I know I should be grateful to them for all they've done, I know they preserved my life and everything, I know I should owe them that; but I don't belong here, that's clear as day to any man, this isn't my time, hell, this isn't my world, yet here I am, a man out of time, desperate to go back to where he came from.

That's why, day to day, all I do is wander these streets, this relic of the old days, my days, this place that, like me, doesn't fit in today, as if it's been frozen in time, slotted into a place it doesn't belong and never can. To my right is a small line of cars, old fashioned, ancient, "vintage", that's what they call them here, a reminder of the simpler times. Their beauty is modest, yet elegant and though the colours have been faded with time, what lies within hasn't changed since 1944. Across the road is a book shop, petite and inconspicuous, it saddens me that not many like this exist anymore, people don't have as much of a want for books these days, they're far too busy with other things to sit for a while and travel into another world; what I wouldn't give to do that, for real, just one more time. On the corner of the dated, lonely street is a blue box, a police box I think. Sure, I've seen police telephone boxes before, but never have I seen a blue one.

Now I'm a soldier, a captain, at that, so of course I am trained to be constantly on my guard, seeking out things that aren't right and making sure they're safe and pose no threat to the civilians, so of course I want to go and take a look, make sure it's not full of bombs planted by some enemy force or something like that, but I stop myself because I realise that I'm the one that's out of place, I'm the one that doesn't belong, that isn't right. It is possible that in the seventy years I've been gone they've decided to change the colour of police boxes, is it not?

That's when I see him, the man who doesn't fit in this world just as much as I don't, I can feel it, I can see it in the eyes that he tries to hide as he strolls past me, trying a little too hard to do so appropriately for this place, this time; had I been anyone else I wouldn't have noticed this one man, the slight difference in his features, his body language, the way he walks just a little too fast for a normal American citizen out for his regular morning walk; but I'm not anyone else, I am Steve Rogers, I am ninety years old, I am Captain America.

For these reasons, I know something isn't the way it should be, I feel it in the blood that courses through my ancient veins, therefore I am unable to stop myself from following him, from taking in every miniscule detail about his appearance. He's not too tall or too short so as to stand out in a group of people, but just the right height to blend in among a crowd; he wears a tweed jacket with leather elbow pads, a dark red bow tie accompanied with braces to match and everything about him from the way he holds himself to the shiny black shoes on his feet would scream "different" to the average 21st century person, but not here, not to these 21st century people. Because, you see, we're the same, me and him, we're both so obviously out of place, so clearly lost that in a small town we'd be the centre of everyone's attention, but not here, not in this part of New York City where being different is accepted, is the norm, and so we are able to go unnoticed here, able to walk round making ourselves believe that we belong when in our hearts we know we don't, we never can.

Whilst I'm distracted, pondering the uncanny similarities between me and this complete stranger, I continue to absentmindedly creep amongst the shadows behind him, most of me willing him not to notice me, but part of me hoping he will, because I want an explanation from this man, I want to know who he is and why he is here and what it is about him that made me stop and wonder. So I keep a few paces behind him as we stride along the pavement, cut through alleyways, turn around and retrace our steps back to the street we started on and finally end up on the corner where the mysterious blue box stands, all the while I continue to believe that I have eluded him and have gone unseen.

Then he spins around, "Are you following me? Hmm, you are," he tells me, but it's not a question, it's a statement, he's known I've been following him all along, "Why?" he questions suddenly in a strong English accent which only increases my suspicions, and I am also made aware that this man is, indeed, asking me a direct question to which he does not know the answer and he strikes me as one who doesn't like being kept in the dark, yet, still, it isn't an anger-fuelled demand, more an inquisitive pondering.

So, like the trained soldier I am, I answer truthfully when such questions are put to me, "I don't quite know, sir. I apologise if I unnerved you at all I was just, well, curious I suppose. You don't belong here," I retort and, like his had been, it is not a question.

"I see," he begins in the contemplative manner of one who is trying to solve a rather complex riddle, "how is it that you- no, hmm: who areyou? Because I don't think you belong here, either."

For a moment I stare at him in amazement, for in all of the time I've been in this age – thanks to the devotion and attention to detail of those at S.H.I.E.L.D – not one single person has even suspected such a thing, so, of course, I'm immediately impressed by his remarkable powers of deduction. Then, as it had done before, the American soldier within me knows that something is not right, that he's avoided giving me any information about himself, deflected the conversation so that I'm the topic instead, "That's not the matter we're discussing here, sir, I want to know who you are, what in God's name you're doing here and why in the world did you lead me here if you knew I was following you?"

"Ah, I see, you're a soldier, aren't you?" he muses aloud, continuing before I can come out of my shocked state long enough to give him a coherent response, "Not much of a fan of guns, myself, nasty things, cause an awful lot of pain and suffering, quite like me, really… Anyway, yes, soldier, but no ordinary soldier, no, you don't seem like the 21st-century-soldier type, there's something about you that's almost familiar. Remind me, where are we again?"

Again, despite my being dumbfounded I can't help but respond, "New York City, America, sir. But, sir, I don't understand, how do you know I am, I mean I was a soldier?"

"First of all, you keep calling me 'sir' which, by the way, I'd rather you didn't do, but that's the obvious mark of a soldier, although, not usually a 21st century one… Also, the way you walk, very soldier-y, but that's not the point, I know I know you from somewhere, any chance you want to help me out? Who exactly are you?"

As he explained, I hung on his every word, baffled by this strange man and yet, I want to help him, want to decipher the mystery of who he is and why he seems to think he knows me, so I answer him, trusting a man whose name I don't even know, listing off facts about myself and my life, "My name is Steven Rogers, soldier in the American army, I fought in the second world war on the side of Great Britain, trying to restore peace to Europe. I was a sort of, experiment, at the time we wanted to find a way to create a 'Super Soldier' who would help us to win the war and Professor Erskine chose me for the test-run, he believed that I had… desirable qualities that, coupled with the serum, would make me the perfect soldier. So we tried it, on me, and I became, well, this," I tell him, gesturing to myself, "but it didn't quite work out the way he'd planned; after he'd used the serum on me, he was… killed and since then nobody else has been able to replicate the lost 'Super Soldier Serum' so I remain the only one of my kind. Afterwards, I wasn't exactly sent into battle, I was more of a… well, I helped to rally the troops. A captain, yeah, I guess that's sort of what I was, but then I, kinda, er-"

"You wanted to fight? Knew you were the only one who could retrieve the, er, 'tesseract' was it? But there were complications, you crashed the plane, thought you'd died, woke up in a room designed to lure you into a false sense of security when, in reality, you were here, 70 years out of time, Mr. Steve Rogers: Captain America. Brilliant!" he exclaims with the air of an exuberant man who's just unravelled a puzzled that has confounded him for years, grinning from ear to ear he finishes, "I knew I recognised you, you're a living legend, Steve! I'm The Doctor, by the way, and it's very nice to meet you."

For a few moments it's all I can do not to stand there, open-mouthed, gaping at him in wonder. I just hover there silently, wondering how on earth this man can know such classified information, trying to piece together my own puzzle in my mind, but failing miserably, "How? What? Who are you? A doctor? Do you work for S.H.I.E.L.D? Have they sent you here to check up on me? What…?" I trail off, unable to understand who on earth this man must be to know such information, yet seem as though such thing would be an impossibility for him.

"Like I said, I'm The Doctor and you, my friend, are the stuff of fairy tales," he alludes as though he can't possibly tell me any more than he already has done, a mischievous smirk on his youthful face.

"That still doesn't answer my question, none of them, in fact. What are you doing here?" I ask, desperate, now, for the answers he doesn't seem to want to give me.

"Hmm, can I trust you?" he begins, more contemplating to himself than actually asking me a direct question, I don't even think he saw the answering incline of my head before he continuing his story like a little boy who's mom has caught him doing something naughty, "Well, I would say I don't think you'll believe me, but, given your history, I think you will. I am The Doctor – just The Doctor – and I am a Time Lord, I'm old, much older than you are, older than you can possibly imagine. I travel through time and space in this," he lovingly pats the blue police box I'd noticed earlier, a complacent, far off smile playing on his lips, yet his eyes are sad, lonely "I used to travel with two friends of mine, brilliant people, but they left, had lives of their own to live and I carried on, I always carry on, as a friend of mine once said 'The Doctor and his TARDIS, next stop, everywhere'…. You believe me, don't you? I can tell by the look on your face, and of course the fact that you haven't run away screaming, which I'm not complaining about, by the way, I'd rather you didn't do that, doesn't help, my friend's mum did that once, did not end too well," he chuckles, reminiscing, lost in some distant yet familiar memory.

It isn't until he asks me that I realise I do believe him, every word he says I take as gospel because I trust him and, in any case, what would be the point in lying to someone you've only just met on the street? "You're a strange man, even to me, but a liar? No, that I do not believe you are. So, this box is your… what? Space ship?"

He beams at me, leaning towards me so that only I can hear, "You did hear me, didn't you Steve, Stevie Stevie Steve, Steven, good old Rogers? I can travel in space, yes, of course, but I can also travel in time, did you get that part Mr I-died-in-the-forties-and-woke-up-in-the-21st-century?"

It takes me a while to process what he's saying, what he means by what he's saying… "You mean… you can take me back? Back to Peggy? Could you really…? Would you…?"

In answer he turns slightly away from me, slips a hand in his pocket, revealing a small, silver glimmer of hope, slides it cleanly into the lock on the front of the police box and opens the door a crack before slowly, slyly turning his head back to me and saying "Me? Nope, I could never mess with history in such a way, no, not me, no way, sorry," before giving me a swift wink that you'd miss if you blinked and stepping inside his magical machine. Again, he leaves the door slightly open, not so much that it'd be noticeable from afar, but enough to be a subtle invitation to someone who knows it's there.

A minute goes by, possibly two, as I stand there contemplating the idea of seeing Peggy again, my Peggy, fulfilling my promise to her, being with her for the rest of my life and the lure of the mere memory of her voice, scolding me, instructing me not to be late, is too strong, it moves my legs along the pavement, closing the small distance between me and my ticket to the love of my life, taking me inside the thing he calls 'the TARDIS' that appears to have more size on the inside than it eludes to on the outside, spurring me on, "When do we leave?" the impatient question that only now do I realise has been burning within me since I woke up into this nightmare escapes my lips without my consent and hangs there, in the air between me and The Doctor for a little while.

"Whenever you're ready. Where to, then, Cap?" he says, not even feigning reluctance any longer, it's an adventure for him, I see that now, he enjoys this, enjoys the look on people's faces as they step inside his misleading time machine, longs for the happiness that his good-doings will give his companions, wants to make people better, to fix them; I suppose he is a doctor, after all.

It doesn't take me two seconds to process his question, I answer almost immediately, without hesitation - I've always known how I'd answer that question, if ever I was lucky enough to have it put to me, "A week on Saturday after the plane crash, the Stork Club, eight o'clock on the dot, I can't be late," I recite Peggy's words that have stayed with me for over 70 years, clinging to them until the very end.

"Of course, where else would you go?" he smiles an almost adoring smile at me, "You're lucky, you know, to have her, I know it may not seem like it, but you are, to have someone who loves you so much, to be able to love her like she loves you, not many people get that."

"I know, I'm the luckiest man on the god damn planet, I don't deserve her, she's more than I ever could have hoped for," I admit, because it's true, I've never felt good enough for her, I never will.

"What? You're Steve Rogers, you moron! Of course you're good enough for her, do you think she'd want to be with you if you weren't?"

"Tell me, Doctor, do you have a partner? Only then will you understand what I mean when I say I will never be good enough for her, that nobody will," as I say it I see a flicker of something new in his eyes: understanding? Recognition? Hope?

"Steve!" he whines playfully, "Don't be boring, or I might have to drop you off in the 80s and trust me, you're lucky you missed that particular decade, ugh, the discos, the… legwarmers," he dramatizes a shudder, never breaking the smile that stretches his face, he's too giddy to be serious, "Now, if you've finished talking about girls, I have a time machine to fly."

"Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, sir," I automatically recite, my hand even comes up to my head in my familiar salute.

"What did I say about calling me 'sir', Stevie? And definitely no saluting in my TARDIS, thank you very much," he mockingly scolds whilst flitting around his strange machine, flicking switches, twisting buttons, pulling levers.

"Need a hand, there, sir? Sorry, Doctor?" I offer, walking toward him, wondering if there's any way I can help him fly this foreign ship.

"Do you know who you remind me of, Steve? You're like bloody Captain Jack, he was just as soldier-y and 'happy to serve' as you are, I think you'd get along very nicely. Hey, fancy a trip to meet him before I bring you back? No, on second thought, probably a bad idea, you meeting Jack would be a history changer if ever I saw one, you're exactly his type, probably best to keep you two apart, stick to the plan, never know what might happen," he continues to contentedly babble on, running around busily as he does so, but I've stopped listening, his words are finally beginning to register, to make sense.

'I could never mess with history in such a way,'

'a trip'

'stick to the plan,'

'before I bring you back,'

'bring you back'

What does he mean back? Back here? Back to the 21st century? Back to the place I don't belong? Away from my Peggy? Away from any chance of a happy life?

"Cap? Steve? Oi! Captain Steve Rogers! Are you crying? What's wrong?" he asks me, all his playful joking aside, slowly being replaced by worry thick in his voice, he must've noticed my mental absence.

"I, I didn't realise, I mean, I," I can feel the tears now, unconsciously rolling down my face, trying to escape the truth, but I have to know, I can feel my so long dormant anger building up, bubbling beneath the surface, "you're not planning on taking me home, to Peggy, and leaving me there, are you? You're going to take me to see her, give me some time with her, to tell her that we'll never see each other again, and then what? Drag me away from her, force me back into this world that doesn't want me, that I don't want?"

The Doctor seems genuinely hurt as he soaks in my words, my anger, my tone of voice, my tears and says, his voice dripping with anguish and guilt, "I'm so very, very sorry, Steve, I really thought, I thought you knew, I, I just wanted to make you happy, to give you both the chance to see each other one last time, to say goodbye properly, I shouldn't have interfered, you were better off before, I didn't want to, I shouldn't have, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

Time passes – quite how much I can't be sure – but just enough time passes, enough time for me to think, to calm down, to understand why he took me in, why he wants to help me, just how old he really is.

"I forgive you, Doctor, I know you were only trying to do good by me and I'm grateful, really I am. I think, I think I still want to take you up on your offer, I still want you to take me to see her, even if it's only for a little while, if the offer still stands?" I choose my words carefully; I don't want to upset him again, not now that I can see how much pain he's in underneath that easy going, jolly exterior.

"The offer will always stand, Steve, so long as you want it to," he says steadily, looking right at me, speaking slowly and just as carefully as I was, before reverting back to his old self, jumping back to the controls, getting ready to go, "right, do me a favour Steve, see that red lever? Hold that down for me, will you? Don't let go until I tell you to, ok?"

I do as I'm told, grabbing the lever he'd motioned for me to, watching him at work as I do, he twists more switches, presses buttons I hadn't even noticed until then before shouting, "NOW!"

And, just like that, we're flying.

It's not like a plane, not at all, it's like nothing I've ever experienced before; the whoosh in the pit of my stomach as we crash from side to side, the gentle wheezing sound that's background noise to our entire journey, the other constant noises that I can't even put into words; the sound of time travelling by, lives beginning and ending all around us, and then, just like that, it ends.

The Doctor looks at me expectantly, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips when he sees my bewildered expression, I know I should probably say something, but I can't exactly tell him that I feel sick, or that I'm terrified (and it's not entirely the journey that has caused me to feel that way) so, instead, I settle for "Stark would be impressed."

And he replies with a satisfied grin, "Oh, he was," but before I'm able to ask him what the hell he means, he catches me out, "Later, but for now, I think you have a date to be on, wouldn't want to be late, would you?"

He gestures to the double doors that it feels as though I entered for the first time years ago and I follow his gaze, building my courage, shuffling my feet forward one baby step at a time.

My back's to The Doctor as he softly whispers "Good luck," and my hand finds the handle. I twist it anticlockwise, hearing the lock click as I do so; the sound seems to echo in the anticipating silence as I slowly, gradually pull the door open to my home.