Chapter Text
Steve
Leaving Brooklyn wasn’t easy, but come on, he’d been thinking about this for months. Sure, it was home, and sure, the streets and rooftops were familiar, but how many more sketches of the same brownstone could he possibly make before they all started to look like each other? He pressed his sketchbook to his knee, pencil tapping against the page as the train rattled along. Okay, new scenery, new light… maybe even new inspiration.
He glances out the window as the city blurred into suburbs, then rolling fields. England. Peggy. Half a decade since he’s last seen her. Not since she moved back, not since they’d broken up sensibly and promised to stay friends. Which they have. They talk nearly every day. He smiled. Friends. That’s what this trip is about… and maybe a little more.
The train jolted, making his coffee wobble. He caught it with one hand; sketchbook balanced on the other and laughed at himself. Focus, Rogers. Don’t spill the tea before it even gets cold. Peggy would absolutely kill him for ‘running a perfectly good cup of tea.’
The countryside rolled past, green and misty and entirely unlike Brooklyn. Trees bent with the wind, and somewhere ahead, a river glimmered like a silver ribbon. He leans forward, pencil moving faster now, trying to catch the curve of a hill, the texture of a stone wall. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t in years. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
England was nothing like New York. Just a few hours here and that was for sure. And expected, logically. But knowing something and seeing it, actually seeing it, for yourself are two very different things. Peggy has been begging him for years to visit her, so here he was. Small suitcase by his feet, sat in one of the most uncomfortable seats he had ever sat in. He could feel the pain in his spine that this will cause.
Rolling hills replaced steel towers, mist curled around stone cottages, and the air smelled of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. Steve drew a shaky line to mark the hills, then another to trace the path of a winding river gleaming silver in the morning light. Everything here felt alive in a different way. Soft, slow, inviting curiosity instead of noise.
Getting off the train was almost a welcome sight, as he pulled into the small station everything felt final. A few weeks in England before returning home, with new inspiration and material to paint.
Peggy’s house was a welcome sight: low stone walls, a garden in bloom, and a warm front door that opened to laughter and the smell of tea. “Steve,” she says, grinning as he drops his bag, “you’re just in time. I was afraid you’d get lost among the hedgerows.”
He laughs. “I almost did.” He is grinning now, an expression just two people can draw from him. Sam, his best friend. And Peggy. Hugging her fiercely, he replies “I had to ask for directions like… 10 times.”
Peggy hands him a steaming mug of tea the minute she has ushered him through the door, telling him to put his bags in the spar room, then moving them into the small cosy kitchen. She was currently leaning against the counter. “I’ve marked a few spots on the map for you, lakes, ruins, old manors. All good for sketching. And…” she lowers her voice with mock seriousness, “…keep your eyes open for the haunted manor in the woods. DI know how much you like an adventure so no point warning you off.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “Haunted manor?”
“Locals whisper. Old stories. Nothing to worry about, just… be polite if the ghost asks you for tea.” She raises her eyebrows at this, making it obvious what she believes about the story. Rubbish, as she would say. Yet the premise of something unknown to him, an experience he hasn’t had yet, is mostly what he thinks of as she continues to speak.
Haunted or not, he loved the idea. The unknown always made the brush move faster.
Steve wanders through Peggy’s Garden after tea, letting the warmth of the house trail behind him. Flowers bloom everywhere, riotous colour against the stone walls, and bees hum lazily from blossom to blossom. There’s a slow rhythm here, a pulse that feels… different, somehow. He brushes his hand against the petals of a bright orange marigold and, for a moment, swears it lingers a second longer than it should. He shakes his head. Must be imagining things.
An ancient oak leans over the gravel path, gnarled limbs like hands frozen mid-reach. The bark is rough under his fingers, knotted and lined with years, and yet he catches a glimmer of green that seems almost to glow in the shade. A shiver runs down his spine, quickly dismissed as a breeze. Or perhaps the thrill of being somewhere new.
Steve settles onto the low garden wall, sketchbook open on his knees. The flowers spill around him in a riot of colour. Marigolds, foxgloves, daisies nodding in the soft breeze. He tilts his head, catching the sunlight as it glints off the dew on the petals. Okay, focus, he thinks, tapping the pencil to the page. Just the shapes. The light. Don’t mess it up.
Lines form under his fingers, tracing the curve of a stem, the shadows between blossoms, the lazy flight of a bee. He leans closer, pencil dancing, trying to catch the twist of the ancient oak in the corner, the shimmer of moss along its roots. It’s like the garden’s breathing, he wonders, like it’s alive in a way I’ve never seen back home.
The wind lifts a petal against his hand, soft and startlingly warm. He pauses, pencil hovering. Am I imagining things? Or is this… more than just light and shadow? He shakes his head, smudging graphite across the page. No, just focus. Capture it before it changes.
Every leaf, every petal feels urgent under his gaze, a story he wants to hold on paper before it shifts again. I could sit here forever, he thinks, and still not get it right.
A voice calls from the doorway. “You’re still obsessed with capturing every leaf, aren’t you?” Peggy leans on the frame, arms crossed, a teasing smile on her face.
Steve grins without looking up. “Some of us appreciate the finer details of life!”
Peggy steps closer, peering over his shoulder. “And some of us just like to watch you get lost in your little worlds.” She shakes her head. “I swear, you could spend hours on a single bloom.”
He laughs softly. “Better a single bloom than five hundred city rooftops, right?”
Peggy crouches beside him, resting her elbows on her knees. “True. But don’t forget, there’s a whole countryside out here waiting for you. You might miss the bigger picture if you stay glued to your page.”
Steve shrugs, pencil still poised above the page. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like noticing the small things that make a place feel alive.”
Peggy smiles warmly. “Well, you’re certainly good at it. Even New York couldn’t make you overlook the tiny details. Bet the countryside will be easier on your eyes.”
The wind lifts a petal against his hand, soft and startlingly warm. He shakes his head, smudging graphite across the page. No, just focus. Capture it before it changes.
Every leaf, every petal feels urgent under his gaze, a story he wants to hold on paper before it shifts again. I could sit here forever, he thinks, and still not get it right.
Peggy straightens, brushing imaginary dust from her hands. “Come on, Steve. There’s more to see. The woods behind the old stone wall? Perfect for a painter in need of inspiration.”
After her quick explanation of just what he could see, he has never been more intrigued, remembering her words from earlier.
Steve blinks, excitement creeping into his chest. “Ruins? Hidden corners? That sounds exactly like what I need.” He quickly flips to a fresh page in his sketchbook, jotting down ideas for tomorrow. “Lead me the way, Peggy. Show me what I’m missing.”
She laughs, looping her arm through his. “Careful now. I know I’d be shattered after a whole day of travelling. I’ll show you the way tomorrow.”
Steve grins up at her, heart lighter than it has been in years.
The next morning, he set out with sketchbook tucked under his arm. Peggy leads him along a narrow dirt track into the woods beyond her garden. Her small comments only adding to his excitement for the day. The air smells damp, earthy, full of growth, and mist curls lazily around the roots of old trees. Birds call from the branches, though some sounds are too sharp, too fleeting, almost like whispers.
Deer appear in the distance, frozen, then gone before Steve can blink. Stone walls lean into the mossy ground, crooked from centuries of use. The moss itself seems impossibly vibrant, brighter than anything he has seen in New York, almost glowing. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees a figure. Tall, pale, and still. But when he blinks, it is gone.
Peggy hums beside him, oblivious to his hesitation. “Keep moving, Steve. The manor’s not far,” she says lightly. He nods, curiosity pulling him forward faster than caution.
Not long after, Peggy returns to her home. Leaving Steve to his job. Exploring the woodland forest area. And by midday, he was already lost in the rhythm of the countryside, pencil flying across pages as he tried to catch the texture of moss on an ancient stone wall, the curve of a ruined arch, the way sunlight pooled in the grass. Unaware of it, his half-fae energy hummed faintly around him, drawing attention from things that were watching, waiting.
Steve laughed softly to himself, thinking. This is going to be a good summer.
Back at Peggy’s, Steve sinks into a chair by the window, sketchbook open on his lap. Utterly exhausted. Peggy was right, travelling really takes it out of a person, not to mention the jet lag. He’s sure, even with his insomnia he will be asleep soon. Pencil scratches across the page as he tries to capture the shapes of the mist, the wild twist of the old oak, the impossible glow of the moss from memory. Feeling hopeful for it’s outcome.
His thoughts drift to tomorrow. The manor. The ruined walls he glimpsed in the distance, tangled with ivy and mystery. There is something about this place. Something alive. Steve feels, unreasonably, that it knows he is here.
He pauses, hand hovering over the page, a flicker of unease passing quickly, replaced by excitement. This is what he came for, he thinks. Adventure, inspiration… maybe even something more.
Steve tucks away his sketches and stands at the window, staring out into the fading light. Somewhere unseen, a pulse brushes against him like a tide.
Tomorrow, he will see the manor. He will explore the woods. And unknowingly, he will step closer to something older, stranger, and far more alive than anything he has ever known.
Sleep comes slowly, restless with anticipation and the strange thrill of the unknown.