General Marks subtly stretched in his chair. It wasn't very often that he issued his staff a late-night summons to the Pentagon. The last anyone could remember convening in the War Room this late—nicknamed the Bored Room, because, really, you'd be both surprised and disappointed to know that determining international strategies were as dull as the windowless walls of the room—was sometime during the Surge. And never was there a buzz of excitement and anticipation like there was tonight.

Uncharacteristically, General Marks wasted no time getting the meeting started. "Major Dowry are you on the line?" Immediately, the muted whispers ceased, as everyone's attention turned to the speakers in the center of the table.

"Yes, sir, reporting to you from the North Atlantic."

Marks' eyes flicked up and around the room, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Well? We're all on the edges of our seats. Tell us—is it him?"

"Sir, I can confirm that it is in fact Captain America. We have recovered him from the bottom of the—" the cheers and clapping drowned out Major Dowry's tired voice.

Marks leaned back in his chair, his broad smile temporarily easing the stress lines across his face. "The Lost Hero is coming home, then. Never thought I'd see the day." He shook his head in bemused wonder before turning to Captain Khayyam. "Arlington is prepared to receive his remains and to place him with the rest of the Commandos?"

Captain Khayyam practically had to shout his affirmation to be heard over the noise of celebration that hadn't quite subsided, so it wasn't much of a surprise that no one heard Major Dowry's "Sir, wait."

Oblivious, Marks continued speaking to Khayyam. "Are they still planning on integrating his shield into the memorial? I never got follow up on the final design—"

"SIR!" Her shout cut through the din.

Eyebrows creasing, Marks returned his attention to Major Dowry's voice. "Sorry about that, Major Dowry, is there more that you had to report?"

"He's not dead, sir." Stunned silence. Exchanged glances spread across the room, the near uniform expressions of shock creating a mirror maze of incredulity. "I don't know how," she continued. "It shouldn't be possible, but when we were thawing him out of the ice he coughed. At first we thought maybe it was just a release of gas but someone checked his pulse and—and he had one. A pulse. He's alive."

An unbearably loud squeak cut through in the silent room as Marks leaned forward in his chair. "Are you telling me that he's part fish? Because there's zero chance anyone can live thousands of feet under the ocean for more than a few seconds let alone over sixty years."

"Sir, if I wasn't looking at him in the med bay as I speak, with an EKG and a saline bag hooked up to him, I would be right with you on that sentiment."

Marks looked around the room sharply. He knew everyone on his staff had proper clearance, but… "Everyone in here has TSCI?" All heads bobbed in north-south agreement. "Good. Clearly this requires a change in plans. We've got a live warrior returning to our ranks instead of a fallen Soldier. Captain Khayyam, you'll call Arlington and tell them the mission was unsuccessful." Despite looking rather shocked, Captain Khayyam nodded. "Major Dowry, what's his condition?"

"As far as the doctors will tell me, sir, he's stable but in a medically induced coma. We, um, thought that it might not be a great idea to have him wake up in an uncontrolled environment."

"I'm going to go ahead and say that's a good call. When do you make port?"

"Weather willing, in two days."

"Two days? Is the medical team prepared to handle him for that long? We can have him airlifted."

"I'm not sure, sir, I'd have to consult the—oh, the doctor just walked in, I'll ask him for an update."

"We'll stay on the line." The silence returned as the line went quiet. Marks huffed loudly, still trying to internalize this latest turn of events.

"Sir, if I may." Marks glanced at Colonel Polonsky, his attention equating to permission. "I would suggest that Major Dowry's team continues to make hourly reports and to have someone posted with Captain America at all hours. We should quarantine the area and minimize the amount of contact he's exposed to. This is going to be a very delicate situation, no matter what our follow-on course of action is going to be, we can't afford to have rumors starting this early in recovery."

"I wholeheartedly agree, Maria. We'll bring it up when Major Dowry returns."

On cue, Major Dowry spoke. "Sir?"

"Yes, you're still connected."

"The medical team is confident in their ability to keep Captain America stable for the rest of the trip. It's not necessary to airlift him, but he's in good enough condition that he could make an air trip if that's what you decide."

"Excellent. What are his security arrangements?"

"I already have a fire watch roster established and we have the ward on lockdown, sir, though you should know that I've seen a SHIELD agent nosing around."

Marks groaned, swiping his hand over his face. "Are they aware that Captain America is alive?"

"Not at the moment, sir, but I can't promise I can keep it that way. They have as much clearance on this ship as I do, so when they see me going into areas they aren't allowed, they'll cotton on that something big has happened."

"I understand. I'm fairly sure we have legal primacy in this case, so keep them out of his area, but try to stay cordial with them. I don't want to upset the President's pet project."

"Will do, sir."

"Thank you, Major Dowry. Please continue to send hourly updates to the distro. If there's nothing else?" Major Dowry responded in a negative. "Then that's all I have for you." Marks blinked a few times after she hung up to center himself before looking around the large table. His staff all seemed to be either on the figurative or literal edge of their seats, and a good number were both. "The floor's open to ideas."

The legal representative, a DA civilian by the name of Andrews, was the first to speak. "Well, it's quite clear that there is literally no precedent for this, but I think the Army still has Captain America under contract. He was presumed KIA, but now that's he's recovered he defaults to MIA status. At a minimum we have the ability to hold him until he's properly debriefed. After that… sir, I have no idea." They winced. "I'm… fairly sure the Army is going to have a couple decades worth of backpay owed to him."

"Well, there goes the budget for better MREs," finance grumbled. There were a few halfhearted chuckles, at least three beleaguered sighs, and a handshake between two individuals that looked suspiciously like an exchange of money. If Marks had to break up another budget betting ring…

Colonel Polonsky nodded. "Alright, we have the legal standing to keep custody of Captain America at least as long as it takes to debrief. We'll also have to formerly outprocess him from the Army, so I'm guessing that we'll have him for a couple months after he's medically recovered for bureaucratic reasons. What kind of damage control needs to be done before we release him?"

"Wait a moment," Colonel Mbanwe said, looking at his peer from across the table. "I feel as though we are skipping a few vital points. We are assuming that Captain America will wish to leave the Army immediately. What if that is not the case? What if he wishes to remain in the Army?"

Colonel Polonsky shrugged. "That's assuming he's in any condition to serve, which I doubt since one, he's nearly a century old, and two, I find it unlikely that someone who fought in WWII will have any of the training necessary to be a competent fighting force in the modern world." She tilted her head. "Actually, that's a third point, he essentially just time traveled. I imagine the mental stress from that alone will take a toll on him. You want to simply throw him back in the fight?"

"I agree with your assessment. The chance that he is both physically and mentally fit after such a unique experience is low. I am sure that his recovery will be long and intensive. Is that not more of a reason to ensure he receives the best medical attention the Army can provide? I feel it would be irresponsible to toss him to a strange and unforgiving world. At least the Army will feel somewhat familiar to him."

Colonel Polonsky snorted. "The Army is hardly unchanged. Hell, this guy isn't going to expect integrated units, let alone women or gay Soldiers. Besides, even after a discharge, there's the VA."

"All the more reason to hold on to him," Colonel Mbanwe argued. "He will experience these social advancements regardless of where he goes in the world. The Army is perhaps the best controlled environment that we can provide, and Captain America deserves the best that we can give him. We cannot guarantee such treatment from the VA."

Marks chose to intervene at that point, before the conversation could devolve into a bitching session about VA coverage. "I appreciate your input, Colonel Mbanwe, but I'm inclined to agree with Colonel Polonsky. It may be overreaching to assume anything about Captain America's condition or desires, but desires alone can't keep anyone in the Army. We'll have to treat him as any other Soldier from that perspective and medically discharge him. I expect he'll receive full retirement and medical benefits?" Andrews nodded without hesitation, always a good sign from legal. "Then we'll ensure that as long as we have him, he'll have best care possible. It's all that we can do." Looking mollified, if not entirely accepting, Colonel Mbanwe nodded.

The Public Affairs Officer was the next to raise a point. "Sir, another consideration is whether we will continue to conceal his identity. Regardless of whether Captain America chooses to continue his service or to retire, his real name has never been declassified. Informing the world that Captain America is alive and well would be… well, frankly, it'd be a nightmare for my job, but ultimately it's up to you."

Marks hummed. "This is an issue that we'll leave to Captain America to determine. I'd like to honor his wishes if he decides that he wants the world to know it was him punching Hitler. I don't think I could keep that historical gold mine of information from the world without a guilty conscience unless he explicitly wanted the anonymity." There were a series of chirps as digital watches marked the passing of the fifth hour. "It's getting late—well, early I suppose. Are there any outstanding issues we should cover?"

"I've got one." Colonel Polosnky said. "Where's he going to go? I mean in a literal sense. He's been effectively dead and Captain America had no surviving family members. Are we going to leave a senior citizen to navigate the modern housing market on his lonesome?"

Andrews perked up. "I think any answer to that question is going to have a heavy basis on his mental state and legal obligations. Once we have those we can move forward. It may end up being he heads straight for a senior home, but it may also be that some interest group would be willing to help secure his retirement."

"So another point that's contingent on Captain America. Look, folks, we'll call another working group after we've had an opportunity to talk to the man himself. There's only so much we can anticipate and I think we have the most salient points covered. Last call for alibis." He looked around the room, but no one speaks up. "That's that then." As one, the meeting room stood to attention and saluted Marks with the usual "Go Army". He returned the salute and reflexively responded with "Beat Navy".

As his staff filed out of the Bored Room, he settled back in his chair. More likely than not, the newly recovered Captain America will want to retire and live his few years left on Earth in relative peace. Lord know that Marks would want the same. On the other hand, he wouldn't put it past SHIELD to cajole or guilt or use whatever means necessary to ensure his participation in some harebrained scheme—like trying to recreate the super soldier serum. No one deserves being harassed by Fury, let alone a WWII vet fresh out of a decades-long sleep. The only way to ensure that Fury can't get his claws into Captain America would be to… He looked up in time to see one of his officers returning to the Bored Room, having left a notebook. "Captain Khayyam! Stay back a moment, will you? Let's go over the details for Captain America's return flight. It's time to bring our Soldier home."

/

Steve opened the door to the bar, anticipation buzzing in his bones. The reaction was instantaneous—a cheer from the patrons and the crush of friends dragging him through the doorway, out from the cold and damp English winter. He couldn't keep track of all the faces, the familiar voices warming him from the inside out, the hands punching him in the shoulder and arms. It was a moment that lasted forever and also not at all long enough—but suddenly there was a beer in his hand and the crowd had disappeared. It was just him… and Peggy.

She wasn't in her cutomary uniform, a floor length dress the color of night draping over her shoulders and spilling over her body in clinging waves that only satin could accomplish. Her hair was as perfectly coifed as always, and her red lipstick seemed even more vibrant than usual. As the butterflies rioted in his stomach, he thought that maybe it was because she was smiling at him.

"You're late, Rogers," Peggy said, reproachful tone at odds with the joyful glint in her eyes.

He ducked his head to hide his blush, looking up from under his lashes as he said "Sorry, ma'am. I had a plane to catch." She held her stern gaze for only another half a breath before Steve suddenly found his arms full of her. Her grip was tight, arms wrapped around his shoulders as much as they could be, and he hugged her back as tight as he dared. A few strands of her hair tickled his nose. She smelled like cinnamon.

"Don't you ever do that again," she whispered fiercely. "I don't care if Hitler himself is on the plane, never ever—"

"I won't," he said over her. "I promise. I won't do that to you."

They continued to cling to each other as he listened to her swallow a few times, until she finally managed a strained "good" and took a step back. Her eyes seemed a little damp, but her grin still managed to dazzle him. "Now, how about that dance?"

Music sprang from a radio he hadn't noticed before on his right as he guided Peggy to the center of the dance floor. He tilted his head as he tried to find the beat in the odd song. "Is this new?"

Peggy shrugged. "They're playing the American station tonight, I'm sure there's all sorts of new, tasteless music for us to listen to." Steve laughed at her teasing before taking up the dancing position he had often seen Bucky use on dames, his left hand holding hers, his right hand high on her waist. That was when he remembered… he had no idea how to dance.

He chuckled nervously, "Uh, they didn't really have time to teach us the waltz between marksmanship and field training."

"Oh, that's quite alright, Steven. Swaying is just fine by me."

So they swayed.

He didn't really notice the songs changing, but the beats did seem to be getting stronger and faster as the night went on. Faster, as Peggy leaned on his chest contentedly. Faster, when she looked up at him with a wicked smirk on her lips. Faster, as she stood on her toes, hands pressing lightly against his chest as she stretched to reach Steve's lips. His breath hitched as she paused, just a hair's breadth away from a real kiss, and he closed his eyes in anticipation.

"Wake up, Steven," she whispered.

His brows drew together in confusion. Her hair didn't smell like cinnamon anymore. It smelled like…

"Wake up."

He opened his eyes. Peggy was gone. In her place was a bare, white ceiling. Not quite committed to waking up if dreaming meant seeing Peggy, he let his head loll to the right. The machines he saw were strange, nothing like the ones his mother used in the flu ward, but he could at least recognize the steady beeping of the heart monitor. There was a small bedside table next to him, with a candle on it. He could read the label: cinnamon. He frowned.

"Good morning. Well, afternoon, I suppose."

Still feeling sluggish, Steve's head turned to his left side, not quite awake enough to do it quickly, the lingering comfort of the dream slowing his reactions. A man was sitting in one of the three chairs in Steve's hospital room. His expression was friendly enough, if a little apprehensive, but he was dressed strangely. Steve's eyes began scanning the room, cataloguing everything. Something was… off. Everything was clean, but it felt wrong. Could there be such a thing as too clean? Too exact?

"How are you feeling?" The man asked. "I can call in one of the nurses if you'd like."

Steve stared at him, belatedly realizing that the man was dressed in a uniform, but not like any of the ones he'd seen in Europe. "Where am I?" He was shocked to hear his voice croak and rasp. The beeping of the heart monitor was increasing, and he definitely felt awake now.

"Walter Reed Hospital."

"Walter Reed? I'm stateside?"

"Maryland, to be exact."

The room was beginning to spin a little, a sensation he hadn't experienced since before the serum. Was he drugged? "What about Europe? I should be in Europe."

The man frowned. "What do you remember?"

Schmidt. Valkyrie. Determination. Then the sensation of freefall, and the crushing, terrorizing cold and then… nothing. Steve frowned. Evidently, he had survived the crash, but he knew that even super soldiers would need time to heal from something like that. And the only reason they would send him to the States instead of back to the front would be because…

"It's over, isn't it? The war?" Steve asked, horrified. "I slept through the end of the war." God, Bucky would never let him live this—oh. Right. Bucky was… Bucky was gone. Steve forcefully turned his attention to the man, ignoring the grief threatening to sweep him away.

"To be frank, you slept through a quite a bit more than that."

Steve blinked, not understanding. How was he supposed to respond to that? He didn't even know this man- oh, right. "Sorry, I'm Captain Steve Rogers. I didn't catch your name?"

"Fair enough. I am General Charles Marks, Army Chief of Staff."

Eyeing the unfamiliar uniform once more, Steve slowly asked: "Chief of whose Army?"

He snorted. "The US." General Marks leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees while making eye contact with him. "I've consulted with at least three different mental health professionals and as usual, they can't agree on what the best way to tell you is so I'm going to give it to you straight. After your successful mission preventing the bombing of Manhattan, you crashed into the Northern Atlantic Ocean. No one could find you, although there have been three military operations and at least a dozen private ventures that tried. Recent technological advancements allowed us to mount a fourth military expedition that was estimated to have a stunning forty percent chance of successfully finding you."

The dread was rising. "The fourth?" He asked weakly. He didn't want to ask how long he was under. He didn't want to know. But… in a way, he already did. The starkly clean room, the strange machines, the unfamiliar uniform. He could think of two possibilities, and he didn't think he had been ushered into a hidden, futuristic nation.

General Marks' expression was sympathetic, but his voice was unyielding. "On March 4, 1945, you crashed into the ocean. Today is the seventeenth of October, 2012. You've been asleep for nearly seventy years."

AN: Been sitting on this idea for a while, decided to just get it out there. I wouldn't expect regular updates, frankly. This is meant to be an organic story that will grow at its own pace, with no grand, overarching plot (I'm already working on a story with one of those and it's a *monster*). I did my best to keep out military jargon, but I don't always succeed, so lemme know if something don't make sense.

Feel free to comment with spelling/grammar suggestions, what you liked, what you didn't like, what you ate for breakfast- I'm honestly just happy to hear from you.