Chapter Text
~*~
It was mid-afternoon by the time Steve Rogers drove into Beacon Hills, legs stiff from hours on the road and shirt sticking to his skin. He took it slow on the highway into town to admire the beautiful forest surrounding the county, but eventually the midsummer heat became too much for him. He pulled into a small business-looking district, driving through the outer edges of the town until he’d at least given a cursory-glance at all the motels the town had to offer. He wanted to know where to go later tonight.
For now, he found a dive bar to hole up in through the midafternoon heat.
He parked his bike in the barebones shade of a wilting tree, breathing in a sigh of relief as he adjusted the shoulder straps of his backpack for the first time in over a hundred miles.
The bar wasn’t completely empty, but it was empty enough that Steve had no problem ordering a dark beer and some garlic fries as he curled in on himself at a table in a shadowy corner of the bar, keeping the bill of his hat low enough to obscure his face without making it too obvious he was trying to hide.
Half the other patrons were also on their own, most reading something on a smart phone, though there were a few pairs of friends quietly chatting as well. It was the slow hour after lunch but before people got off of work, and Steve made a mental note to leave once rush hour started.
He waited until the beer and fries arrived before pulling out his tablet. A password, a number code, and a finger print scan, and he was in, yet again perusing the files on Beacon Hills.
For a small town where nothing happened, a lot sure seemed to happen. It had a long history of unusual crimes and bizarre animal attacks, enough that SHIELD had the town on its radar - even after the deaths of a family full of people who SHIELD suspected of being not quite human.
Steve read through the speculation that perhaps certain myths in human history came from a grain of truth. That maybe humans weren’t the only intelligent or humanoid species on Earth. That maybe various terrorist groups through modern history - dating all the way back to HYDRA - were on to something when they investigated mythology to see where it ran right into history.
One would think humanity would have learned its lesson after the Tesseract.
Still, Steve wasn’t here to investigate. SHIELD didn’t even know he was here, and if they did, Tony and Fury were running interference at his request. Nothing short of a life or death emergency would call Steve back to work.
He was kind of regretting that, right now.
With a frown, he flicked his way through various files and folders, meticulously organized the way he liked it after weeks of work, until he came to civilian background checks.
It had been the only way to learn what had come of his friends - his friends, and the closest thing to family he’d ever had after his own parents died.
Since Bucky had been Steve’s next of kin, both their survivor’s benefits had gone to the Barnes family. The Barnes ladies, really, since Bucky’s own father had died in an accident on an army base years before the war even started. Mrs. Barnes had lived long enough to see all of Bucky’s sisters to adulthood, a nurse and a teacher and a secretary. Unfortunately, Anna died in a car crash, and the shock of losing her only son and youngest daughter seemed to have led to Mrs. Barnes dying of grief. Sarah and Rebecca both married, only for Sarah’s son to die in Vietnam.
War seemed to kill all the Barnes boys.
It was just as well that Rebecca only had one daughter, Claudia, who escaped any kind of violent ending, only to die of some kind of dementia not too long ago.
Steve had missed Bucky’s niece by just a few years.
Hopefully her young boy - the one whose name Steve could not for the life of him pronounce - would escape the life of war and suffering that seemed to hang over the family like some kind of curse.
Bucky’s only family left - Steve’s only family left - was a teenage boy in Beacon Hills, Bucky’s grand-nephew. There wasn’t much about him. Diagnosed with some kind of attention disorder as a child, but he seemed to get good grades all the same. He had a ‘Facebook’, which didn’t tell Steve much other than the fact no one else could pronounce his name, either, if the nickname was anything to go by.
He was about to start the tenth grade, his sophomore year. Steve barely remembered being fifteen, himself - it felt like so long ago. The kid’s Facebook was full of pictures and posts about him and a friend planning to spend the fall training up so they could make the school’s lacrosse team come winter try-outs. Seeing the picture of two teenagers slurping at smoothies while making faces at a camera - or, in all likelihood, camera-phone, because that was a thing in the twenty-first century…
It just made him miss Bucky, and made him realize how much he couldn’t back down from this, now.
There was nothing in these files to help Steve, nor anything online. Nothing that could tell Steve how he should go up to the last hanging thread of Bucky’s family and introduce himself and…what? There was nothing Steve could give them, nothing to be gained, and would probably just open up some scarred-old wounds to boot.
But Steve couldn’t just forget about him, either.
With a frustrated grunt, Steve shut everything down and off, stuffing the tablet away as he quickly finished the last dregs of his drink and the few fries left. He paid in cash, telling the waitress to keep the change as a tip, and quickly left just as the first of the after-work crowd started pulling into the parking lot.
It took a while to get around town. Steve tried to tell himself he was just enjoying the view, but he knew he was lying to himself.
He was a damn coward.
Eventually, though, he made himself pull up to modest house in a nice part of town, parking his bike carefully and sitting on it for a moment as he glanced at the old but cared-for SUV sitting in the driveway.
“C’mon, punk,” he muttered to himself. Finally, he unhooked the helmet - originally bought for state law compliance and surprisingly useful in hiding in plain sight. He locked it to the bike, shouldered his bag, and pushed himself up the little walkway to the front door, slowing as he heard the sounds of a movie playing inside.
Some part of him still had trouble getting over the fact most people in America had televisions, now, that movies weren’t just something you went out to see, but also entertainment to enjoy at home.
Steve took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
“Stiles!” he heard a man shouting from inside.
“Got it!” a young boy’s voice answered.
The sounds of the movie suddenly stopped, and a moment later the door opened, revealing a lanky teenage boy in long shorts and a tee-shirt, with short brown hair and Rebecca’s eyes.
“Yes?” the boy asked.
“Um…are you…” Steve swallowed. “Are you, uh, Stiles Stilinski?”
The boy’s eyes immediately narrowed, and even if he had Rebecca’s eyes, that was Bucky’s scrutiny staring Steve back in the face.
God, barely a minute in and Steve felt like he was drowning in memory.
“Who wants to know?” the boy asked.
“Stiles?” the man’s voice from earlier called out. “Who is it?”
A moment later, a man in jeans and a loose shirt appeared behind the boy, expression equally wary. “Can we help you?” the man asked - the boy’s father, and Beacon Hills’ town Sheriff.
Steve swallowed, every single line and plan going out the window.
He’d been spending over a month mentally planning for and dreading this moment, and now that he was finally here, it was like he was shriveled and socially awkward all over again.
He never felt so tiny since he’d become so large.
Before he could try to come up with something, the boy’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in shock as recognition filled his eyes. His entire stance grew straighter, and he pointed dumbly at Steve’s face as he said, “You’re- no, no way, why-”
“My name is Steve Rogers,” Steve said finally. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about-”
“You’re Captain America!” the boy shouted in disbelief.
Steve smiled and nodded sheepishly. He glanced at the sheriff, whose eyebrows were also going up as he looked Steve over, and then looked back at the boy.
“Yeah, I…I am. The original one,” Steve added, focusing on the boy. “Your grand-uncle…Bucky Barnes was my best friend growing up, and his family practically adopted me when my own died. I…I always planned to come back to his family, even after he died. When I…woke up, a few months ago, I looked for his family. And that’s…well, you.”
Stiles’ mouth opened and closed as he gaped in shock.
The silence was so awkward, Steve was one step away from apologizing for taking their time and leaving, before Mr. Stilinski sighed and said, “Come on in, then.”
Mr. Stilinski had to nudge the boy’s shoulder to get him to step back, but after a moment he shook his head and moved, still gaping at Steve as he stepped into the household and, seeing a rack on the floor, toed off his shoes.
“I apologize for dropping in like this,” Steve said, trying to loosen his grip on his bag. “But I didn’t really know how else to do this.”
“Where’s your shield?” the boy blurted out.
Mr. Stilinski’s expression abruptly shifted from wary to exasperated as scolded, “Stiles!”
Steve smiled softly at the sheepish look on Stiles’ face. The innocent curiosity of excited kids was a lot less grating than the probing of adults.
“Kind of hard to carry without drawing attention, so it’s at Stark Tower while I’m traveling.”
Stiles led Steve into the living room, gesturing towards the couch. On the table, there was a half-empty bottle of beer and a glass of what looked like lemonade, and a bowl of chips and a pillow on the floor. Stiles darted over the television to switch it off. Steve caught a glimpse of a rugged man in a fedora before the screen went black. It was a bit flat - though not as flat as a lot of TVs were that Steve had been seeing, so likely a little older - and it sat like a silent, black hole on top of a little cabinet in the corner.
The boy stood up, then glanced awkwardly around himself and at Steve. He glanced over Steve’s shoulder at - presumably - the sheriff, and that seemed to help him a little.
“Um, do you want a drink or something?” he asked. “We have water - but, uh, everyone has water, I guess - and we have orange juice and pomegranate juice and some lemonade and Coke and I think we might have a Sprite or two but I would have to double check, and we can probably make, like, coffee and stuff-“
“The man can’t tell you what he wants if you don’t let him,” Mr. Stilinski chided.
“I’m fine,” Steve said, not bothering to hide his small smile. At least he wasn’t the only awkward one here. Stiles reminded Steve of Bucky, before he really got a grasp of the family’s signature charm. “I don’t want to cause too much trouble or anything.”
“Um, dude, pouring out drink isn’t exactly trouble,” Stiles said, looking at Steve like he was slightly dim.
Rebecca used to do that all the time.
“Stiles…” Mr. Stilinski said warningly.
Steve chuckled. “True, but I try to be polite.” He swallowed. “Seems a little late for coffee or soda, I don’t know if you just have lemonade or orange juice or if you would have to pour it out of something, and I’ve never even had pomegranate juice, so…water is always the safest bet.”
Stiles smiled. “Pomegranate juice it is, since you’ve never tried it.”
“Stiles!” Mr. Stilinski said, sounding so long-suffering Steve couldn’t help but laugh.
“It’s fine, sir,” Steve said, turning to look over his shoulder at Mr. Stilinski. “I can’t knock something until I’ve tried it.”
“I’ll bring some water in case you don’t like it,” Stiles said, slipping around the couch and disappearing into the kitchen.
Then it was just the two adult men in the living room, the only sound coming from Stiles rummaging around in the kitchen.
After a moment, the boy’s father sighed and came around the couch, dropping into a sofa and picking up the beer.
“I suppose you’ve probably heard this before,” he said. “But thank you. For New York.”
“No thanks needed, sir,” Steve said, trying not to wince as he slipped into his pre-prepared response. “Anyone else in my position would’ve done the same, and all of us there did our part.”
Mr. Stilinski smirked. “That the party line?”
Steve almost went into press mode again, but then remembered this man was…well, he wasn’t the press, that was for sure.
“Sort of,” Steve said. “I got one hell of a briefing on how modern media works, and…prepared lines seemed like the best option.” He shrugged. “I’m used to it. Did it for the Army, too.”
“I’ll bet,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “Given how hard they come down on us for talking outside party lines today, I imagine it would’ve been even worse during the war.”
Steve blinked in surprise. “You served?”
He nodded. “Not long - just a few years after college. Couldn’t find a job at the time, and Stiles’ mother still had to finish school, so I enlisted to tide me over.” He snorted. “And while a lot of people slip through the cracks, the Army is just as big on presenting a united front during peace time as they were during war. Luckily, they support a policy of soldiers not talking to the press at all if they can help it.”
“Wish I had that,” Steve said softly. “Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
Stiles came back in carrying two cups, one of a pinkish-red drink and the other of clear water with ice in it. He handed Steve the juice while setting down the water on the coffee table.
Steve took a sip of the pomegranate juice as Stiles dropped onto the other end of the couch, and hummed in appreciation. “Not bad,” he said, taking another sip to prove his point. And it wasn’t. Steve wasn’t sure if he actively liked it, yet, but he didn’t dislike it, either. More importantly, though, it was nothing he’d ever had to drink before the war and didn’t bring up memories of what it wasn’t or how it was supposed to taste.
That was a pretty big point in its favor.
Stiles grinned. “It’s healthy, too!”
“Thank you,” Steve said, and took another sip because there wasn’t much else to do, now.
He wasn’t even sure what he came here for, let alone what he could or would ask of them.
Thankfully, though, Stiles was willing to fill the silence, saying, “So what do you do when you’re not fighting aliens?”
Mr. Stilinski looked up at the ceiling like he was praying for strength.
“Not much,” Steve said, trying not to laugh at the expression on Mr. Stilinski’s face. “They…they found me in the ice less than half a year ago. I spent the first few months recovering, trying to catch up on all the history I’ve missed and…training, honestly. Wasn’t sure what else to do. Then the Battle of New York happened, and since then I’ve just been traveling around the country…seeing things.”
“Anything cool?” Stiles asked, leaning forward excitedly.
“Well, I got to see the Grand Canyon-”
“I did a report on it once!” the boy said eagerly. “For geography in fifth grade.”
“Don’t interrupt him, Stiles,” Mr. Stilinski said. He sounded like he didn’t expect the admonishment to stick at all.
The boy pouted anyway, contrite. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” Steve said. “It reminds me of your grandmother.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Steve said with a fond nod. “She always had something to say and was excited to say it. Bucky was always trying to get her to calm down…it never worked, though.”
Stiles grinned again, sheepish and shy but a little smug, too. “Cool.”
“Grand Canyon?” Mr. Stilinski offered, a bemused smile on his face as he apparently tried to help Steve.
Steve hesitantly launched into the story of how he and Bucky had always planned to go see the Grand Canyon when they were kids, and how Steve had gone now in his memory. He’d camped and hiked there a bit, sketched a fair amount and even started to get back into colored pencils while there.
That somehow devolved into talking about Steve’s drawing skills in general, his brief career in comics he’d just been starting before the war hit, how he’d done posters and pamphlets before Project Rebirth. It careened into a lot of talk about comic books in general, Stiles even running upstairs to grab some of his own to show Steve what they were like today, explaining digital art and how it was sometimes mixed with traditional art via scans and mixed-media.
Before Steve knew it, it was dark out. Mr. Stilinski stood, twisting to crack his back slightly and disappearing into the kitchen with his empty bottle. He came back out a few moments later holding up a stack of worn-and weathered pamphlets and flyers.
“It’s almost dinner,” Mr. Stilinski said. “And you are absolutely welcome to join us, I mean it - but I also warn you that we’re going to have to order in. Been kind of a busy week, so we’re a little behind on the grocery shopping.”
Steve smiled a little wanly. “Sounds good to me, Mr. Stilinski.”
“Please, call me John. Or Sheriff, everyone does.”
“Right, uh, then it sounds good to me, Sheriff,” Steve said. The man smiled approvingly as he dropped the pamphlets on the coffee table, spreading them out. Steve shook his head as he read the names and taglines of the various restaurants. “I still can’t believe this.”
“Believe what?”
He kept his eyes on the rather daunting pile of pamphlets and fliers. God, how did people manage to hold onto so many, so easily?
What if they wanted him to choose?
“When I was a kid, half this stuff was exotic and the other half was unimaginable,” Steve said. “You would’ve had to go to Chinatown for Chinese food, or a really expensive restaurant. And things like Thai or Vietnamese…I never even knew they existed. And now they’re ordinary stuff.”
Stiles looked hesitantly at his father, and Steve winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload-”
“It’s cool,” Stiles said immediately. “Do you want…” He bit his lip. “Do you want something you’re used to, or something new?”
Steve blinked at him in surprise.
“…Captain?” Stiles asked.
“Call me Steve,” he responded. “And…you know, you’re the first person to actually ask me that?”
Both Stilinskis’ eyebrows rose in united incredulity. “Really?” the Sheriff asked.
Steve nodded. “Some people just assume I should be trying new things all the time, no matter what. Most just assume I want to stick to stuff I know.”
“Do you usually want something new or something old?” Stiles asked curiously, forgetting the menus spread out in front of him.
“Depends on my mood, I guess, but…it hasn’t really mattered in a while.” He looked down at all the menus. “I’m…somewhat familiar with Chinese food, but not very. I’m honestly not very sure where to start.”
Stiles dug right through all the menus, brandishing three of them and then discarding one. When Steve was still unsure, he handed them both to his father, who glanced at them and handed just one back, muttering about that ginger chicken thing.
Steve fought down the strong urge to sigh in relief as Stiles handed him the lone menu pamphlet. At least he wouldn’t have to choose a restaurant to order from, and Stiles even started talking about the various options this particular place had, advising Steve to stay away from anything with the beef and that the seafood was usually hit or miss and that most of their noodles were delicious. Steve eventually settled on some chicken and noodle dish. It would probably be nothing like any chicken noodles Steve would’ve ever had, but it was close enough to familiarity that he could breathe easy as he dived into the unknown.
Mr. Stilinski went into the kitchen to call them place the order, and Stiles started stacking up the menus again, shuffling and moving them into some system comprehensible only to himself.
“So,” Stiles said, jerking his head towards the TV as he finished gathering up all the papers. “Wanna watch a movie?”
~*~
Dinner was a thankfully calm and surprisingly enjoyable affair. Despite the fact Steve was a visiting guest, the Stilinskis seemed to realize how awkward trying to sit at a table and eat might be under the current circumstances.
“Eating dinner in the living room while watching something is pretty common, these days,” the Sheriff suggested as he unpacked all the little boxes out of the plastic bag they were delivered in. “Granted, that is incredibly informal, but something tells me you don’t really need formal right now.”
Steve smiled. “I really, really don’t.”
After five minutes of fretting, Stiles finally decided to put on a movie that turned out to be the one the rest of the Avengers wouldn’t shut up about.
“Star Wars is like a cultural icon,” Stiles said, fiddling with the movie player - the DVD player - while the Sheriff plated the food in the kitchen. “Nearly everyone has seen it, and even if you haven’t - like my best friend, which is a serious error I need to correct - then most people usually know like the major characters and some plot points and stuff. There were three movies a few decades ago, which are the really famous ones, and then there was a prequel trilogy a few years ago but those sucked so everyone likes to pretend they just never happened…”
It was surprisingly peaceful, despite the fast-paced action of the movie. Steve and the Sheriff ate in peace while Stiles alternated between shoveling food into his mouth and explaining things in the movie, various references and how he shouldn’t get hung up on the romance of Luke and Leia and how everyone liked Chewbacca and why Steve just had to know that Han Shot First.
Stiles had definitely inherited the Barnes family gift of gab.
By the end of the night, Steve felt the most relaxed he’d been since leaving the Grand Canyon. Mr. Stilinski had let Steve pay for his portion of the meal, so Steve had ordered and eaten enough to satisfy the supersoldier metabolism in one go without feeling guilty. They watched the whole movie through, and only paused to dump the plates in the sink and fetch some more drinks and chips. Stiles put on the second movie in the trilogy, too.
Steve was a contented drowsy by the end of the second movie, and he smiled when Stiles yawned, large and jaw-cracking, and promptly tried to pretend it hadn’t happened.
The Sheriff didn’t let him. “Bed,” he ordered as he sat up from where he’d been slumped over, apparently half-asleep, on the big sofa-chair.
“But it’s summer! And it’s Friday!”
“Which is why you’re staying up late,” the Sheriff said, sounding more amused than anything else. “But you’re still not staying up all night.”
Stiles whined but didn’t put up too much of a fight, instead gathering up the cups and bowls together.
“You know where you’re staying, Steve?” the Sheriff asked.
“I figure I’ll go stay in one of the motels across town,” Steve said, standing up and holding out his hand to the man. “Thank you so much for letting me spend the evening here. It really meant a lot.”
The Sheriff smiled as he shook Steve’s hand. “You going to be in town for a while?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Steve said with a shrug. At the Sheriff’s surprised look, he said, “I’ve just been driving wherever I felt the need to go from New York onwards. I hit the west coast a little faster than I expected. I have to be in Los Angeles in about three weeks, but other than that, I don’t really have anything planned out.”
“Which means you might be staying here for a few weeks, right?” Stiles said, looking hopeful.
“Uh…” Steve rattled his brain. “I…might stay here for a week or so,” he hedged.
“Then you can stay here with us!” Stiles declared.
“He can stay where he wants,” Mr. Stilinski said, though he looked oddly proud of Stiles for making his offer. He caught Steve’s expression and added, “I’m not just making this offer to be polite. We have a guest room, and it’s nothing fancy, but it’s free and probably more comfortable than any of the motels around town.
Steve thought of all the places he’d been staying, when he wasn’t just camping out under the stars. All the cheap motels and fancy hotels and bed after bed after bed that didn’t feel like home.
“Thank you,” Steve said, shy but earnest.
“You won’t be thanking me when this one wakes you up in the morning crashing around the bathroom,” the Sheriff said sardonically, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at his indignant son. “But until then, you’re welcome.”
Steve laughed, unforced and making his cheeks ache as he followed the boy up the stairs.
This wasn’t his home, but it was a home, and that made all the difference.
~*~
A lot more of a difference than Steve expected, in fact.
Steve woke up only once in the middle of the night, jerking awake with little more than a harsh breath and a half-sob, quiet in the pre-dawn chill. He played around with his phone some, grateful that he didn’t wake up either of the Stilinskis, and against all his expectations…
He actually fell back asleep just as the sun started to peek over the horizon.
He fell asleep, and he didn’t wake again until almost noon. He actually stared at the time on the phone, then checked his watch, unable to believe the time.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, he got dressed, brushed his teeth, and made his way downstairs. Stiles was nowhere to be seen, but the Sheriff was sitting on the sofa, a small stack of magazines by his side.
Time Magazine was still at least somewhat familiar after seventy years, and it was disturbing and relieving in equal measures.
“Morning,” the Sheriff said with an easy smile. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” Steve said, not hiding his surprise. “Best sleep I’ve had in…a while.”
The Sheriff seemed proud of that. “Good to hear. You got any plans for today?”
“Not really,” Steve sad shyly. “I…didn’t really have any plans at all, beyond ‘find my…Bucky’s last living relative’.”
The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at the slip-up, but thankfully didn’t comment. “Stiles and I did some grocery shopping while you were still asleep,” he said, setting aside the magazine and standing up. “I’ll see what I can whip up for you.”
“Thank you,” Steve said earnestly, following the Sheriff into the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway and looked around curiously as the Sheriff opened up some cabinets to peek inside and see what he had.
“Sandwiches sound good?”
Steve nodded, politely offering assistance and taking a seat at the table when the Sheriff declined. While the Sheriff put several sandwiches together, Steve stared at the appliances on the kitchen counter curiously, trying to figure out what they were for.
The Sheriff must’ve seen his confusion, because he followed Steve’s line of sight and said, “That’s a grill.”
“That’s a grill?” Steve asked incredulously.
“A George Foreman grill,” the Sheriff said. “Not as good as the full one outdoors, but when you want grilled food and don’t want the hassle of dealing with the real deal…”
Steve nodded, and then said, “What’s the thing next to it?”
“It’s called a magic bullet, but basically it’s small and really efficient blender,” the Sheriff said. “For making a smoothie or milkshake or whatever.”
“Huh,” Steve said, cocking his head to the side as he studied it. “And next to that…?”
It was a surprisingly enjoyable meal, Steve asking about the different kitchen appliances, which led to a nice half hour spent talking about changes in food in general. The Sheriff was amusingly familiar with health food trends entirely because Stiles kept trying to force them on him, and Steve had plenty of stories about the weird things Tony ate to compare notes. Steve was honestly surprised to find himself smiling through the Sheriff’s rants about all the godawful things Stiles had him trying, but still made a mental note to approach ‘superfoods’ with extreme caution.
But he would probably still approach them, mostly down to Tony and Natasha. They could be…quite determined, when they wanted to be.
Before he even realized it, the Sheriff was checking his watch and saying, “I have to go to a town council meeting soon - why don’t you text Stiles, spend some time with him? Hopefully, you can keep him out of trouble.”
Despite the fact the family relation was through Claudia, Steve couldn’t help but smile at the familiar gruffness in the Sheriff’s voice.
“I used to be the one getting Bucky into trouble,” Steve admitted, pulling out his phone. “But I’ll do my best.”
~*~