any hints of deception. A mark he can deal with; in and out, clean, quick, and easy. The spy stuff has never been his strong suit.
He doesn't even feel comfortable referring to him as "the subject."
---
He wonders, absently, if his fascination seems unusual to any passersby.
It's not stalking. It's recon.
---
On day twenty-one, he finally engages.
The pavement thuds firm and motionless and easy underfoot, not like the hum of a ship's corridors, not with the uncertainty of perpetual motion. It's crisp, and since it's April the breeze is just slightly sweet. The sun is eking just over the National Mall when he speaks.
"On your left."
His smirk is caught only by the glistering water as he runs past.
He was arguing with Q, demanding answers, demanding clemency, angry and concerned over his missing teammates, frustrated with being kept on the ship against his will. All he did was move to his room to grab his duffel, and then there was a high-pitched chime and a flash of light and suddenly he was kneeling in a parking garage.
The parking garage, below headquarters at the Triskelion.
Exactly where he had been when the Enterprise first picked him up.
He stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and stared at the world around him for one very long minute.
---
The first thing he does is dig out his smartphone and turn it on. The display reads 12% battery (not bad for going to the end of the universe and back), the time and date (exactly the day he left, give or take a few hours), and 14 missed calls. Only 14 missed calls? It's no trick, then; Q sent him back exactly as he said he would.
The first message is from Barton. No space flu, no alien babies bursting out of my stomach yet. Psychological warfare? Call me. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. The next two are from Commander Hill, and there's another from Director Fury himself. They want to know what's going on.
The three that follow are from Nat, and all vary on a similar theme, though with more obvious restraint in her voice. She's on the verge of panicking, and he can tell.
A tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding uncoils from his shoulders.
He calls his supervising officers as soon as the last message ends. He had been on his way to see Director Fury, and if he hasn't missed his meeting entirely he at least owes the man a briefing. That goes about as well as expected, with strict instructions to get inside immediately. Steve loiters in the parking garage for five more minutes instead.
There's protocol, and then there's looking out for one's team.
He dials Natasha's number.
---
The battery of tests at S.H.I.E.L.D. stretch on for three days. Hill and Fury had already been briefed by both Clint and Natasha. Natasha had even been surprisingly candid about everything that happened.
Steve was less so.
He believes you have to work with the system, be trustworthy, loyal, a team player -- to a point. He doesn't always trust Fury, and he has been prodded by enough men with clipboards to know that if the wrong thing comes out of his mouth, he could be sitting in a clean room for months. He can't do his job from inside S.H.I.E.L.D., so he tells them what they need to know and reserves the rest.
---
He steps out of his own shower and fumbles around for a towel.
It's 6:15, five days after coming home.
Usually he waits until after his morning run to clean up, but evals at S.H.I.E.L.D. ran late the night before, and all he wanted to do when he got home was get some sleep. He pulls a carton of juice out of his own refrigerator (sitting next to a Tupperware with one of Natasha's chocolate cupcakes he's been saving), pours it into his own glass, and changes into his own jogging pants.
The sunrise looks wrong as it slats through the blinds.
Like the world is tilted .5 degrees to the left.
His world.
(His world?)
---
Routine is good, comfortable, reaffirming. That's what they tell him, anyway. He starts wondering if everything he experienced really was some sort of illusion, if the shared experience with Natasha was just a trick of the mind. This is reality, and there is nothing to indicate it will be changing anytime soon.
But Steve surprises himself. He starts longing for time on the ship, with Bucky, with Peggy, conversations with Captain Hunt, and Genesis.
Nat always did want him to make connections.
Making them on a spaceship probably wasn't what she had in mind.
---
On the sixth day, he sees him.
---
He's been running surveillance for the last twelve days.
The subject seems fairly routinized, which doesn't come as a surprise. He hasn't tried to engage, but Steve still keeps his senses alert, watching for any hints of deception. A mark he can deal with; in and out, clean, quick, and easy. The spy stuff has never been his strong suit.
He doesn't even feel comfortable referring to him as "the subject."
---
He wonders, absently, if his fascination seems unusual to any passersby.
It's not stalking. It's recon.
---
On day twenty-one, he finally engages.
The pavement thuds firm and motionless and easy underfoot, not like the hum of a ship's corridors, not with the uncertainty of perpetual motion. It's crisp, and since it's April the breeze is just slightly sweet. The sun is eking just over the National Mall when he speaks.
"On your left."
His smirk is caught only by the glistering water as he runs past.
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