MEMORIES OF RIVER
PART ONE
CHAPTER TWO

A STROKE OF CONSCIOUSNESS was the final thing to shock his stunned body after having endured a decade of inundation beneath the ice. But before he could open his eyes, his breath was yet to lapse into the void space of his shivering lungs and before he could even breathe, his blood was yet to flow through the freezing linings of his veins and his heart was yet to jerk off the accumulated ice with a thundering beat- only then would his body finally ignite with life.

Consequently from being thawed, small specks of snow had nestled contently along the rim of his thick eyelashes and a small bite of frost grazed onto the edges of his lips. His sharply protruding cheekbones also bared witness to tinges of discoloured skin, a myriad of purple welts which also speckled down to his bare neck. His stiffened hair was slowly beginning to fray down onto his face, loose strands lightly cascading onto his forehead and disarraying the focus from a variety of small scabbing cuts that were sketched above his eyebrows.

A large woollen blanket was tucked across his figure with his thick leather uniform having been placed neatly on a wooden chair beside him. He lay in makeshift clothes; a brown overhung t-shirt and loose bottoms that had been thatched together with particular skill. His features, and unsightly clothes, were now gently lit by the crackling fire across the room. The edges of his facial structure became evident as suddenly, a throbbing pulse flowed through the blood of his left hand which revoked the smallest twitch. It carried on, his fingers remaining unsettled as they regained their touch for a few moments before the dog realised.

Restless in acknowledgement of this, the large dog sitting in the corner of the cabin rose to his feet with a small limp at the window of opportunity and grabbed the wet flannel on the table. Having acknowledged his twitching limbs, he sat beside the defrosting man's bedside and placed the wet flannel on his hand as his human had told him to do. In response, the blonde man's eyes jolted open and he quietly blurted out, "feet . . ." Steve instantly furrowing his eyebrows at his own exclamation but his lips continuing without consent, "I'd hate to step on your feet . . ."

The dog barked in response, causing Steve to immediately jolt and stumble to sit up on the bed but he felt his wrist jerk, pulling him back to the restraint on the bed around his wrist. Disoriented and breathing heavy, he sharply turned to a large, white, wolf-like dog whose tail began to vigorously wag as he stared at it with wide eyes, absentmindedly tugging at his wrist to try and break it off but his weakened strength not availing him.

The dog seemed excited with Steve's consciousness but Steve knew from experience that not all dogs are as welcoming as they appear - a lesson thirteen and twelve year old Bucky and Steve learnt when they tried to pet the butcher Peter's seven year old Shih Tzu on Vermont Place. That and the considerable fact he was stuck to the bed, a restraint tied from his wrist to the wooden framing of the bed.

He fumbled with his thoughts for a moment, his mind racing as he tugged at his wrists more forcefully. The dog's tail began to wag more vigorously, catching his eye as he instinctively began to yank harder, knowing his strength would eventually break it. However, the girl in the corner furrowed her eyebrows and rose to her feet despite his inability to have detected her. She crossed her arms in curiosity and tilted her head; she hadn't expected him to be so swift in his movements especially considering he'd been asleep for seventy years.

"I'll ask kindly and once only, stop trying to break the bed."

Steve's eyes darted across the room, his heart palpitating at the feminine voice before he landed on a figure standing near a wooden table. Her features were hard to detect but he could make out her sharp body which was tattered in scars and blood, and her bronzed-brown hair which cascaded a little down her forearm. From the dim light, he could see her stern hazel eyes, beneath her arched brows, which were piercing into him in exchange.

He considered his words as he paused in his efforts, acknowledging her very knowing demeanour. She seemed firm in her place, her head tilted in his direction as though she was intrigued but her stern expression surpassing the invitation for chit chat. What did she want with him? He cleared his throat at the thought, "why have you restrained me?"

With her head still tilted, she responded, "with all due respect I'm not sure I can trust you yet, Captain," her eyes studying every inch of his face as though she was searching for the smallest reaction or sign of evidence in his face- what kind of evidence? Steve was clueless.

"Who are you?" he instantly fired back.

"I'm the girl who pulled you from the ice," she confirmed firmly without a moments hesitation, un-tilting her head as Steve's expression suddenly grew with thought. He wracked his mind, remembering the crash and himself and Peggy arranging a dance the pair knew they'd never see. He suddenly felt a suction of weight inside him, a pang of pain that was instantaneous with the nostalgia.

"You've been asleep for almost seventy years, Captain," she added, regaining his attention as he acknowledged the sound of her leather boots approaching and her features becoming more evident in the light as she stepped closer, "if I had not discovered you, you'd still be frozen. That is your reason to trust me, now give me a reason to trust you."

Steve paused, his breath almost hitching in his throat as she stopped in front of him, her features fully visible as he stared up at her. She was absolutely stunning even despite being covered in scars- but also excessively cynical, which instantly snapped Steve from his gaze of admiring the brunette and into the concept of her pessimistic attitude which Steve detested, "that is not how trust works."

She released a throaty half-effort laugh which was oddly attractive and then chortled a response, "welcome to the twenty first century, Rogers. Trust is gained, no longer given," before turning on her heel, heading towards the wooden table whilst the dog followed her, its tail high in the air.

Steve's lips suddenly parted, "twenty first century?" he spoke mostly to himself, every word feeling like it was cutting his tongue inch by inch.

"As I said, you've been asleep for seventy years," she repeated, grabbing a bowl and dragging a chair to Steve's bedside. She plopped the chair down and spun it back to front, sitting in an abnormal fashion to what Steve knew and sitting down on it. She then handed the bowl out to Steve, watching his curiosity shift from her odd sitting style to the bowl of soup.

"Eat," she commanded.

He stared at her, subtly protesting but still being too good at heart to outwardly be rude to her. Her eyebrows then furrowed in confusion as he gradually became more so distracted by the sheer uniqueness of her features than his silent protest. She had a cut vertically etched to the left of her bottom lip and her right eyebrow bore a scar through its arch, all evident signs this girl had been through the run of the mill.

"Eat," came the sharp descent to Earth that Steve needed, his instincts running away with him as she suddenly climbed up from the seat, placing the bowl within his reach on the bedside table. He glanced at it, secretly thankful for the effort but still too stubborn to immediately dig in to the bowl, and instead simply glancing back at her as she walked towards the myriad of books that were spread open across the table.

He studied her, watching as stray strands of her hair cascaded onto her face, somewhat blocking her view but she seemed to not be phased whilst Atlas laid beside her feet. She leant across the table slightly, arching her body before her eyebrows suddenly furrowed, feeling Steve's stare on her. She instinctively casted a glance back at Steve who was in return staring back but then his eyes immediately resorted to the books on the table.

"How did I survive the crash?"

River glanced at him, her expression softening for the smallest moment before her sternness arrived once more. She stood up straight, tightening her hair in its ponytail and cleared her throat before emotionlessly stating, "you were in a state of suspended animation or more scientifically put; cryogenic freezing."

Steve glanced back at her, his eyebrows furrowed, "what?"

River detained the urge to sigh, "your body was perfectly preserved and able to be revived," she explained in a less complicated manner, "I believe the serum my Great Grandfather injected into you completely reformed your cells, meaning they don't react and get as easily damaged as human cells."

Steve almost choked, shooting up on the bed instinctively which startled Atlas to look up, "your Great Grandfa-"

"Was Abraham Erskine, yes," she breathed, glancing at Steve's shocked expression, "I suppose your shock is entirely expected as you did, after all, sleep through a large majority of the family tree."