Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I can hear the whispers in my sleep

The voices telling me this should be mine

You…you claim you trust me

You think I don’t see the doubt behind your eyes

- Excerpt from "Empire" by Beth Crowley

The True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic is located in central Manhattan. Logically speaking, Steve knows they’re walking into a trap. According to Fury, this is the front for the Hydra operation that’s seized all of uptown Manhattan. It’s becoming a problem, and it needs to be dealt with.

Still, he hesitates.

Natasha stands by his side. She looks good—Nat always looks good. She’s dyed her hair red again, and it frames her face in soft curls. Her green eyes are glassy with that battle-stare she gets when she’s facing down a foe. Her tee-shirt reads Daenerys Deserved Better. The words are half covered by the vest her sister gave her. She’s also wearing a pair of tight jeans that Steve’s trying his best not to look at.

“Fury’s sure this is the place?” Steve asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Yeah,” Nat says. “He’s sure.”

Steve swallows.

“Can we go over our backstory one more time?” he asks.

“We’ve been dating for two years,” Natasha says patiently. “We’re madly in love, but for obvious reasons, we’ve been having problems.”

How can she be so calm about this? Steve’s hands are sweating—he’s never been much of a liar. His ma raised him better than that. She’d be disappointed in him, if she could see where he ended up. Steve’s let everyone down. Nat. Tony. Pepper.

Peggy.

No. Steve shakes his head. He can’t think about Peggy right now—that’s still too fresh. Maybe he should’ve stayed in 1946 like he planned on doing when he returned the stones. It was an open secret—Steve was returning to the past for good, and he’d catch up with his team as an old man.

But he’s here. He’s back. He didn’t belong in the past. Still, he doesn’t feel like he belongs in the future, either.

Steve’s hands start to shake. That’s been happening more and more lately.

“I can’t get over Peggy,” Steve lies. “You resent me for that. It’s the most obvious cover.”

Natasha stays silent.

“I want to commit to you,” Steve says. “But I traveled back in time to return the infinity stones, and it re-triggered commitments I made in the past. You’re having a hard time dealing with that.”

“I am,” Nat says dryly. “I’m very, very insecure. I have abandonment issues, and a plethora of unresolved fears that everyone I love will leave me.”

Steve knows she’s just being Nat. He winces anyway.

“Let’s throw in the fact our sex life is terrible,” Nat says cheerfully.

Steve flushes. He actually flushes like he’s a goddamn schoolboy and not a supersoldier. Good God. He needs to get himself together.

“You’re holding out on me,” Nat says. “I think it’s because you’re still in love with Peggy.”

Steve keeps his gaze on the tall, unyielding skyscraper. If he looks at her, he knows he’ll start laughing in a crazy, manic, nervous way that’s incredibly unlike him.

He wishes she’d worn a different pair of jeans.

“Right,” he says.

“Something in the past changed you,” Nat says.

Her voice is serious. Steve shoves his hands in his pocket. Things have been different between them since he came back. Steve knows how she feels about him. He’s not the trusted confidant she once had—not anymore. He’s not even the best friend she once had.

He wishes he was.

Secretly—selfishly—Steve’s glad to be back by her side. He’d never tell her that, though—not when she’s facing down the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic like it’s a damn Nazi.

“Let’s do this,” Steve says.

He tries to make it sound like they’re headed into active-combat instead of going to couples counseling. Instead, his voice comes out quiet and a little sad.

“Don’t look so scared,” Nat says flatly. “We love each other. That’s all that matters.”

Steve’s hands clench into fists.

“Until Hydra’s is obliterated,” he says.

Nat should echo the statement. Until Hydra is obliterated is their new epigram.

Instead, she stays silent.

God, Steve misses the time when they were close. Of course, she doesn’t have to say anything. They both know she’s just as invested in this as he is.

###

Their therapist looks nice enough. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d think the woman was a genuine shrink. Her eyes are amber and kind, and her hair is pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. She looks a little like his grade school teacher—short and maternal, with horn-rimmed glasses and a flowy skirt.

“Welcome,” she says. “My name is Saundra. Please, sit.”

The room smells sweet and sharp, like ground herbs. Steve finds himself wondering if Saundra is a hippie. Is it politically incorrect to call people hippies these days? He doesn’t know.

Steve sits awkwardly on the plush leather couch. He pulls one of the throw pillows onto his lap. Nat perches herself on an armchair. She looks incredibly relaxed—too relaxed, really. Damn it, Steve thinks—she’s actually enjoying this. She offers him a sharp, amused glance, and he looks away quickly.

He’ll never stop being shocked by how green her eyes are. There’s a tiny white scar over her collarbone. Steve wonders how she got it.

“I’m Natasha Romanoff.” Nat flicks a wave of red hair over her shoulder. “You can call me Nat. Everyone does. This is Steve. I’m sure you’ve heard of us—we’re very famous. I trust we can count on your discretion. We’re not ready to go public with our relationship.”

Steve blanches. He doesn’t mean too—really. But hearing her flick that word off her tongue so goes against everything he knows about her as a person.

She’s good undercover. Really good. Steve knew that going into this. It doesn’t make the situation any less uncomfortable. He kind of wants to throw himself out of the window. It would make a good sound, he thinks—the noise of his corpse splattering on the pavement half a dozen stories below the seventh floor.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Saundra tells Nat. “But rest assured. Most of my clients are high-profile individuals, and patient confidentiality is a matter of utmost importance. This is a safe space.”

Horse apples, Steve thinks.

Saundra turns her attention to him.

“Let’s start simple,” Saundra says kindly. “Why did you decide to start counseling?”

“I’m hung up on an old flame,” Steve says flatly. “I don’t care about Natasha as much as she cares about me.”

Nat hisses a exhale through her teeth. She fixes him with the meanest look she’s ever given him. Steve wants to cover his face with the pillow.

Jesus Christ. He’s terrible at this. The next half-hour is going to be excruciating.

And now he’s about to start rambling. Fantastic. It’s hard to think with Nat scowling at him like that.

“My last girl and I never dated, so I’m new to this whole ‘being in a relationship’ racket,” Steve says. “I kissed her a few times during the war—that’s World War II, for reference—and then I crashed my plane into the ocean and knocked myself out for half a century. Needless to say, it was a tough ending. I never got closure.”

“I have a lot of resentment for Peggy Carter,” Nat says. “I feel like he’s constantly comparing me to her. Yes, Steve— I assassinated a few people and committed every war crime in the book. That doesn’t make me a bad person.”

Steve knows this is all scripted, but he finds himself getting angry for no logical reason.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person.” His voice rises. “If I did, I wouldn’t be dating you. I’m not here because I want to share my feelings with a stranger. I’m here for you.This isn’t about Peggy—this is about us.”

“It’s always about Peggy, baby.” She flips her gaze to the therapist. “He says her name in bed sometimes. I’ve accepted it.”

Steve’s hands clench into fists. She’s going off script, damn it, and now he has to go off script, too.

“Nat cheated on me with Tony,” he improvises. “She also cheated on me with Thor. That’s what she was doing while I was checking my pal Bucky into a rehabilitation clinic. I’ll never be enough for her, no matter what I do.”

Nat opens her mouth, then closes it. Her green eyes are wild and amused, and then her face melts into that impassive expression of apathy. She’s always been good at masking up.

“I never cheated on you,” she says. “We were on a break. You’re the one who said you needed space.”

That’s a reference to something. He can see it in her eyes. He’ll have to ask about it later.

“You took our break as an opportunity to sleep with two Avengers,” he says. “I said I wanted us to take the time apart to rethink our relationship. That wasn’t permission to screw Tony Stark!”

“The sex was brilliant.” Nat’s smile is vicious. “Thanks for asking. See, he’s actually attracted to me.”

“I’m attracted to you!” Steve snaps. “You’re gorgeous, Nat. I like the way you fight. I like the way you look in your catsuit. There’s this withdrawn, delighted, too-smug little smirk you do when I say something stupid. Even when I was stuck in 1946, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Nat stares at him. She opens her mouth to reply. No words come out.

She closes her mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he finishes lamely. “I’m…I’m so glad I’m dating you, dollface.”

Nat covers her mouth with both her hands. Her expression tells him she’s never, ever going to let him forget this.

God damn it.

The room falls into silence.

“Well.” Saundra sounds like she’s trying hard to keep her voice professional. “That’s not how my sessions usually start, but I appreciate your honesty. I can see you love each other very much.”

Steve chokes on his own saliva. He can’t help it.

Saundra glances at her notepad. Steve gets the feeling she’s doing some very quick thinking.

“Uh…” Saundra scratches her head. “Let’s go over a few guidelines. If I may, I noticed a couple of things during that exchange.”

“Did you notice he’s an idiot?” Nat asks. “I’ve been telling him he’s incompetent since day one.”

Saundra hesitates.

“Let’s avoid using labels like ‘idiot’ and ‘incompetent,’” she says primly. “We’ll call that Ground Rule Number One. I think it would be best if we keep this constructive.”

“Can I call Nat psychopathic and emotionally distant?” Steve’s heart hammers in his chest. “She’s really, really hard to talk to. She always has been.”

He means for his voice to come out sharp and edgy, but it sounds like a whine. A goddamn whine. Jesus Christ, he needs a drink. Not that he can get drunk, but if he doesn’t do something to calm his nerves, he’s going to vibrate off this sofa.

Saundra stares at him. She moistens her lips. When she speaks, it sounds like she’s choosing her words carefully.

“Mr. Rogers,” she says politely. “Do you think calling your girlfriend a psychopath is constructive?”

“Sure,” Steve says pleasantly. “If she’s acting like a psychopath. If she threatens to decapitate me with a ballpoint pen, what else am I supposed to call her?”

Nat chokes down a laugh. She smooths her face into an angry mask.

“You said my sister was prettier than me,” she says. “How was I supposed to react to that?”

“I said she was prettier than you in the picture on your desk,” Steve says. “It was true—you had your middle fingers pointed at the camera. It was vulgar. I haven’t even met your sister in person.”

That’s actually true. He didn’t know she had a sister until four days ago, when she cornered her in the gym, told him about this undercover-op, and let slip she’d tracked down her family after the Civil War.

Steve’s still a little hurt that she didn’t tell him sooner. He decides to see this as an opportunity, and he turns to Saundra.

“She won’t introduce me to her parents or sister,” he says. “She says she’s serious about this relationship, but she’s hiding them from me. Am I correct in assuming that counts as passive-aggression?”

“I’m scared he’ll fuck my sister,” Nat says without batting an eye. “Yelena would go along with it. We have a complicated relationship.”

“Between the two of us, who’s more likely to sleep around?” Steve demand. “I would never go near your sister, Nat! I wouldn’t…I mean…I’m not…”

Steve trails off. His face feels like it’s on fire. Nat shoots him a quick look. Her expression says, pull yourself together, Rogers.

Saundra looks faintly panicked. She flips through her notepad furiously.

“Erm…” Her voice is high. “I think we should get back to those ground rules.”

Steve would feel sorry for her if she wasn’t a Hydra agent.

“Please.” He smiles, hoping he comes across as kind instead of anxious. “Natasha loves following the rules.”

“I fucked Tony Stark one time,” Nat says. “Stop trying to make seem like a terrible person.”

“Ground Rule Number Two,” Saundra says quickly. “Let’s avoid thinking in terms like ‘the good guy’ and ‘the bad guy.’ You aren’t fighting each other—you’re facing problems together, and you’re working as a team to overcome them.”

Steve wants to make some pithy comment about how they’ve never worked together in their lives, but that’s not a lie he can bring himself to say aloud.

“Ground Rule Number Three,” Saundra says. “Let’s avoid fixating on the past. Right now, all that matters is your future together…”

If you have a future, her expression says. If Steve had to guess, he’d think she doesn’t believe this relationship will last.

“Let’s do a quick exercise,” she says. “I want you both to say one thing you like about each other. Let’s avoid making any barbed comments—I want to keep this genuine. Why are you guys together?”

Her voice is almost desperate. Steve feels like they need to rein it in; otherwise she’ll recommend they get the hell away from each other, and this operation will be blown before it even begins.

Nat thinks for a moment.

“Steve’s loyal,” she says.

Steve hears the unspoken second part of that sentence.

He used to be, anyway.

He thinks she’s finished, but then he speaks again. Her voice is quiet.

“He makes me feel safe,” she says flatly. “I never knew I could feel that, and then I met him.”

Steve swallows. He looks out the window. He glances at the motivational cat posters hanging above the desk. He moves his gaze to the bookshelf that’s stacked with games—checkers, chess, even twister. He eyes the plush, velvety rug.

“Nat’s brilliant,” he says. “I’ve never met anyone with a mind like hers. She can adapt to any situation. She can take on any challenge.”

Nat’s face remains expressionless.

“Steve’s kind,” she says. “Aside from berating me for fucking Tony and Thor, he’s never said a mean thing. A long time ago, he didn’t trust me. I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at me. Even then, he was always a nice guy. He hugged me after ever op, even when I didn’t deserve it. He brought me ramen and hot chocolate when I came down with the flu, even though we weren’t friends yet.”

Steve wants to kill her—all those things are real and she knows it.

Green eyes narrow, red hair framing her face, posture rigid…she looks so damn beautiful right now. He reminds himself that they’re in couples counseling. Fake couples counseling. All sorts of not-real feelings are supposed to be bubbling to the surface.

“Nat never gets distracted,” Steve says. “Even when she’s doing side-quests for Fury—that’s not my phrasing, by the way; that’s how Spiderman puts it—she’s always focused on her mission. She’s the most driven person I’ve ever met.”

Steve swallows.

“One time, we were rescuing hostages from a boat in the middle of the ocean,” he continues. “She gave me the slip to lift files off the mainframe. While I was backflip-kicking enemy combatants, she was dead-fixated on her assignment. I thought she didn’t care about the hostages, but I was wrong. She trusted me to handle it. I resented her for hiding her mission from me. Looking back, I respect her more for it.”

Saundra waits for him to keep going.

“That was before I fell in love with her,” Steve finds himself saying. “No, scratch that—I was in love with her then, but I didn’t know yet. I was hurt because she wasn’t open with me. If we were doing the same thing all over again, it wouldn’t matter. I know she’d tell me everything once it was over. Even if she didn’t, I know without a doubt that everything she does is for the greater good.”

Nat’s staring at him. Steve can’t look at her. He keeps his gaze fixed on a motivational cat poster. A kitten is dangling from a tightrope. The slanted font beneath reads, hang in there.

“I trust her more than I trust anyone,” Steve says. “I used to think that everyone was good, deep down. I know that isn’t true anymore. But I say this with complete confidence—Nat’s the best of us. Despite her past, despite what she’s done…she’s the heart of the Avengers.”

The room is silent.

“That was a fantastic meet-and-greet.” Saundra’s voice is cheerful. “Despite the rough start, I cannot overstate how well this has gone. I’ll see you both on Friday for your first official session. In the meantime, here are a few exercises I’d like you to try."

Chapter Text

I’m gonna build me an empire
and it’s lonely at the top
but madness and greatness can both share a face
and nobody can ever convince me to stop

- Excerpt from "Empire" by Beth Crowley

“What the hell was that?” Steve asks as soon as they’ve exited the clinic.

He zips up his hoody and does his best to follow Nat through Manhattan’s lively streets. An army of pedestrians bustle by—talking, laughing, swearing, screaming. An avalanche of high-tech screens blare down at him. THE LION KING, ON BROADWAY NOW, one yells. LINGERIE HALF-OFF—STOP BY VICTORIA’S SECRET, another says.

Steve grabs Nat’s arm. She turns to face him.

“Not here,” she says.

She pulls him into a black car that’s creeping forward in the street-to-sidewalk traffic. Happy nods in greeting and puts the privacy partition up as soon as they’re seated on the plush leather. Nat buckles herself in and kicks her heeled boots against the divider. Her eyes flutter shut.

It’s eerily quiet in contrast to the chaos of the street. Steve’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“Mm.” A smile flickers across Nat’s delicate features. “That was fun.”

‘Fun’ isn’t exactly how Steve would describe their introductory appointment. It was weird. Terrifying. All sorts of confusing in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge; not when Nat is draped half across him, grinning lazily, her chest heaving. Steve’s not sure if he wants to pull her closer or shove her off him. All he knows is that this situation has gotten away from him, and he needs to pull himself together before his entire world goes FUBAR.

“Tasha,” he says quietly. “I say again—what the hell was that?”

“It’s called undercover work, babe.” Her eyes open. “You were great—I admit, that closing speech was moving.”

Her words are sarcastic and drawled. Steve feels his face heat.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” His voice is clipped. “Undercover work isn’t my forte. I’d rather—”

“You’d rather kill yourself at the gym?” She sits up and stares at him with somber eyes. “You’d rather slip into another dissociative episode, and pretend nothing hurts and everything is fine?”

“Exactly,” Steve says, a little too quickly. Then he blanches. “I mean…what are we doing, Nat?”

She raises an eyebrow. He leans closer, and his voice drops to a whisper.

“That felt real.” His throat hurts, and he can’t meet her gaze. “That felt too real.”

“Which part?” Nat’s lips curl. “When you said I had a three-way with Thor and Tony?”

If Steve could get any more flushed, his entire damn body would catch on fire.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I was panicking. You went off-script, and I lost focus—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Nat nudges him. “You’re good on your feet, Rogers. It’s the closest I’ve come to losing my mask since Budapest. It was brilliant—I mean, I was expecting that therapist to doubt us. Two known Avengers seeking counseling at a Hydra cell…but now, there’s not a doubt in my mind she thinks we’re a genuine couple. How could she not?”

“We make a good team.”

Steve’s voice comes out flat. He hates himself for it.

“I know this isn’t ideal.” Nat flicks a wave of red hair over her shoulder. “But if Fury told me to blow my brains out, I’d ask him to hand me the gun. After our first real session, we’ll explore the complex. We won’t get caught—I’m too good for that—but if we do, we’ll pretend we’re lost and having a catfight argument. Maybe we’ll kiss to deepen our cover. Doesn’t that sound like a blast?”

“No,” Steve snaps, a little too quickly.

Nat throws him an amused smirk.

“I mean…” Steve folds his arms over his chest. “That would be…”

Distasteful. Dishonorable. Delightful.

“…improper,” he finishes. “We’re undercover—we’re not people of the night.”

His voice drops to a hesitant murmur. Nat beams at him.

“What have you got against the prostitution industry?” she asks gleefully. “Don’t tell me you hate sex workers. It’s the twenty-first century, Rogers—learn to respect the hustle.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not chaste,” he says.

“I didn’t think you were.” She examines her fingernails. “You implied that I had a threesome with Thor and Tony, and then said you’d like to fuck my sister—”

“I didn’t…” Steve buries his face in his hands and tries to collect himself. “That’s not what…”

“You guys.” Happy’s voice echoes through the car, loud and very, very level. “This partition isn’t soundproof.”

Natasha cackles. Steve’s chest caves in, and he wishes he could press a button and disappear into the earth below the car. What. The. Hell. How did he get here? A few blissful weeks ago, his worst problem was what happened in the past…

…the past…

Steve stiffens. He raises his head and forces his posture to relax. He swallows once, then does it again, then brushes a hand over his clean-shaven chin.

Nat squeezes his arm. Her soft lips brush against his cheek, and then she rests her head on his shoulder. Steve’s throat bobs, and he stares determinedly out the window at the stopped traffic.

“We’ll take down Hydra, once and for all,” she says. “I promise.”

And then what? Steve wonders, but he can’t bring himself to ask the question.

###

“Dude.” Sam hits the cue, and a striped ball hurls itself into the corner pocket. “Tell Nat you’re into her. It’s not that complicated.”

The bar is empty, save for them and the barmaid, and she’s not listening to their conversation; on the contrary, she has headphones over her ears, and she’s smacking chewing gum with rhythmic grunts. She leans over a textbook thirty paces away, focused and unmoving.

Bucky leans against the table, nursing a glass of beer and shoveling fries into his mouth. Steve’s tongue burns from the salt.

The Hefty Bear’s usually abandoned, according to Sam—that’s why they’re here. It’s half a mile away from the tower, and it’s completely funded by Stark Industries. Apparently, Tony used to come here before he quit the bottle for good. He’s completely forgotten about the place, of course, but Pepper doesn’t forget a thing, and she sends a ten-thousand dollar check every couple of months. She’s always cleaning up Tony’s messes, the brilliant Pepper Potts. Steve respects her for it. He appreciates the quiet—the only sound is Jessie’s Girl twiddling from the jukebox. He nods his head along to the beat and brushes his fingers along the smooth wood of the pool stick.

Sam swears as he strikes out. Steve positions the stick in front of the white ball, closes one eye, and shoots a solid into the middle hole on the right side of the table. He may not understand pool, but he gets the gist of it, and anyway, Sam’s teaching him the lays of the land. Maybe Steve’ll take Nat here someday, and she’ll be impressed by his lackluster performance. It’s a weak hope, but it’s one Steve carries nonetheless.

“I can’t tell Nat I want to go steady.” Steve shoots another solid into the hole. “I’m not twelve. Plus, she’s Nat. She’d…”

Gut me. Shank me. Kill me. Kiss me. Steve honestly doesn’t know.

“Man up, tell her about your crush, and see what she says,” Sam says dismissively. “Back me up, Buck.”

“I once made love to a man and then shot him up with cyanide,” Bucky says musingly. “The target took forever to die. It was very distressing.”

Sam blanches.

“Okay,” he says. “I take that back. Don’t ever listen to me if Barns backs me up.”

Steve grins at him. He shoots another solid into the hole.

“I don’t have a thing for Nat,” he reminds Sam. “I’m just…confused. This whole ‘couple’s therapy’ thing is getting to me. That’s all.”

“You came back to the future for her,” Sam points out.

“I came back to the future because Peggy told me to,” Steve says dryly. “I didn’t belong in the past, and we both knew it.”

He doesn’t belong in the future, either, but he knows better than to say that aloud. Sam would kick his ass, and Steve doesn’t want to fight him. He hates roughhousing with the people he cares about. It reminds him of everything that went down with Tony, and he’d kill himself before he hurt another friend.

Steve closes his eyes. Briefly, he lets himself remember the look on Peggy’s face when she told him she was in love with someone else. With Agent Daniel Jordan Sousa, veteran—who lost one of his legs during the war, then mercilessly backed Peggy while she rose to power in SHIELD. Disabled but determined, shy and sweet. Innocent despite his backstory. Everything Steve isn’t.

Steve hits a ball, and it rams against the southern wall and shoots back toward him. It’s still on the table. Four balls left, three of them solid—Steve’s already lost the game.

Bucky moves forward, and he aims his pole at the last striped ball.

“Nat’s not Peggy,” Sam says. “She likes you.”

“She tolerates me.” Steve’s voice is wry.

“You’re in couples counseling,” Sam says. “Hallmark couldn’t write a better love story.”

“We’re undercover!”

Bucky shoots the striped ball into the hole. He doesn’t celebrate—Steve doesn’t think Buck has any celebrating left in him. Steve pats him on the shoulder anyway—he’ll always love Bucky, a little bit. He doesn’t think that’ll ever go away. Even so, he’s confident Bucky’s safe in Sam’s hands, and that hurts, but he’s glad for both of them. It’s not an easy thing, moving on from people who were once your whole world. He’s learned that time and time again.

“You’re an idiot.” Sam sucks in a short, sharp breath. “You know that, right?”

“He sure is,” Bucky says cheerfully. “When World War II was raging around us, he parachuted into enemy territory, saved countless POWs—myself included—and told Red-Face to go fuck himself.”

Steve’s face grows hot. “That’s not what happened.”

“Bullshit.” Sam’s voice is flat. “Metal-man is speaking facts. It’s a testament to how fucked this entire situation is that I’m believing Brainwashed Bucky over you.”

That’s shockingly reasonable. Steve bites his bottom lip and resets the pool balls. The triangle is orderly—Steve likes the way it neatens chaos, makes a tidy categorization of anarchy incarnate. He could use more of that in his life, Steve thinks—even though this whole Nat situation is confounding, even though Stark hates him, even though he’s managed to alienate himself from every person he once called his family, the rack tightens the balls into orderly formation. The structure is comforting.

“Okay,” he admits. “Part of the reason I came back was because of Nat. Peggy and I kissed, once—that’s a whole other story—and I proposed to her—”

“Did you cut her open and feast upon her virgin flesh?” Bucky asks swiftly. “I did that, once—I was just following orders. I was, and am, a monster.”

Steve decides to ignore that. Sam’s handling Buck, he assures himself—if anyone can deal with this shit, it’s Sam. God knows he’s handled people with worse PTSD…maybe.

“Peggy said no, obviously,” Steve says. “That’s that, I guess.”

He fingers the ring he wears as a brand. It hangs around his neck like a noose. Contrary to Tony’s accusations, it’s not a memento from lost love—it’s a reminder. No matter what he does, it won’t be enough.

Peggy’s eyes were sad—so damn sad—and she looked like an angel in the moonlight. They were on a bridge, somewhere—Steve can’t remember the exact location. All he knows is that the wood was rough beneath his bare feet—he’d taken off his shoes and left them at her apartment. Looking at her filled him with unbridled, uncompromising hurt. Her gaze shot spikes of pain through his chest, and it tightened his hands into fists. His eyes burned with tears, but still, he pushed himself against her, tilted back her head…kissed her. Despite the fact that she didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her—not really. Maybe he did, once. He doesn’t know.

Steve buries his face in his hands. Sam pats his shoulder as he brushes by.

“I’ll break,” he says kindly. “Eat some more fries, loverboy.”

The carbs are salty and chewy, but Steve puts one in his mouth anyway. He chews on it. He swallows. He eats another fry. He tries to think about anything but Peggy—anything but Nat—but he can’t. He wishes the world wasn’t so damn puzzling. Hydra. Murderous ex-best friends. Confusing women. What won’t the coming months bring?

“Solids,” Sam calls, and he shoots a ball into the pocket. Only then does he turn his attention to Steve. “Don’t think about a girl who’s into another guy. It’ll just hurt. You have to focus on achievable goals, and trust me—you belong here. With us. God knows you couldn’t survive without Buck and me.”

“My body count is in the high triple digits.” Bucky sips his coke. “I’m talking about murder, not sex. One time, I slaughtered seven targets in one night. There was so much blood. I felt nothing.”

“Bucky.” Sam’s voice is flat. “You were brainwashed.”

“I was brainwashed,” Bucky agrees. “I killed Tony’s mom, and I don’t even remember her. I remember your mom, though, Steve—she used to put newspapers in the toes of your shoes. She sewed patches on your trousers when you eviscerated them. She put mustard on your black eye when you goaded that dick Joseph into beating you shitless…”

“My mom died before we enlisted,” Steve reminds him.

“My mom is dead, too,” Bucky says cheerfully. “So are my sisters. You guys are the only people I have left to care about. I came back into consciousness, and an eternity had passed, and I’d become a walking nightmare. My dreams are filled with screams, and the world is red when I wake.”

Steve doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“Say something positive.” Sam loops his arm through Bucky’s. “That’s the only way to focus on healing.”

“These fries are fantastic.” Bucky dips one into his coke. “My sisters lie beneath gravestones, but the modern era has learned to utilize fry-cooks. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Sam turns his attention back to Steve. His expression is tight, and Steve gets the feeling Sam’s about to lose his shit. How funny would that be—three veterans, all half-insane with longing for the good-old-days, all tipsy, all depressed beyond reasonable belief. He hopes Sam yells at him—the bar could use some more noise. The barmaid’s half asleep against her textbook, and blond hair curls across the pages. Music leaks through her headphones—it's some newfangled k-pop thingamajig—and it half-covers ‘Limelight’ by Rush, which blasts from the jukebox in a melancholy wail.

Living in the limelight, the universal dream… Getty’s voice careens.

“You good, Steve?” Sam watches him carefully.

“I’m swell,” Steve says.

His stick jerks forward. Strike-out. The balls go careening around the table, but none land. Dipping his head, Steve leans his pool stick against the wall, and he seats himself on the stool. It bleeds stuffing like a maimed corpse, and the leather is cracked, but it’s comfortable anyway.

“Liar.” Sam’s stick lunges forward, and he pegs another solid. “You’re completely screwed, but you don’t know it, and that makes you dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as me,” Bucky says helpfully. “You’ve got that going for you, pal.”

Steve knows that’s not a high bar, but at least it’s something.

###

“Steve.” Saundra fixes him with her stern, level gaze. “How did the exercises go this week?”

Steve glances around the office and tries to avoid meeting Nat’s eyes. The joint is exactly the same as it was the last time he was here. Motivational posters line the walls, and board games are stacked on the expansive bookshelf. The curtains are tight, demure, and unmoving. A newfangled outlet plug-in—an essential oil dispenser, Steve thinks it’s called—spits a sugary-sweet, honey-like stench into the air. He takes a deep breath, eyes the Twister board displayed front and center, and digs his toes into the plush carpet. Saundra had them take off their shoes and do some deep breathing exercises the second they entered her office. It was excruciatingly vulnerable, and Steve wishes he could’ve kept his socks on. Even though he’s fully clothed, he feels like his entire body is on display. He’s not sure what to make of that.

He crosses his arms over his chest and tries to remember the homework Saundra assigned. Truth be told, he’s been avoiding Nat—he hasn’t left his room since their last session, save the times Sam dragged him out at gunpoint.

Appreciation list, he reminds himself—list one thing every day your partner did that you appreciate. Air your dirty laundry—ask your partner to tell you things you did that made them feel unloved or disrespected. Make a fun list—try to think of things you’d like to do with your partner.

He glances at Nat. She surveys him with lips quirked into an all-too-smug expression of polite interest. God, she looks beautiful. She straightened her hair—not that Steve cares; she always looks fantastic—and it hangs around her chiseled features in an elegant, crimson curtain. She’s wearing her sister’s green, pocketed vest again, and that really shouldn’t make Steve as happy as it does. For the millionth time, he examines the white, crooked scar over her collarbone. Someday, he’s going to ask her about that…

“The exercises were great.” Steve’s well aware that he’s about to start rambling, but he can’t stop himself. “I found a bunch of reasons to appreciate Nat. When she asked me if I felt disrespected, I couldn’t come up with anything.”

Saundra nods encouragingly.

“Can we play a game or something?” Steve asks. “I don’t feel like talking.”

He yanks his gaze away from Nat and eyes the chessboard displayed next to a canister of pretty pens on Saundra’s desk.

“Why don’t we do that in a minute?” Saundra’s gaze flashes to Nat. “Natasha, how do you think this week has been?”

“Steve’s been hiding from me.” Nat’s voice is cool. “I barely see him anymore.”

Yet again, with shocking suddenness, the therapy session gets too real. Steve’s mouth is too dry to swallow. He eyes a rook—his Ma taught him how to play, he thinks, right after Wall Street collapsed and they were too broke to light the furnace. They pawned the board, later on—Steve was nine when everything went to shit. Maybe ten. Maybe younger. He honestly can’t remember. It was almost a century ago, after all.

“It’s hard to be around you,” Steve says.

That’s distressingly truthful, so he decides to up the ante.

“Every time I see you, I imagine you with Thor and Tony,” he says quickly. “It’s awfully demoralizing.”

“Screw Thor and Tony.” Nat’s eyes narrow. “This is about us, babe. Why are you locking yourself in your room like a child?”

“Hold on a moment.” Saundra raises a polite hand. “Are you sleeping in separate rooms? That didn’t come up in our meet-and-greet.”

Nat folds her arms over her Legen…wait for it…dary! tee-shirt. Once again, Steve doesn’t get the reference. It seems like everything Nat does goes over his head.

“We’ve never slept in the same room.” Nat’s voice is sly. “Steve thinks it would be improper.”

“We aren’t married,” Steve says quickly—he’s backing her, like any good partner would. “My mother raised me right.”

“But you are sleeping together, correct?” Saundra’s brow creases. “You mentioned that, on occasion, Steve has said another woman’s name during…intimate activities.”

Something throbs behind Steve’s temple. Again, he contemplates throwing himself out the window. He considers burying his face in the flowerpot’s dirt. He wonders if it would be inappropriate to cackle, or perhaps burst into tears. God. What the hell is happening? How did he get here, and when can he go back to pretending everything is fine and nothing hurts?

“To be honest, we’ve never achieved total intimacy.” Nat shoots him a lightning-quick leer that’s downright demonic. “Yes, Steve says Peggy’s name sometimes, and yes—I’ve accepted it. But it was always during foreplay, if you get what I’m saying. We’re taking things slow.”

Steve buries his head in his hands. He decides he’s never showing Saundra his face again.

“Ah.” Saundra’s voice is carefully neutral. “Steve, you’re exhibiting symptoms that indicate distress. Are you under any pressure to take this relationship to the next level?”

That’s a stone-cold trap, and Steve has no idea how to answer.

“Can we play chess now?” he says weakly.

Saundra stares at him for an excruciatingly long moment. Then she grabs the board, puts it on the coffee table, and begins to assemble the pieces. Steve tries to remember the words his ma taught him. That’s a pawn, Steve reminds himself—they move forward, and they attack on the diagonal. Knight. Rook. King—lose that, and you lose the game. That tall whazzit is a queen, the most powerful piece, but also the most damning if it’s captured early. That sounds right, even if he’s having a hard time recalling basic strategy. Hell, he can’t even remember any openings.

Nat’s going to kick his ass. Steve wishes he wasn’t so excited by the prospect, but he is anyway.

“Let’s turn this into another exercise,” Saundra says brightly. “For each piece you move, I want you to state one emotional truth. Tell each other how you feel, and don’t hold back. Remember, this is a safe space. You’re here because you care about your relationship. You both want the same thing—each other.”

Steve grits his teeth. If only that were true.

The thought takes him by surprise.

He decides to focus on the game and stop thinking once and for all. That’s all everything is with Nat—a game. This mission. Their lives. Their friendship. Nothing is serious, and in the same sense, nothing is a joke—Steve can’t wrap his mind around the juxtaposition, but that’s just how her brain works.

She abandons the armchair and sits next to him on the couch, and damn—she’s close enough that he catches a whiff of cinnamon. He’s never smelled anything quite like it.

“I’ll play white,” Nat says. She moves her king-pawn forward two ranks.

“Fantastic,” Sandra says delicately. “Can you please tell us an emotional truth?”

Nat pauses like a rat caught in a trap. Something flashes across her face—the expression is gone so quickly that Steve almost misses it.

“I’m hurt that you’re avoiding me.” Nat’s voice is emotionless. “It makes me think you’re a coward. I don’t like cowards.”

She glances at Saundra, whose lips purse.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” Steve counters with his own king-pawn. “There. Emotional truth.”

Nat pushes a knight. “I want to know why you won’t talk to me.”

“It’s nothing personal.” Steve counters with his own knight. “I’m really confused right now. I told you—it’s hard to be around you.”

“You know what could fix that?” Nat moves her queen-pawn forward one space, defending her opening. “Talking to me. Putting aside all this relationship shit, we’re friends.”

Or, at least, I thought we were, is the unspoken implication. It hangs between them like a cocked gun.

Steve knows she has at least three firearms hidden on her person. He also knows she likes her hot chocolate with vanilla creamer, and she has three different types of exfoliating lotion—all of which smell like coconut or cinnamon, which are the only artificial scents she likes. He learned that when they were rooming together on an assignment in Ohio. She hates small talk. Fury’s a father figure to her—newfound family aside, for a long time, he was the closest thing she had to a dad. She hooked up with Clint, just once, right after they first met—it hurt her when he got married six months thereafter, but she’d never admit it. She loves that kid Peter like he’s her own, she tucks her tongue between her teeth when she’s concentrating, her favorite book is Gone with the Wind, her favorite TV show is Game of Thrones…

“We are friends.” Steve tries to sound confident, but his voice comes out unnaturally soft. “Aren’t we?”

They’ve moved a dozen pieces in the time it took for him to respond. He castles without thinking about it.

“I thought we were.” Nat’s voice is grim. “None of us knew if you were coming back from the past.”

She extends a bishop, opening up her castle. Steve decides not to press the advantage; for all he knows, she’s planning something bold and risky and suicidal. She’s always six moves ahead of him, the black widow, and he can’t even hate her for it. He doesn’t understand her brain, but he wants to.

Steve defends his vulnerable knight, trapped on the edge of the board by an overzealous pawn. She captures the piece anyway. He snags a rook and loses his king-pawn for his efforts.

“I should’ve checked in with you before I returned the stones,” he says.

“Yeah.” She takes his right-rook pawn with her bishop. “You should’ve.”

“I know you’re scared of abandonment.” That’s part of the script, but fuck it, Steve’s going off-book. “It was never my intention to make you feel like I was leaving.”

Her face is impassive. She castles.

“And yet,” she says. “You left. You went back…”

In time? To Peggy? She trails off before she finishes the sentence, and Steve has no idea what she’s trying to say. That happens a lot with Nat. He wonders if anyone understands her vagueness, herself included.

He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes close, just for a second. The delicate, harsh scent of cinnamon surrounds them, penetrating into his lungs like the world’s most tantalizing fruit.

When pain is unbearable, pain becomes the medicine. Steve has no idea where that quote is from—it’s yet another thing stuck in his head. From the past or the present—he has no idea which. Maybe it’s something he learned in school. Maybe it’s something Tony hurled at him when they were fighting over the Accords like a couple of schoolboys.

He sweeps his queen down a white diagonal, snags the far-right pawn guarding her castle, and swipes the piece off the board.

“Checkmate,” he says flatly. “I win.”

Her smile is wan.

“Not quite, Rogers,” she says.

She takes his queen with a well-placed knight. Oh, fuck him to hell—how could he have missed the fact she was guarding the pawn? Steve hisses a long, slow exhale through his teeth.

“You want to take it back?” Nat raises her jade-green eyes to meet his, and her lips quirk into a calculated smile. “I’ll give you one freebie, since you’re old and decrepit.”

Against all odds, Steve feels himself grin.

“Not a chance,” he says, leaning closer. “I’m all in.”

“That’s poker, not chess,” she counters.

“I’m not talking about the game, Nat,” he says quietly.

She freezes, staring at him with a blank expression. Her eyes narrow. He could count every one of her long, black eyelashes if he wanted to, and he definitely wants to.

“That was incredible!” Saundra says.

They jolt apart with enough force to start a nuclear war.

“I think we’re getting somewhere with this.” Saundra beams at them. “The way you communicate when your minds are focused on the game…well. Our time may be up, but I have real hope for you two!”

Nat snatches his king off the board, sending three pawns skidding across the carpet. She stumbles back toward the armchair, smoothing her tee-shirt with her free hand. Her face smooths into a deadpan mask.

Steve leans against a velvet throw pillow, his mind reeling. He turns his gaze to a motivational cat poster depicting a grumpy looking kitty facing down a cheeseburger. Purr-sistance! it says. Food doesn’t steal itself!

He opens his mouth to say something, but his throat has never been dryer. It feels like he’s swallowed one of the pieces. He kicks his legs up on the coffee table, and he folds his arms over his chest. He tries to remember how to breathe. In, out. In, out.

“We’ll meet again next Tuesday,” Saundra says brightly. “In the meantime, there’s one more exercise I want you both to try. Make sure you give it your best shot—I’m well aware you didn’t do your homework last week. For a couple of Avengers, you’re terrible liars.”

She surveys Steve with a grim gaze. He squirms on the plush sofa.

“Play one game together,” she says. “Have fun, and if you can—take the time to talk about something serious. It doesn’t matter what. Understood?”

It’s a pity she’s a Hydra agent—she’s a half-decent therapist, and Steve wouldn’t mind talking to her away from Nat’s confusing presence. God knows he has plenty of shit he needs to get off his chest…

“We understand.” Nat rises. “We should get going, baby—we have plans for the rest of the day. Remember?”

Her smile gleams.

Today’s the first day of the investigation, Steve reminds himself quickly. That’s what she’s talking about.

He finds himself wishing she wasn’t talking about the assignment, but that’s ridiculous.

Right?

Right.

Chapter Text

It’s my destiny
I was born to play this game
So fear me or love me
It’s all the same

-Excerpt from "Empire" by Beth Crowley 

Nat grabs Steve’s hand as they leave the feeble, weak-minded Hydra agent in her office. She forces herself to forget Saundra’s name. It’s surprisingly easy, which isn’t at all because Steve’s hand is warm and soft. Steve’s king—which she won fair and square, despite the impromptu end to their game—is clenched in her other fist. Nat tucks it in the pocket of her jeans. She’s fond of war spoils. That’s all it is.

She drags Steve down the hallway, past row after row of doors with nameplates displayed on the transoms. The carpet muffles the rat-a-tat-tat of her heeled boots, which is unfortunate. She rather likes clicking as she walks. It’s one of countless status symbols provided by a proper pair of shoes. Height. Formidability.

Seductiveness.

“Slow down.” Steve’s practically jogging to keep up with her. “Tasha. What the hell—”

Nat turns to face him.

They’re surrounded by doors. Psychologists are not to be trusted, Nat reminds herself. They’ve studied the human mind in depth, and she doesn’t want anyone rooting around the creases of her brain. Fury’s recommended a thousand counselors over the course of her career, and she’s shut him down every time. Going to therapy is one of the few things she won’t do for him—maybe the only thing. There’s too much locked away in the trunks she stores in the abscesses of her mind.

Feelings lead to pain. Pain leads to confusion, and confusion leads to recklessness. Recklessness is dangerous. These are all facts she learned a long time ago.

“Great session, Rogers.” Nat keeps her voice cool. “Way to go rogue on me.”

Steve’s face morphs into a stony mask. He’s getting better at that. Nat wishes she could still read him like a script. When she first met him, he was as gullible as a child. Naive, innocent, unworldly…she didn’t see the other side of him until that first battle against Loki. He was so damn righteous, and there was a strength in his morality. A kind of strength she’d never seen—or never noticed—before that day.

After the wormhole closed, she locked herself in her room, sagged against her pillows, and licked her wounds. As she felt up her bruised ribs and cracked knuckles, she came to terms with the fact that she was weaker than the rest of them, Clint aside. Steve was the only one who thought to check on her. He brought her chicken soup, ibuprofen, and a Hemingway novel. He also brought her a mug of hot chocolate. It was the first time she’d ever consumed the American drink. Little marshmallows bobbed in the brown liquid like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

These days, hot chocolate is her favorite beverage by far.

That’s when their friendship started, she thinks. Or maybe it was when he blew off the date she fixed for him, with the cute, good-natured checkout girl who’d flirted with him in the Walmart near Stark Tower. Steve told her he’d rather spar then go out. They’d spent the evening throwing punches and ducking, dancing along the red mats. Or maybe their friendship started on that boat, when she blew him off to follow Fury’s instructions and he forgave her for it.

Maybe their friendship has always been an inevitability.

“I didn’t mean to go rogue.” Steve doesn’t meet her eyes. “I got distracted by the game.”

Nat’s always in control—she’s the Avenger’s Professional Problem Solver. It’s her thing. Still, her hands clench into fists without her telling them to do so.

“I’m all in,” she says, echoing the words that ended the game. “What does that mean, Rogers?”

Steve pauses.

“I was putting on a show for Saundra,” he says.

She stares at him, taking care to keep her face impassive. “Who’s Saundra?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Our therapist,” he says. “The Hydra agent. You haven’t bothered to learn her name?”

“I forgot,” Nat lies. “You didn’t mean it, then?”

“Of course not.” Steve’s expression is blank. “No hard feelings, right?”

For the first time since they left the office, Nat grins at him.

“You’re good under pressure, Rogers.” Her voice comes out sly, the same tone she used to use on potential targets. “You almost fooled me.”

Steve’s forehead creases. “Fooled you how?”

Into thinking he had feelings for her. Into thinking he wanted to play a different sort of game. She doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter—starting anything with Steve would be a mistake. He’s a man—maybe she could have him for a night if she wanted that. All it would take is a few well-placed touches, a few words whispered in his ear…she’s done it before, and she could do it again.

Or maybe she couldn’t have him at all. Maybe she’s fooling herself if she thinks she has any control over this situation. Like the time she popped her gum in his face and teased him, and then he forced her to talk about the Winter Soldier.

He got her to tell him everything that day. Nat never tells people everything.

Anyway. Steve deserves better than she could offer. At his core, he’s a good person. If something did happen between them, she’d break him as easily as the ceramic mug he got her for her birthday—the one with a spider painted on the front. For some reason, the thought of being hurt scares her less than the thought of hurting him. Nat doesn’t know what to make of that, so she takes her traitorous, self-detrimental thoughts, locks them in the metaphorical trunk, and shoves the whole case into a deep, dark corner of her mind.

It’s her job to put the Avengers back together. She needs to keep her distance from anything—and anyone—who might distract her.

Her posture relaxes. Her smile becomes something adjacent to genuine. She grabs his hand, squeezes once, and then releases him.

“I thought you might be confused,” she says. “It’s an occupational hazard when you’re doing undercover work. You’re not used to separating Steve’s feelings from Undercover Steve’s feelings.”

Steve’s blue eyes harden. “I know how to regulate my emotional state, Tasha,” he says, and it’s almost a snap. “I’m a soldier.”

His tone startles her, but she doesn’t react.

“Good,” she says. “As long as we’re clear that this is all fake.”

“I know.”

She tries again. “If you can’t handle this—”

“I said I know.”

“Good.” Nat exhales a long, slow breath that she doesn’t remember inhaling. “You ready to start this investigation or what?”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change.

“Lead the way,” he says, and Nat does.

###

“We found nothing,” Nat tells Fury. “Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Another synonym that starts with ‘z’—doesn’t matter. We didn’t find shit.”

She sinks into the chair behind her desk and kicks her heels on the escritoire. Her nameplate—Nat: Professional Problem Solver—lands on the wooden floorboards with a rickety click. She folds her arms over Yelena’s fest and fixes her gaze on Fury’s sunglasses. She wishes he’d take them off so she could meet his gaze. You can tell a lot about a man by looking into his eyes.

“Pity.” Fury drawls, sifting through the file of case notes she typed up once she returned to Avengers Tower. “Where’d you look for evidence?”

“Everywhere,” Nat says.

She takes a second to steady her breathing. The piney scent of her air freshener lingers on the cool breeze, which blasts from her AC unit in rapid spurts. Nat collects herself, composes her thoughts, compartmentalizes her frustration, and locks it down.

Despite her mixed feelings—Steve’s confusing behavior, their inability to locate decent evidence—she’s loving this. There’s nothing like the thrill of a new puzzle waiting to be solved. It’s why she adores the Sudoku puzzles Peter got her hooked on.

God, she missed being in the field.

Nat glances around the room, from the potted fern Pepper brought her to the children’s drawings hanging on the wall. Morgan’s a shit artist. She can’t color inside the lines to save her life, and she loves her red marker a tad too much. Elsa and Olaf look like murder victims.

“We didn’t look everywhere,” Nat amends. Her voice levels off, becomes composed. “A security guard caught us when we tried to enter the basement complex. We said we were lost, and he escorted us out. Before that, we poked around a couple of empty offices. I got us into Harold Johnson’s main server—he’s a shrink on the fourth floor—but I couldn’t access any records through his account. Just his email. He has a disturbing fondness for watching porn at work, but I couldn’t find any records of Hydra activity.”

“Did you find anything of note?” Fury leans forward, and the leather chair squeaks. “Anything at all?”

“He has a thing for group scenes.”

Fury hides his lips with a fist. Nat gets the feeling he’s trying not to smile. “I meant in his emails, woman. God damn.”

“I already told you. He’s clean.”

“What did you search for?”

“Key words,” Nat says. “Hydra. Mission. Avengers. Nazi.”

Fury folds his arms over his denim jacket. After all these years, he still feels the need to micromanage her. Sometimes she appreciates his attention, and sometimes it makes her want to slam her head against the wall. Right now, she’s closer to the latter than the former.

“I’m kidding,” she says. “I know what I’m doing, Nick. If he was dirty, I would’ve found something.”

“I know you would’ve,” Fury says roughly. “You’re my best agent, Nat. That’s why I’ve put you on this assignment.”

That triggers something deep and dark within her—the urge to come through for him. The desire to see this mission to the end, no matter what it takes. Craving approval is dangerous—she knows Fury is using her. He’s been praise dumping on her since the first time Clint introduced them, back when her leger was red and she was still half in love with the presumed-dead Dreykov.

Fury cares about her. Nat doesn’t doubt that. But SHIELD’s agenda comes first to him, and they both know it.

“Are you sure this is a Hydra cell?” Nat asks, watching him carefully.

“Positive,” Fury says without batting an eye. “I have a good source.”

“May I ask who it is?”

“You may not.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Fury’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Coulson,” he says, after a pause. “His team is rebuilding SHIELD. There’s not a doubt in my mind that their intel is accurate. You remember Melinda May?”

Obviously Nat remembers May. Dark, long hair. Narrow eyes. Level-minded. Savage. Badass. A brilliant spy, and an even better asset. She’s saved Nat’s life on more than one occasion, and she never even worked for the red room. Nat has no idea where she got her instincts.

“I remember,” she says, instead of saying any of that.

“You can call her if you want more details,” Fury says. “You’ve still got her number?”

Nat doesn’t. She lost her primary phone after the Civil War, when the Avengers were in pieces and she was trying to lose a dozen tails. Right now, her only contacts are Steve, Peter, Tony, Clint, and Pepper. Those are the only people who matter to her, really. Her parents and sister are listed in her spare phone, which she keeps in a locked safe along with forty-thousand dollars cash and a couple of passports.

“Of course I have May’s number,” Nat says. Another lie. “I’ll call her tonight.”

Fury doesn’t move at all. His posture stays rigid yet relaxed, a fascinating juxtaposition. He’s the only man Nat’s ever met who can pull it off.

“You do that,” he says. “She’ll back me up.”

Against her better judgement, Nat decides to trust him. She rests her elbows on the desk and surveys him with her coldest look. Once again, Fury doesn’t move.

“I hate therapy,” she says. “Even if it’s fake.”

“Maybe you should take advantage of the opportunity,” Fury says. “You’re fucked up on a cellular level.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

“Anytime.”

“You do recall our friendly neighborhood shrink is a Hydra agent, right?” Nat tucks her tongue between her teeth. “You want me to bare my soul to her?”

“I can set you up with a therapist who’s not a Nazi,” Fury says swiftly. “Independently from Steve, of course. I have a short list of twenty counselors I think could help you—”

Nat gives him the death stare that statement deserves.

“Fine.” Fury shrugs. “Keep it all bottled up, even if it kills you. Who am I to judge? I’m legally dead.”

Nat opens her filing cabinet, pulls out a flask and two glasses, and pours them both drinks. She slides one across the desk, and Fury takes it. The liquor burns her throat, but she pushes down the vial and finishes the shot. Her eyes burn, and when she looks at Fury, he’s shuddering.

“The fuck did you just give me?” he demands.

“It’s Asgardian.” She examines the flask. “Thor gave this to me. You want more?”

“Hell no.”

“Me neither.” Nat brushes her finger over the rough, golden lettering across the silver metal. “Well…actually I do, but I shouldn’t. I have to drive tonight.”

“Where?”

“Family dinner upstate.” She raises a shoulder. “Yelena’s telling our parents she’s dropping out of the PI business. She wants to take some time to work on her art.”

“Sorry.” Fury raises a finger, his expression scornful. “Did you just say that Yelena Belova, assassin, spy, black widow, one of the CIA’s most wanted…wants to work on her art?”

“I’m trying to get her off the fed’s hit list.” Nat tosses her hair over her shoulder. “But yeah. She paints.”

“Is she good?”

“Meh.” Nat glances at the coloring book pages pinned to her wall. “Morgan’s better.”

“So she’s terrible—actually, never mind. Don’t tell Stark I said that.” Fury barks out a short, harsh laugh. “How’s Yelena’s new career going to go over with Alexei and Melina?”

“It’ll be fine,” Nat says.

Lie number three.

###

Nat’s motorcycle speeds down the interstate like she’s got a death wish. A cop tries to tail her when she exits the city, but she ducks into back road after back road until she loses him. Tall, looming skyscrapers sink into plush greenery, and the smell of forest hits her like a punch. Nat peers through her helmet into the dusky sunset. She’s wearing Yelena’s vest under her leather jacket, but she shivers anyway.

Winter is coming, as they’d say on Game of Thrones, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Maybe she can ask Thor if he has any god friends who can heat up the city. Nat doesn’t hate anything as much as she loathes the cold. Well…that’s another lie. Traitors, maybe. Therapists. Dreykov, these days. Clowns. Yellowjackets. People who pair socks with sandals. Neon pink crocs, like the ones Peter wears around the tower. Hydra agents. Family dinners.

Upon reflection, Nat realizes she hates a lot of things.

She enters the suburbs and passes row after row of cookie cutter houses. She turns left onto Carter Street, where the famed Red Guardian is hiding out these days. He wanted to live in the city, but Melina insisted on the outskirts. She needed land to keep her damn pigs. Natasha does her best to skip as many dinners as she can—really, she tries to avoid her parents as much as possible —but her sister insisted she come tonight. Yelena is twenty-seven—practically a kid, Nat thinks—and she wants a family. That’s the least Nat can give her, considering all the shit they’ve been through. However much Nat’s family annoys her, she’ll keep coming to the damn reunions.

Maybe that’s what family is.

Nat parks between a silver Prius and a beat up truck. She eyes the rows of houses that cuddle together. Some have roses. Some have shrubs that are too green to be pesticide free. Some feature white picket fences—what a fucking cliché—while others have neat, trimmed bushes that reek of elderberry. A few of the homes are three stories, while others boast only two.

Nat slides off her bike and walks down the concrete road.

Yelena leans against a red motorcycle in front of a ranch house. She’s parked between two crystal white Kia Sedonas, and she looks out of place. Uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s paired a tight blue blazer with a green tennis skirt.

Nat jerks her head up in greeting. Yelena copies the gesture, then adjusts her coat—Nat doesn’t doubt that she’s got at least two guns hidden on her person, plus half a dozen knives. God knows where she’s hiding them in that outfit, but the Red Room trained them both well. Nat pulls her into a hug, then thumbs her finger over Yelena’s face. She wipes away a smudge of mascara that made it onto her sister’s brow ridge. It doesn’t come off. It must be waterproof. She licks her thumb and scrubs the blemish away. Yelena squirms and scowls, but she doesn’t protest.

“You sure you want to do this?” Nat asks. “We could ghost them.”

Yelena’s forehead creases.

“Go off the map,” Nat clarifies. “Delete their contacts. Scrub them from our minds.”

Yelena crosses her arms over her blazer.

“They’re our parents,” she says in her clipped, stern accent.

“Not really,” Nat says.

Yelena’s face twists.

“I mean…of course they are,” Nat corrects herself. “Definitely. One hundred percent. But family is a privilege, not a right. If they don’t like the people we turned out to be, it’s none of their fucking business. You and me will stick together no matter what, Lena.”

“I have read books on adoption,” Yelena says musingly. “Blood does not make a family. Love makes a family.”

So they’re not our family, then, Nat wants to say, but she doesn’t.

Yelena brushes a tress of blond hair behind her shoulder. “Alexei and Melina will love me no matter what.” Her forehead creases. “No?”

No. Yelena’s such a goddamn child. Nat grits her teeth and forces herself to lie.

“I’ll bear the brunt of the attack,” she says, hating herself for making the offer. “I’m going to couples counseling with Captain America.”

Yelena’s expression morphs from sullen to ecstatic in a matter of seconds. She grabs both of Nat’s shoulders and shakes her—honest to God shakes her— like they’re a couple of preteens.

“You have a boyfriend?” Yelena says gleefully. “I have never met father’s enemy. Father will hate this! He’ll curse and moan and berate you for betraying the family! I’ll finally be his favorite, and he’ll fund my art for years to come!”

Nat’s pretty sure Yelena’s about half a second away from literally jumping up and down, so she takes a step back and carefully extracts herself from her sister’s hands.

“We’re not actually dating,” she says quickly. “It’s an assignment. A mission. Nothing more.”

“Father won’t care about that.”

“You’re right.” Nat’s voice comes out flat. “He probably won’t.”

“Couples counseling,” Yelena echoes musingly. She moves forward, fully invading Nat’s personal space. “The key word is ‘couple,’ no? Is Steve Rogers good looking? Is he kind? Does he love you?”

“Yes, definitely, and absolutely not,” Nat jerks her head to the three-story, marble-gray house with a black iron fence. “We should probably go in there.”

“I love you, sister.” Yelena squeezes her, hard enough that Nat can feel it through the leather. “We will get through this together. I’ll have my art, and you’ll have your man, and our parents will love us either way.”

“I still think we should leave. We could get dinner in the city.”

“What fun would that be?” Yelena’s smile gleams. “We’re such disappointments, you and I. I may have lost my stomach for murder, but at least I’m not bringing sexual pleasure to Father’s nemesis! This will be such a fun conversation.”

Nat nobly resists the urge to climb back onto her motorcycle and abandon Yelena in the desolate suburbs.

###

“And then I killed him.” Alexei finishes, black beard trembling, and smacks the wooden table for emphasis. “He died. End of story. No more American Devil. Dead. Kablammo.”

Nat rips a hunk off her steak with her rear teeth. She eyes the vase of pink roses at the center of the table instead of responding. Melina’s gaze is fixed on her wineglass. Yelena’s staring at her own meat, practically vibrating out of her chair.

Fifty seconds before she blows, Nat thinks to herself. Maybe forty.

“You may applaud now,” Alexei says pointedly, his accent clipped. “I did vanquish the American Devil, after all.”

Melina brings her hands together in two short, sharp claps. Alexei sighs.

“None of you appreciate my virtue.” He downs the rest of his wineglass. “Women. Aye.. Must I always be ignored and dismissed like this—?”

“I don’t like killing people,” Yelena says suddenly. “I’m done with needless murder. No more of this assassin-for-hire business. I’m going clean. I have bought nice oils and fancy brushes, and my artwork will make me famous. You should see some of my works, Father—I could make Wassily Kandinsky cry tears of jealousy. If either of you have a problem with this, talk to Natalia. She has my back. Besides, she’s welcomed Captain America into her bed and heart. Let’s talk about that instead of my new career.”

Alexei pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. A moment passes. Then two. Then three. His throat bobs. He glances at Melina, who’s expression is carefully bright.

“I made chocolate salami for dessert,” Melina says sweetly. “Who wants some?”

“Ooh,” Yelena says. “I do.”

Alexei’s face is turning colors that Nat’s certain Yelena’s brushes couldn’t capture—a faint pink, then crimson, then a deep vermillion that’s almost impressive. Nat shoves another bite of steak into her mouth and washes it down with ice water. Her left hand creeps beneath the table and settles on the gun tucked into her waistband. She waits.

“Natalia.” Alexei’s voice is somewhere between a growl and a snarl. “Are you tangled in the sheets with my foe, whose death I crave in the tender moments before sleep?”

“Yelena wants to be a painter,” Nat says flatly. “Aren’t you proud, Alexei?”

“We’ll. Get. To. Her.” Alexei’s tone doesn’t shift. “Is this true, Natalia?”

Nat flips her gaze to Yelena. Her sister’s gaze is beseeching. Dazed. Hopeful. Nat chews on a wedge of tangy fat and longs for a different life. A better life, one where she’s out of this mess. Hell, she’d take therapy with Steve and Saundra over whatever shit is going down in this drafty, too-cold dining room.

When undercover, it’s best to keep the story straight each time you tell it, Nat reminds herself.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m having an affair with Steve. We’re madly in love—or, at least, we would be, if he wasn’t still fixated on his ex-girlfriend from 1946.”

The room is as silent as a morgue. Nat shoots one last glance in Yelena’s direction—her sister beams at her. Nat turns her attention to Alexei. He looks as if she’s just shot him straight in the face.

“He’s my nemesis,” Alexei breathes. “You…you traitor …”

Well. At least he hasn’t hauled out the slurs.

“Steve’s incredible,” Nat says, wondering if his face can get any redder. “He’s been my best friend since the day I met him. He’s sweet. He’s loving. He’s caring. You should be happy for me.”

Yelena owes her so damn much.

Alexei’s chest heaves. His lips curl back into an open-tooth glower. At long last, Melina breaks out of her trance. Her dark eyebrows lower over her gaze, and her round face smooths into a smile. She leans across the table toward Nat, and her lined forehead creases.

“We are happy for you, my beloved daughter,” she says. “Aren’t we, Alexei?”

Alexei looks like he’d rather pitch himself off a bridge than echo the statement. He jerks his wrist away from Melina and shovels the rest of the steak into his mouth. Juice drips down his chin, staining his white sweater. Yelena’s hand snakes under the table and squeezes Nat’s thigh. Nat takes the gesture for what it is. Thank you.

Nat decides, right then and there, to go all in. For Yelena’s sake. She’ll protect her sister’s best interests until her dying breath. Sweet, broken, artistic Yelena—if Nat doesn’t support her, no one will. Nat can’t let that happen. She let herself be tugged away from her sister when they were children. All the things Nat went through—all the things she has to block out for the sake of her mental health—Yelena went through, too. Nat doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that she failed to protect her. She loves Yelena like she’s never loved anyone else.

If anyone’s getting disowned by their non-biological parents tonight, it’s going to be Nat.

“I’m in love with Steve.” Nat stares directly at Alexei. “If you have a problem with that, kick me out of your house. Tell me I’m not your daughter anymore. Try to kill me—you couldn’t, of course, but you could give it your best shot. I don’t care. I’d choose Steve over you every time without fail. He was there for me while you were rotting in prison. He introduced me to hot chocolate. I’ve laughed with him, I’ve played chess with him, I’ve fought him, and more than anyone else walking this earth, he taught me how to be a good person. That’s more than you ever did for me. Go ahead—make me choose.”

“There’s no need to get upset, Natalia,” Melina says soothingly. She nudges Alexei. “I already said we’d support you. Right, my love?”

Alexei looks like he’s trying to swallow a rock.

“Bring him here,” he says. “Bring the Captain America here. I will embrace him like a son.”

“Wait.” Nat’s pulse skyrockets—this is not how the conversation is supposed to be going. “No. That’s not what I—”

“We support you,” Alexei echoes flatly. “We love you. That’s all that matters.”

Yelena beams. Nat wonders how she can stop this before they cross into uncharted territory. Hell, they’re past that—she has no idea what to say, or what to do. She tries to mask up, but she can feel her façade flickering…

What would Nick Fury do? she asks herself, but for once in her life, she doesn’t know.

What would Peter do? Probably distract everyone with some insane, chaotic story, but she doesn’t have any of those up her sleeve.

What would Steve do?

If she were Steve, maybe she could forgive Alexei for tricking her into believing in the abstract concept of family, then abandoning her, then making things right when it was decades too late.

One thing is clear. Her father is playing a game with her, and every game can be won. The problem is, Nat doesn’t know what her next move is. She doesn’t know what to feel, or how to think, or what to say.

“I’m going to finish what I started with Steve.” Her voice shakes—her voice never shakes. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me, Father.”

“So I won’t,” Alexei says simply. “You will bring him to our next dinner, Natalia—Monday works for me and Melina, I believe.”

“I can accommodate that as well,” Yelena says cheerfully. “I’m a painter now. I make my own schedule.”

Nat’s going to kill her.

“You will bring him here,” Alexei continues. “And we will talk about his intentions with you. If this is the man you have chosen for yourself, I will turn him into a Shostakov. Fear not, my darling.”

“Hang on a minute,” Nat protests. “First of all, no—”

“The Captain America has his sins, and we will feast upon them as a family.” Yelena casts a quick grin in her direction. “As Natasha has told us, Steve’s still in love with another woman. This is unacceptable. He needs your guidance, Father.”

“No,” Nat repeats emphatically. “Lena—”

“It is settled,” Yelena says cheerfully. “Natalia will bring her lover to dinner on Monday evening. Yes?”

“Yes,” Alexei agrees.

“Da.” Melina reaches for her wineglass and taps it against Alexei’s.

“You all heard me say no, right?” Nat demands.

No one listens to her. Melina’s already ducked into the kitchen to bring out the chocolate salami.

For the first time in her entire life, Nat longs for another alien invasion.

Chapter Text

[4]

I never meant to start a fire,
I never meant to make you bleed.
I’ll be a better man today, I’ll be good
for all of the times that I never could.
- Excerpt from “I’ll be Good” by Jaymes Young

On Wednesday morning, Steve uses Google Maps to plot the route from Avengers Tower to the Oakdale Regional Library. He jogs it instead of driving—it’s only four miles. Steve’s motorcycle has started humming ominously whenever he rides, and Tony hasn’t gotten around to fixing it.

The morning is beautiful, and the fall air is pleasant and crisp. The greenery on either side of the road is luscious in that East Coast foliage way. It’s a satisfying trek. Unfortunately, the previous day’s therapy appointment—and the disappointing investigation of Harold Johnson’s psychiatry office—weighs heavily on his mind. He tries not to think about Natasha’s low blow—I’m hurt that you’re avoiding me, Steve—but can’t seem to think of anything else. He is avoiding her, and the fact of the matter is he doesn’t know how to stop.

Steve pushes his body harder, faster, until he’s finished the third mile at a sprint and is gasping for oxygen like he’s drowning. Here he thought his asthmatic days were behind him. Apparently not.

When he gets to the library—sweaty and hot—he spends a few minutes looking around. Steve didn’t know libraries took private donations, but apparently Tony is a major donor. Pictures of his face are plastered on every wall, and cardboard cutouts of Iron Man pose between shelves. It’s not large as libraries go—Steve got lost inside the Stephan A. Schwarzman Building in Manhattan—but it’s cozy. Lined with armchairs and beanbags, there are enough books for a moderately impressive collection. There’s a back room for quiet study, as well as a desk where patrons can check out computers and chargers.

As he peruses the rows of books, Steve thumbs through his black notebook of Things To Experience. He has a long list of novels people have recommended—Hoffman, Atwood, Collins, King—but honestly? He wants old books that time can’t change. His heart craves something familiar, something that makes him nostalgic for his childhood. In the end he picks up a dog-eared copy of Hamlet and The Odessey. He doesn’t think he’s ever read the texts, but his high school teachers probably would’ve assigned them if he hadn’t dropped out and enlisted.

“English major or lit head?” the librarian asks when he hands her Bruce’s card.

“Neither, ma’am.”

She sees his face. “Holy shit, you’re Captain America.”

He does the guilty caught me smile and extends a hand. “Steve. Nice to meet you.”

“Back at you.” The librarian shakes it with a firm grip. “I’m a big fan.”

Steve looks her up and down. She’s young but not too young—mid-twenties, no older than thirty—and her face is aesthetically pleasing in a symmetrical sort of way. Her shiny brown hair falls around her chin in a bob, and her eyes are comically huge, like a baby deer. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a red hoodie. Her nametag says Madison.

“Never thought I’d have reason to say this, but here goes.” She releases the handshake. “You can’t use the Hulk’s library card to check out books. Sorry, Captain America.”

“Come on,” Steve says. “Please?”

“We’ll get you one of your own,” she promises. “Can I see your ID?”

Steve suddenly remembers why he hates government workers on principle. He hopes Madison’s one of the good ones. He’s never met a good one before, but they’ve got to be out there. “I don’t have an ID,” he says.

Her forehead creases. “You don’t have a driver’s license?”

“My birth certificate is in a museum,” he says. “I need an ID to get it back. I need my birth certificate to get an ID. Be a pal and let me use my friend’s bona fides.”

“That means Captain America drives without a driver’s license.” Her eyes narrow. “I’ve seen footage of you crashing cars and motorcycles on the internet. A lot of footage.”

“Ma’am, all I want is Hamlet,” he says. “I don’t even need the other one—Hamlet is enough.”

“No license, but you drive. No card, but you want books. I’m sensing a pattern.”

It’s been a long, lonely week. Sam and Buck have been off on a mission. Tony’s taking Morgan, Peter, and the kid’s aunt to Disney World. Bruce is on call at the local hospital and is basically living there. Steve’s almost looking forward to couple’s counselling next Tuesday. A safe, proctored encounter with Nat will break the monotony of being at home—alone—binging Netflix in Tony’s home theater, mourning the past, and pushing his body through workout after workout. The exciting life of a retired superhero.

Steve leans across the check-out desk and gives the young lady his best listen here, kid stare.

“I’ve broken into the Smithsonian, ma’am,” he says. “This is a public library in Oakdale. You can help me or try to stop me, but either way, it’ll end the same for both of us. I’m taking these books home with me today. One way or another, that’s what’s happening.”

###

The county of Oakdale gives its librarians prosecutorial discretion when dealing with patrons. Madison Stern—disowned daughter of a disgraced senator, fan of Captain America, bureaucrat with no patience for federal theft or general lawlessness—files the paperwork immediately.

Steve Rogers is banned from the Oakdale Regional Library for life.

###

Steve calls Nat from outside the library. “Saundra told us to play a game together,” is his opening line.

“Kind of busy, Steve.” Nat’s out of breath. “I’m in an interrogation with May. We think the HYDRA-funded psychiatrists are working out of the fourth floor—”

“What if, in our hypothetical game, you got to steal?” Steve winces at his own verbiage. “No, not steal. Borrow.”

“I’ll admit your rebranding intrigues me.”

Steve thought it might. “How soon can you be at the Oakdale Regional Library?”

She pauses again. In the background, a man screams.

“Twenty-five minutes,” she says. “Half hour at most.”

“You can go now if you want,” says a woman’s voice, sly and close to the phone. “I’ll clean up here. Wouldn’t want to keep your partner waiting, Natasha. ”

“See you soon, Nat,” Steve says, and ends the call with a tap of his thumb.

Twenty minutes later, her silver Jaguar F-Pace pulls adjacent to the cracked pavement. Steve hesitates for long enough to regret calling her—what was he thinking? —but forces himself to open the passenger door and climb inside. Nat creeps into a parking spot beside the book return, taking care to keep the vehicle in shade cast by the looming oak.

“Here’s the game,” Steve tells her as she kills the engine. “If you get a book for me, you win. If you get Hamlet, you win twice.”

“Clearly you’re having some sort of nervous breakdown,” Nat says. “How about we play a game where you tell me what’s actually wrong and then I fix it?”

Try as he might, Steve can’t force himself to say the words I got banned from the Oakdale Regional Library for life aloud. “I just want a book,” he says. “That’s it. I promise.”

“Fine,” Nat says.

She goes into the library and comes back two minutes later with a copy of Hamlet. “Didn’t even have to steal it,” she tells him. “I just used my library card like a normal person.”

Steve doesn’t respond. His eyes burn as he flips through the pages, and he’s not entirely sure why. Nat backs out of the parking spot and turns left at the road.

“Feel like sparring?” she asks.

Steve does, actually.

###

The training room is on the ground floor of Avenger’s tower. Steve stretches in boxing cage with no small amount of apprehension—he’s stronger, Nat’s faster, and somehow, he never seems to get the jump on her. That’s not to say he ever loses bouts to her—he’s a super soldier. That said, she manages to make him feel like she’s out of his league even though she’s not.

“Here’s my game,” Nat announces after as she the locker room in a signature catsuit. “It’s called one new thing you know for every solid blow. Tony’s been reading Jeff Stone’s books to Morgan, and I listen in sometimes. I can appreciate the aesthetic.”

“How do you play?” Steve asks.

“If you land a direct hit, you get to ask a question,” she says. “The other person must answer candidly. Scout’s honor.”

“This doesn’t seem like your type of game,” Steve notes.

She ducks below a rope, hoists herself into the cage, and walks toward him. Before he knows what’s happening, a clawed fist smashes into his windpipe. Steve hisses out a noise like a tire being deflated and stumbles backward. He rubs his neck.

“I win the first point,” Nat says, looking pleased. “What’s the deal with you and Hamlet?”

“I haven’t had a library card since I was seventeen years old,” Steve says through gritted teeth, “and today I was made aware of the fact that I’ll likely never have one again. Also, I didn’t know we were playing yet. That was a cheap shot.”

“Why do you care?”

“Not so fast,” Steve says, and kicks her legs out from under her.

Next thing he knows they’re rolling on the floor—her legs are wrapped around his hips, and his elbow us digging into her shoulder, and she’s biting his forearm like a dog. He clocks her on the temple—hard enough that her eyes get a bit unfocused—and gets his arm away. It’s covered in her slobber and bleeding.

“My turn to ask a question,” he says. For some unknown, unfathomable reason, what comes out of his mouth is, “How do you feel about sex?”

Nat stills beneath him. She looks up at him, eyes wide, and then she cackles.

He waits patiently for her to be done, uncomfortably aware that he’s pinned her to the mat and most of their bodies are touching. “Are you twelve?” he asks.

“How do I feel about sex?” she says goadingly. “Where’s this coming from, Steve?”

“Not how the game works,” he says. “You don’t get to counterquestion me. You have to answer honestly.”

He rolls off her, because it’s an uncomfortable conversation topic when he’s pinning her. Nat sits up and tightens her ponytail. She’s not laughing anymore, and her gaze is equal parts intense and curious.

“If honesty is what you’re looking for, you’re bound to be disappointed,” she says. “I don’t have strong feelings about sex, for it or against it. I’ve had enough to know it’s almost always bad. The one time it meant something to me, my partner had a girlfriend who later became his wife. It’s a secret better left in the grave. Unless you can have it without feelings, you shouldn’t have it at all. That’s my take.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says.

She reaches out and slaps his face lightly. It doesn’t hurt at all. “Solid blow,” she says. “How do you feel about sex?”

“Never had any,” Steve says. “By the parameters you just gave me, it seems overrated.”

He expects her to jump on the confession. The topic of his virginity has been a source of speculation in Avengers Tower since he thawed out—this is the first time he’s confirmed it. Instead of poking fun, Nat studies him. An inquisitive expression twists her delicate features into a slight smile.

“I thought…” She trails off, then shrugs a shoulder. “Peggy?”

“No. God no.” Steve laughs. “When would we have had the time? World War II took up most of our attention.”

“What about 1946?”

“1946 is a dead end,” he says firmly. “I went back to say goodbye.”

He’s not sure what he expects her to say in response, but it’s definitely not, “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to meet my family?”

Steve stares at her, trying to make sense of the non sequitur. “Of course.”

“We’re having a family dinner tomorrow night,” she says, tone too casual to be unforced. “Would you like to come?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation.

“One thing.” She raises a taunting finger. “You have to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“What? Why?”

“Long story,” she says. “I won’t bore you with the details. It involves my sister’s artistic dreams and my father’s general assholiry.”

Steve doesn’t know how he should be feeling. Nothing about this conversation is easy or comfortable. He feels like they’re speaking different languages, and only the smallest fragments of sentences are making it through the barrier. He wants to meet Nat’s family—wants it in a way he hasn’t wanted anything for a long time—but pretending to be her boyfriend? Its bad enough when he has to do it in therapy. She’s forcing him to blur it still further—while they’re off the clock no less.

Still. It’s her family. Nothing in this world is more important than family—nothing at all. Steve knows that as someone who has very little of it left. Nat’s his, and he’s hers.

“I’ll do it,” he says. “Babe,” he adds haltingly.

Her grin is downright demonic. “Tomorrow night, then.”

“Tomorrow night,” he agrees, then pulls her to her feet and throws another punch. He wants to know how she feels about dating, and to do that, he has to land another solid blow.

Chapter Text

Try to find a chain that I won’t break,
a price I wouldn’t pay for what I want.
You can call me calculating,
you can say I’ve lost my mind,
you can throw me to the wolves
I’ll be alright.

- Excerpt from "Empire" by Beth Crowley

Steve’s not sure where he was expecting Natasha’s family to live—from what he knows about them, they’re famed ex-assassins—so the suburbs of uptown New York weren’t high on the list of potential estates where they might be lying low. If—gun to his head—someone asked him to guess, he would’ve suggested a crooked apartment complex that looked like a front for the mafia, maybe, or an abandoned warehouse. Not a cookie cutter house complete with wraparound white picket fence, the distant sounds of snorting pigs and cawing chickens providing the backdrop of a suburban daydream.

Nat drove, and she gets out of the car with the air of someone approaching her own execution. Head bowed, lips pursed…if Steve didn’t know better, he’d think she was nervous. But he does know better, because Nat’s not the type of person to allow anxiety for anything less than a full-blown alien invasion or Nazi threat (and even for those, he likes to imagine her emotional scale goes from “not a big deal” to “barely fussed.”)

“My family’s a lot,” she says noncommittally as they approach the front porch. “Don’t let them get to you.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, even though all of this is definitely getting to him. Still, there are worse things in the world than pretending to be someone’s boyfriend for a night. Even if he may or may not have feelings for her, it’s good. He’s doing her—and her sister—a favor. He can get some good guy points and not feel bad about enjoying it, right?

The door swings open to reveal a pretty brunette woman—fifties, maybe—hair braided into a crown, wearing a stereotypical 1950s housewife dress complete with apron. The look she fixes him with is so severe he almost takes a step backward, but it morphs into a smile when she catches sight of Natasha. Steve extends a hand and realizes—a bit belatedly—he’s never done a “meet the parents” bit before. This is new territory for him, and he finds he wants to impress her.

“Howdy, ma’am.” Who is he and when did howdy enter his vocabulary? He must be more nervous than he thought. “I mean, nice to meet you. I’m Steve Rogers.”

“Melina Vostokoff.” She shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Delighted to hear you’re dating my daughter.”

“Thank you.”

“Less delighted to hear you’re in love with another woman.”

“Ah…excuse me?”

Nat brushes by him, leaving Steve confused and a little put out, lingering on the front porch like some dilapidated hooligan. Why the hell would Nat tell her parents she’s dating him, only to double down with the whole still in love with Peggy bit that Steve thought they’d worked past? It doesn’t make sense, and although he’s used to that with Nat—a lot of what she does genuinely baffles him—it doesn’t leave him with the warm fuzzies for this coming dinner.

As soon as Nat’s out of sight, Melina’s finger makes its way to Steve’s chest. Her eyes narrow, and her lips purse into a tight frown. Her pinched, sharp features remind him of a crow—far too perceptive to be comfortable.

This woman is dangerous. He can tell just by looking at her.

“My husband doesn’t like you,” she says. “I don’t like you. And if I wasn’t afraid of losing Natalia, there would be no place for you in my home. I don’t appreciate men who can’t commit, especially not to a woman who’s doubtlessly the best thing to ever happen to them. Ponyat?”

“I’m in love with Nat.”

The lie slides off his tongue quickly, quick enough it’s out of his mouth before he realizes it’s not a lie. Of course it’s not—of course he’s coming to terms with his feelings here of all places, with Melina’s finger knuckle deep in his chest. There’s a world of difference between loving someone and being in love with them, and Steve’s walking the line with all the grace of a suicide jumper on the Brooklyn bridge. Falling for Nat is like being sucker punched 24/7, 365 days a year; no time to breathe or think or reflect on his feelings, just Nat, Nat, Nat, in his mind constantly like the world's most pervasive tic. Falling for Nat is like knowing you’re screwed, knowing how you got there, and knowing there’s no way out—all in one. Falling for Nat is knowing you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to break down the walls of a woman who’s turned keeping them up into an exact science. Falling for Nat is hopeless and stupid and irrevocable. Falling for Nat is—was—inevitable.

She’s not just a best friend. She’s oxygen. All-consuming, necessary, irreplaceable.

And she told her family he still has feelings for Peggy.

Steve finds himself stammering. “I…if you don’t want me to come in…”

“Come in,” Nat yells from somewhere inside, and Steve blanches, wondering if she heard his admittance. Again, huge difference between loving someone and being in love—couldn’t he have come to this realization anywhere other than face to face with her mother? “Yelena’s already here. Meet my sister.”

Melina leads him to a comfortable sitting room. Yelena and Nat’s father are seated beside each other on a plush green settee, holding glasses of wine and fixing him with expressions that could be considered politely hostile. Yelena, at least, manages to twist her face into a guarded smile when Nat brushes by and nudges her with a hip—Nat’s father accomplishes no such thing.

“Yelena, Alexi, Steve,” Nat says. “All of you—be nice.”

Why’d you tell them I was in love with another woman, then? Steve almost asks, but he settles on, “How do you do, sir?”

“I am the Red Guardian.” Face slightly pink from the wine, Alexi’s chest expands like he’s throwing it out for Steve’s benefit. “Conqueror of men, woman, and children, battalion for the motherland, fighter for all causes noble and righteous. You’re a fighter too, no?”

“Sure,” says Steve.

“You would crack beneath me like a beetle on its priklad. We’ve fought before and I made you dirt. Do you remember?”

Judging by the man’s glassy gaze and protruding gut, Steve thinks he could probably take the guy this time around (if it’s even true they fought before and he got leveled—he’s fought a lot of people, and he honestly doesn’t remember this particular gentleman) but—it’s Nat’s father—and he wants to make good.

“Can’t say I do,” he says. “When was this?”

The Red Guardian pointedly doesn’t answer, which makes Steve think they’ve probably never fought. “Do you smoke?”

“No, sir.”

“You do now.” Alexi brandishes two rolled cigars with fervor. “We will take a pre-dinner break on the patio to become acquainted with each other. Any man who lays hands on my daughter can handle a Cuban and a conversation.”

Like most people who’ve just been informed they now smoke, Steve has no words. He nods mutely and follows Alexi out to the balcony. It’s comfortably furnished—two wicker armchairs with a table set between them—and looks out over rooved pig pens. Steve takes in the setting sun, the strong smell of manure and fresh-cut grass, and the distant view of the New York skyline. He sits beside his fake girlfriend’s father, accepts one of the cigars and a lighter, and presses the butt to his lips. The cough takes him by surprise, his lungs rejecting the smoke like its poison (which it is, he reminds himself, because smoking is a terrible decision for people who don’t care about their health). The oaky stench makes him gag, even after the coughing fit subsides.

“Like it, eh?” Alexi asks gruffly.

Steve tries to hand it back. “I told you—I don’t smoke.”

“It just takes practice.” Alexi exhales a cloud of gray and kicks his feet up on the banister. He’s clad in a suit—it’s a little tight on him—and looks more businessman than assassin. Steve wonders if Alexi dressed up for the occasion of meeting him. “Keep trying, my boy.”

Feeling a little pathetic at how much the endearment warms him, Steve tries again. If anything, the coughing spell is worse the second time around. Alexi takes pity on him and plucks the cigar from his outstretched fingers, alternates smoking it with his own as if taking two cigars at one time is a perfectly normal thing to do. Steve watches, equal parts impressed and concerned for the man’s lungs.

“So.” Alexi breaks the silence. “You and my daughter.”

Steve makes a noncommittal hmm noise.

“There are easier women to conquer,” Alexi says. “Natalia will not be easy.”

And the sky is blue, and the earth is round, and Tony can be a dick before he’s had his morning coffee. Telling Steve that his relationship with Natasha won’t be easy isn’t obvious—it’s laughable.

“She deserves better,” Alexi says. “Perhaps I would feel this way about any suitor, but a tiny bird told me that you can’t even get a library card.”

Something about that warms Steve too, in the strangest of ways—despite the chilly breeze, he feels a flush numb his cheeks. Nat must’ve gossiped on the phone with her father like a schoolgirl—perhaps yesterday evening—not just to inform Alexi that Steve was coming to dinner, but to fill him in on what they did that day. It’s oddly domestic and it makes Steve realize that—whatever Nat might claim—there’s a part of her that cares about cultivating relationships with these people she considers family. He’s been invited to dinner like a real boyfriend, he failed a smoking test her father set out for him, he’s been belittled—a bit—but he’s here, with Alexi, and this is his opportunity.

“Librarians.” Steve shakes his head ruefully. “If I just had a driver’s license—”

“You don’t have one of those either?”

“Do you?”

“Irrelevant. We’re discussing you, not me.”

Steve takes that as a no. “I get that no one’s good enough for Nat,” he says lightly. “She’s…” Incredible. Frightening. Frustratingly distant. “…a great gal.”

“She’s killed more men than myself and Melina combined,” Alexi boasts. “We could not be prouder.”

Steve winces a little at that—Nat’s past is still something to grapple with. He fell down the Wikipedia rabbit hole of sociopaths a few nights ago and learned more than he bargained for—antisocial, impulsive, manipulative, sometimes aggressive, are all traits Nat has. Googling things like can sociopaths form meaningful relationships and is a sociopath faking affection toward me only increased his insecurity, because—in all honesty—there’s no way Nat isn’t on the spectrum. Not just because she can kill—he doesn’t blame her for the circumstances she was forced into in her youth—but because lying comes as naturally to her as breathing.

He thinks they could work through it, possibly.

Maybe he’s kidding himself.

It’s something he can never afford to forget, in any case.

“How are things with you and Melina?” he asks, to change the subject.

“Stable.” Alexi alternates between the two cigars with practically every breath, blowing a steady stream of smoke into the dimming air. “We met when we were young, you know—around your age—and we never forgot each other. We never forgot this family. The crueler life is, the more you remember the good times. The blessings. And this family was the best blessing either of us ever got. You understand?”

Steve does, in a sad sort of way. He feels the same way about the Avengers, even after everything that went down with the accords. Perhaps especially because of everything that went down.

“Do you love her?” he asks, because the topic of love is so fresh on his mind he can hardly think of anything else. Alexi’s probably a sociopath too if he’s so proud of Nat’s leger—maybe he can give some insight into atypical relationships.

Alexi laughs—a loud, booming sound that shakes his stomach. “I worship her.”

“Is that love to you?”

“As close as it comes.”

“You’re saying it’s different than love.”

“What is love?” Alexi doesn’t seem to know—or care—that half the occupants of Avenger’s tower would break into song at the unintended quote—Steve’s familiar with the song, but only because of Peter. “Waking up next to the same person each morning? Feeding the pigs and chickens with them? Making dinner side by side, and going to bed each night knowing the next morning you’ll be doing the same? What we have is quiet. It’s complacent. It’s more comfortable than sleeping alone on a cot, not knowing if you’ll wake up to a stranger’s gun in your face. It’s a good life.”

“Baby don’t hurt me,” Steve deadpans. “Don’t hurt me. No more.”

“Precisely.” Another exhale, another cloud of smoke. “No more hurt. That is love.”

“Boys!” Melina’s voice comes through the screen door, a shrill sound. “Ay! Dinner!”

Alexi puts the cigars on the table and uses both armrests to hoist himself upward. He fixes Steve with an observant and all-knowing look as he does so, one that puts Steve on edge.

“Break her heart, I break your spine,” is all he says. “And your legs. And your neck.”

Steve raises his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.”

“I cut off the limp, flailing thing you call a chlen and staple it to my wall. Better there then near my daughter, no?”

Steve chokes out a laugh. “Jesus.”

“I frame it,” Alexi tells him. “Like a picture. A trophy.”

Steve slowly crosses his legs. “I get the idea.”

Alexi’s smile puts all his teeth on display. “Let’s eat, my boy.”

###

Dinner is spaghetti with meatballs and salad. Melina’s a good cook, and Steve has seconds and thirds, making sure to thank her with every helping. Yelena ropes him into casual conversation about shading patterns, and he gives her a couple of shadowing tips he picked up from sketching in a notebook while at basic. She huffs and rolls her eyes and pretends she already knows, but it’s easy conversation.

“I’ve decided I will be helping your boyfriend get a library card,” Alexi announces halfway through dinner. “No son-in-law of mine should resort to using yours, milaya. It’s improper and needless, no?”

Steve feels the tips of his ears warm at the son-in-law bit. “I need a driver’s license first.”

“Nonsense.” Alexi smacks his fist into an open palm. “You just need to talk to the librarian. Let her know you’re not asking—that card is yours. Be a man. I’ll help you, no? We go tomorrow.”

“That seems like a terrible idea,” Nat says through a mouthful of salad. “I’m happy to watch.”

“I’ve been banned from the Oakdale Regional Library for life,” Steve admits, a bit forlornly.

“Then I go without you,” Alexi says triumphantly. “I advocate on your behalf! I get you that card!”

The wine might be going to his head. His cheeks are pink, and he’s on his third glass.

“We have therapy in any case.” Nat sips her own glass. “Hydra agents don’t catch themselves. I don’t know what we’ll get out of another session with Saundra, but at least we’ll be in the building.”

Steve leaves the house with a comfortably full belly and the happy notion that Melina warmed to him, at least a little, after his fourth helping of pasta. She actually brushes her lips against his cheek on the way out the door.

“I hope you’re able to move on from your mistress,” she mutters. “I didn’t hate you as much as I was expecting to.”

That, combined with the warm hug Yelena pulls him into upon parting, combined with Alexi’s early declaration of support in terms of the library card situation, is enough to make Steve believe he’s successfully won over Nat’s family.

If only winning over Nat was as simple a task.

Chapter Text

I’m gonna build me an empire
And its lonely at the top
But madness and greatness can both share a face
And nobody will ever convince me to stop.

- Excerpt from "Empire" by Beth Crowley

Saundra’s long blond hair is pulled into two braids that fall over a flowy blouse. Her skirt is floral, and her lipstick matches the red flowers on her skirt. Nat feels underdressed by comparison in her tight jeans and casual tee—even Steve put on a collared shirt for therapy. She knows she should try harder—knows that appearances are important, and this undercover op is important, and everything about this whole damned mission is important—but she’s getting a bit demoralized that they’re three weeks in and have made no progress.

If she’s going to have to suffer through therapy, an arrest or two would make everything more interesting.

“How did the games go?” Saundra asks once they’re settled beside each other on the patterned couch. “What did you play? Did you have fun?”

“I got him a library book and then we sparred.” Nat responds on autopilot, her voice monotone. “We learned a new thing about each other for every solid blow we landed. Then I took him to dinner with my parents and sister.”

Saundra’s features pinch ever so slightly. “Physical violence isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested a game.”

Nat shrugs. “I landed more blows than he did.”

“Not true,” Steve protests.

“How did the dinner go?” Saundra asks.

“She told her parents I’m still in love with Peggy.” Steve leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and interweaving his fingers. “I want to talk about that—it feels like she set me up for failure.”

“It’s true.”

“It isn’t!” Steve sounds equal parts earnest and annoyed, and Nat feels taken aback that he’s taking this therapy thing so seriously. They’re supposed to be in and out today, then head down to the basement to finish the sweep that got cut off by the security guard at the end of last session—why is he trying to turn this into a thing? “I wanted them to like me, and Melina was cold the entire time. Plus, I thought we worked through the Peggy angle.”

“Interesting.” Saundra sounds pleased they have something concrete to talk about, which annoys Nat to no end. “Natasha—is there a reason you would tell your parents that Steve has feelings for another woman before bringing him to dinner?”

Nat’s annoyance is reaching unprecedented levels, and for the life of her she can’t figure out why. Normally she’s calmer than this, more collected, but the two-way attack is provoking her to no end.

“I say again—because it’s true.”

Steve smacks his hands against his thighs, his fingers crimping on his dress pants like spider’s legs. His expression is twisted, as if he’s as annoyed as she feels. Nat takes a deep breath and reminds herself that this is all fake. It doesn’t feel fake, though, and that’s the problem.

It feels like couple’s counseling. Actual, legitimate couple’s counseling.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” His voice is clipped. “I can say I’m over her until my face turns blue, but you’ve made up your mind and nothing I say is changing that. What do you want me to do, Nat?”

Nat crosses her arms over her chest and leans back on the couch, turning her gaze to Saundra and away from Steve.

“He talks a lot for someone who went back in time for a second chance.”

“To get closure! To say goodbye!”

“Perhaps it would help if Natasha knew more about what happened in 1946,” Saundra suggests. “Steve—can you tell us what it was like reuniting with an old flame? You and Natasha were still technically involved while this was happening, right?”

“No,” Steve says emphatically, then seems to realize he’s messing with a pre-determined timeline. “I mean…yes, I guess. Technically.”

“We were on a break.” Nat’s not sure why she’s giving him an out, but the reminder that this whole thing is a façade—they certainly weren’t involved in any capacity while Steve was returning the stones—is strangely calming. “Plus, I was messing around with Thor and Tony while he was checking Bucky into rehab—”

“Enough of that.” While her annoyance is on a downward spiral, Steve’s seems to be increasing. “None of that really happened, Saundra—she’s just saying it to grill my goats. Nat might pretend otherwise, but she’s loyal.”

To grill his goats? When did that become an expression? The last of her annoyance fades into amusement, and Nat fights an uncharacteristic urge to bury her head in her hands and laugh. Now they’re both giving each other outs, and this is feeling more and more like a mutual jerk off. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Is that true?” Saundra looks like she’s not sure who to believe, which is fair—their story keeps changing, and they’re not presenting like the same couple who came into the introductory session. “Nat—why would you lie about being faithful?”

“Oh, come on.” Nat clicks her tongue. “We’re getting nowhere.”

“On the contrary, this feels important.”

“It is important.” Steve turns to Nat and pulls the ring he wears around his neck out from under his collar. “Full disclosure—I know you’ve heard rumors—but I proposed to Peggy when I went back in time. She said no, obviously, and I’m not sure I wanted her to say yes. I don’t think I did. But it happened and it’s there, and it’s a lot shittier than anything you’ve ever done to me.”

Nat has no reason to be taken aback—none at all—and the fact that she and Steve weren’t even remotely together hangs at the forefront of her mind. He’s acting mopey and apologetic about something that shouldn’t concern her at all—we’re not even together now, she wants to scream, although that would be the final straw to get them kicked out of therapy.

Instead of saying any of that, for whatever reason, the words that come out of Nat’s mouth are, “If your as over her as you claim to be, why the fuck do you still wear that thing around your neck?”

Steve recoils as if she’s slapped him.

"To say goodbye," Nat mimics in a high, sweet voice that doesn't sound anything like her. "To get closure. Oh, and to propose."

Saundra raises a timid hand. “Perhaps we should explore why you felt compelled to ask a woman to marry you when you still had one waiting for you in the twenty-first century.”

“I was eighteen when I enlisted,” Steve says quietly. “Twenty when I went into the ice. For those—fairly formative—years, Peggy was a symbol of this dreamed future I had when I wasn’t fighting Nazis or running for my life. Like, if I could just get through the war and settle down, maybe I could have a peaceful life with her. A family, a house in the burbs—”

“How quaint.” Nat’s voice is a barb.

“I wanted what your parents have,” Steve says coolly. “Retirement.”

“At twenty?”

“War does things to people, Nat.”

It’s a reminder of how young he is—in terms of walking, talking, breathing years on the planet, he’s been around twenty-seven years. Maybe twenty-eight. Nat’s not sure how old she is, but she’s definitely in her thirties. It’s been over two decades since Clint and Fury got her away from the red room, and even if she was still a teenager when they tapped her into SHIELD—which she doubts—she feels a bit like a cradle robber for pretending to date him. She wonders if Saundra’s judging her.

“And you thought you could get your peaceful retirement after six years in the modern era,” she says.

“Peggy found someone else, actually,” he says. “Besides—she was never one to settle down. In 1946 she was actively working on building SHIELD, and leaving her there to do what’s already been done was easy. Staying there wouldn’t have been impossible, but I would’ve lost…more than I was willing to lose.”

She gets the feeling he wanted to say something else, and has the stupid impression it might’ve been you.

“I can’t believe we’re still going over this,” Steve says. “I really can’t. I’m here. With you. Isn’t that enough?”

“You proposed to another woman less than six months ago.”

“She said no!”

Nat laughs a wild, wicked laugh. “What a comfort.”

“Okay.” Saundra’s voice hasn’t lost the cheerful edge, but there’s a note of concern in her tone. “Let’s reframe this using I statements to really get our feelings out there. Natasha—when Steve discusses Peggy, how does that make you feel? Let’s dig deep here.”

“Fine.” Fury owes her so much for agreeing to this charade—it feels like she’s going to lose her sanity one I statement at a time. “Steve, when I hear you talk about Peggy, I feel like there’s no future to our relationship. What she couldn’t give you, I can’t give you either.”

It hangs between them, a grenade with the pin pulled. Steve doesn’t respond, and she still doesn’t look at him. Saundra’s fiddling with her braids.

“When you say that, what do you mean?” Saundra asks. “Are you suggesting you don’t want a family, or a ‘house in the burbs,’ as Steve put it, or is this your way of instigating a breakup?”

“I definitely don’t want a family.” Nat keeps all emotion out of her tone. “I can’t have kids. It’s a moot point.”

“I’m not sure I even want to bring kids into this world, so I don’t care,” Steve counters.

“But you might.” It hurts. It shouldn’t, but it hurts. “I’m not sure isn’t the same thing as I don’t want, and that’s where I’m at.”

Nat realizes suddenly that she is, in fact, instigating a breakup, which is the last thing she should be doing with a fake relationship in a staged op. What’s going on with her? It’s like she’s drowning in the chaos of it all, losing her touch in the delicate balance of this game, something that’s never happened before in all her years of undercover work. Something about this conversation, or perhaps this relationship dynamic, is making her a bad operative. She needs to get herself in check, so she scrambles for a rebound, a course of action…and finds nothing within her. Only a dark, sad need to get as far away from this room—and from Steve—as possible.

“I’m sorry.” She stands. “I don’t think I can do this today. We’ll try again next week.”

She’s out the door before she can stop herself, Saundra and Steve’s voices calling her back. She ignores them, beelining for an elevator that leads to the basement.

Steve can keep Saundra distracted by himself—she has work to do.

###

Nat’s abrupt departure from therapy disheartens him—as does the lack of evidence she finds in the basement—and Steve spends the next few days in a depressed funk. He lounges around his room in Avengers tower, reads most of Hamlet, works out in the gym, orders takeout. He does everything he can to avoid thinking about Nat but finds her a constant fixture in his mind, a sore tooth he can’t resist prodding with his tongue every couple of minutes.

On Friday, he gets a call that changes everything.

It’s late—he’s already in bed, teeth brushed, the minty taste of spearmint in his mouth. When his phone rings, an unknown number, he picks it up without thinking much about it.

Alexi’s voice is too casual to be unforced, and Steve wonders how the man got his number. “My boy!”

“Alexi?” Steve glances at the clock, which reads 11:09 PM. “What’s up?”

“Not much, my boy, not much.” Alexi says. “I’ve been arrested for murder. How are things with you?”

Steve sits up in bed, letting the sheets fall to his stomach. “What?”

“I know, I know, but I swear I didn’t do it.” Alexi yawns. “Not this particular murder, in any case. I don’t suppose you could be troubled to drive down to your local sheriff’s station to find me a lawyer? I’m in your neck of the woods, as they say, and I don’t want to trouble Natalia with something like this. She needs her beauty rest.”

Steve’s out of bed in an instant, dressed in another. “Whose murder?” he demands once he has a shirt on.

“Well, this is where things get a little tricky.” Alexi hums low in his throat. “This is your fault, my boy, and I won’t hear you say a word otherwise.”

Steve can’t fathom how that’s possible. “Explain.”

“You remember how I promised to get you that library card?”

“Sure.”

“I went down to your Oakdale Regional Library to have a little chat with that librarian who gave you trouble.”

“Madison.”

“Was that her name?” Alexi yawns again. “Well, the woman is dead now, and those other librarians have me on tape threatening her in all sorts of colorful ways. I didn’t succeed in obtaining your card, by the way, but I suppose that doesn’t matter now that I’m facing twenty-to-life for a crime I didn’t commit. This is miscarriage of justice in the highest degree, I would say—again, there’s no need to trouble Natalia with any of this information. Just be at the station with my lawyer as soon as you possibly can. My cellmate’s breath smells like a garbage disposal and I would very much like to make bail.”

###

As Steve makes the drive down to the station, he wonders when his life is going to get better. Between stone-cold Nat and her homicidal father, he's not sure how things could get worse.

Chapter Text

It’s a legitimate police precinct, not a Sherriff’s station—Oakdale Regional Correctional Facility and Holding Center. Steve parks his car in the lot, empty save for two off-duty cruisers. There’s a flagpole with the American stars and stripes at half mast, and an abandoned agricultural field off to one side. The building itself is formidable in the streetlamps, and Steve finds himself uncomfortably aware it’s approaching midnight. Somewhere nearby, a clocktower chimes the twelve beats.

The door is heavy—he tugs hard to get it to open. Inside is a waiting area with a couple of chairs and a table stacked with magazines. Behind the front desk is a woman, a thermos of coffee on full display in front of her. Steve approaches, eyes the hodgepodge of pencils and papers, and then raises his gaze to meet hers. Her smile is tired but approachable, and he returns the gesture.

“Evening, ma’am.” He keeps his voice polite. “I’m here to see an inmate—Alexi Shostakov.”

“Visiting hours are between twelve and two on weekdays,” she says. “You can come back at noon on Monday.”

“Are you sure you couldn’t make an exception?” Steve asks, knowing full well he’s trying in vain. “I’d really like to see him.”

“Most of our correctional staff has gone home for the evening.” She eyes the clock hanging behind him as if she, too, would very much like to be in bed. “Even if we could spare someone from the observation room to supervise, it would still go against protocol.”

“Anyone here for me to talk to about his case?”

“Lieutenant Matthews might still be at his desk.” She considers him. “Your friend murdered the daughter of a senator, you know—it’s a gruesome case. This one has him working late.”

“Alexi says he’s innocent.”

“They all say that.”

“Can I speak with Lieutenant Matthews, please?”

She presses an intercom button on her desk, speaks a few words into it, and tells him to sit tight. Steve waits in a chair by the darkened window and pages through one of the magazines, a trashy gossip rag headlined with a breakup between some actress and her rock star husband. After a few minutes a tall, balding man appears in the doorway behind the reception desk. He’s dressed in slacks, a collared shirt, and a tie, but he’s fit beneath the formal wear despite his age, broad shouldered with a thin waist. He does a double take when Steve rises from the shadows, crosses the room, and holds out his hand.

“Captain America.” His grip is firm and a little sweaty. “Wasn’t expecting to see you at midnight on a Friday.”

“You’ve got the Black Widow’s father in holding.” Steve smiles a rueful little grin. “I doubt I’ll be the only familiar face you’re seeing in the coming weeks, if you know the Avengers.”

“Alexi Shostakov?”

“That’s the one.”

Matthew’s graying mustache hovers over his frown like a wriggling worm. “Come to my cubicle and we can discuss the case,” he says gravely. “I can’t give you many details, but it’s a doozy. He’ll need a good lawyer.”

Steve makes a mental note to text Tony the second the opportunity presents itself. “That would be great. Thank you.”

They exit the reception room and walk down a narrow corridor lined with photographs—officers, mostly in uniform, mostly headshots or from the waist up. Their expressions are grim and foreboding—Steve feels their eyes following him as he makes his way onward. They turn right into a bullpen lined with cubicles, and Matthews takes him to one in the center of a long aisle. Files are stacked upon the wooden desk, and a filing cabinet is shoved beneath the messy surface. A tin of pens is at the forefront, perched precariously on a stack of papers and a box of girl scout cookies. Hanging from a tack is a family portrait—Matthews with his arms around a pretty gal, two kids and a Saint Bernard in front of them. Aside from Matthews’s own desk, the room is deserted.

“Have a seat.” Matthews grabs the chair from a neighboring cubicle and swings it around to face his own. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Steve sits.

“So, here’s the thing with your man Alexi.” Matthews pops a stick of gum in his mouth and offers the pack to Steve, who holds out a hand to decline. “We have him on tape threatening our vic—that would be Madison—on Monday morning. Threatened to beat her to death with a hammer if she didn’t produce a library card for a very specific someone…”

Steve squirms in his chair.

“Well, low and behold, come this morning, guess who was beaten to death with a hammer in her pretty little studio?” Matthews pops the gum. “Nice coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“We’ve got him dead to rights,” Matthews says. “Hammer was still at the scene of the crime—we’re waiting on fingerprints that will make this an open and shut case. Like I said, Alexi will need a good lawyer and even still, he’s going to spend the rest of his life behind bars. I’ve been at this job a long time, and I don’t often have cases as easy as this. I don’t speak these words lightly, mind you—just giving an overview of the situation.”

“Maybe someone overheard the fight and decided to take advantage of the situation?” Steve suggests, though it feels like a bit of a stretch. “Someone who had a vendetta against her?”

“Like the man who was loudly threatening her in the middle of a crowded public library?”

“Or a patron she might have offended,” Steve says. “A scorned ex. A jealous boyfriend.”

“I’m not saying it’s impossible, but the man was pretty graphic with his threats.” Matthews shakes his head. “Plus, his rap sheet isn’t blank—he’s been a suspect in half a dozen cases stretching back to the twentieth century. He’s a Russian criminal with a hard-on for violence, and a senator’s daughter is now dead. You see what I’m getting at?”

Steve does, and it’s getting harder and harder to argue for Alexi’s innocence by the second. “Any other suspects?”

“Not at this moment.”

“Mind if I take a look at the case file?”

“I would mind that very much, actually, as it goes against all protocol.” Matthews looks amused by the suggestion. “Unless Captain America became a cop in the last few months and managed to keep it out of the media, you’re going to have to take my word for it. Alexi’s our guy.”

“Does he have an alibi?”

“Claims he was at home with his wife Thursday, day and night.” Matthews yawns. “Went out for groceries and that was his only excursion. I’m waiting on some files from her therapist down at The True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic—she was doing time there with her fiancé—but unless there are any red flags in Harold Johnson’s clinical opinion of David—”

“I’m sorry, did you say The True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic?” Steve sits up straighter, suddenly alert. “The one in Manhattan?”

“It’s a bit of a drive, but it’s supposed to be the best in the business for couples counselling.” Matthews seems to misread the change in Steve’s demeanor. “There’s nothing wrong with going to some therapy before a big event like a wedding—in my mind, it should be a requirement for all engagements. Doesn’t mean there was anything wrong with the relationship, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Still…”

“David isn’t a suspect,” Matthews reminds him. “Alexi is.

Steve stands up, mind reeling. “Thank you for your time, officer,” he murmurs, and sticks out a hand. Matthews shakes it and leads him back down the hallway lined with officer portraits, but this time around they don’t look so grim. They look curious and suspicious, as Steve himself feels. The daughter of a senator was hanging around a known Hydra base with her fiancé—sure, maybe they were just going to therapy, but that’s one hell of a coincidence. Based on what Steve knows about Senator Stern, the man is as corrupt as they come. He gave Natasha one heck of a time after they leaked the SHIELD database, and Tony’s had some issues with him too. He was forced into early retirement after a scandal with some young thing who was on his staff, but he’s still involved in the DC political scene—a lobbyist of some sort, or maybe a consultant. Steve makes a mental note to Google it the second he gets home.

“Thanks again for your time.” He shakes Matthews’s hand for the second time once they’re back in the reception area. “I really appreciate it.”

“Sure, anytime.” Matthews hesitates. “You can come back on Monday to visit your friend.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Better that way,” Matthews says. “Hey—bring a lawyer.”

“Will do.”

Questions swirl through his mind as Steve exits the precinct, passes the flagpole, and returns to his car. Was Madison affiliated with Hydra? Is her father involved? How about her boyfriend? He wonders if there’s any way to get his hands on her case file—even if Harold Johnson faxes it to Matthews, there’s bound to be a copy in his office. Maybe on Monday he and Nat will be able to slip inside after therapy and take a look around.

Nat.

What the hell is he going to tell her?

Chapter Text

I’m gonna build me an empire
And it’s lonely at the top
But madness and greatness can both share a face
And nobody will ever convince me to stop.

- Excerpt from "Empire" by Beth Crowley

Saundra’s office is unchanged when Steve enters the following Monday. The Hang In There motivational poster on the wall—complete with the cat hanging upside down from a bar—beams at him. The games—stacked on shelves behind Saundra’s desk—are colorful and inviting. Saundra herself is wearing a pretty, floral print dress, and her blond hair is braided again. Steve smiles at her, and she smiles back. He’s becoming more and more convinced by the day that she isn’t a Hydra agent. Does she have any idea her organization is corrupt?

Hell, maybe none of the therapists and psychiatrists are directly involved with Hydra. Nat got a tip from Melinda May over the weekend that the corruption is mainly financial. The front correlates to the computer system—apparently Hydra is laundering funds and making it look like payments from clients, then taking back the money disguised as charitable write-offs to nonprofits. Doesn’t seem very efficient, but who is Steve to judge financial corruption? He hasn’t had a paying job since the 40s. In any case, there are probably at least one or two employees who are in on it, but they’d be high-level payroll workers. There’s no reason to believe Saundra is anything but innocent. It makes couples counseling seem all the more pointless, unless they can find a way to be alone with her computer. The payroll database is password protected—they couldn’t access it from Harold Johnson’s office when they broke in—but Nat’s been working with one of SHIELD’s IT guys to develop a code that might be able to get them into the system.

It's a long shot, but it’s the best they’ve got at the moment.

“Welcome back,” Saundra says when Steve’s settled himself on a couch. Nat slides into the armchair beside him, placing her arms on the rests and slouching back in her seat. “I think we should start by discussing your departure last week, Natasha. It was very abrupt. I’ve found it best to get these things out of the way lest they fester.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Nat’s voice is cool. “I was…upset. It won’t happen again.”

“Has there been any development in your relationship over this past week?” Saundra asks.

“Honestly, we’ve been avoiding each other.” It’s true, and it hurts Steve to say it—he’s barely seen her since their last appointment, aside from a brief check-in yesterday. He didn’t even have time to tell her about her father’s arrest—he chickened out. That’s beside the point. “Feels like we’re on the rocks.”

“I’m fully committed to making this relationship work.” It’s Nat’s too-serious, I’m-undercover-and-I’m-bullshitting voice—Steve knows she doesn’t mean it, and that makes the avoidance of the past week hurt even more. “I noticed he’s stopped wearing that ring around his neck. That’s a step in the right direction.”

That’s also true—Steve stuck it in a drawer as soon as he got home from therapy last week. He found there was a good amount of relief in taking it off. Maybe he was punishing himself, wearing it. A noose around his neck disguised as a diamond. The reminder that he couldn’t make it work with his military sweetheart, that life and circumstance got in the way and he wasn’t good enough to get through the difficulties. She moved on, he moved on, and now he’s free.

If Nat were a different person, he’d ask her out for a cup of coffee.

Even the thought of it makes his heart beat a little faster, a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline.

He’s so, so screwed.

“I hope you’ll take it as a sign of my commitment.” The earnestness in his voice makes him wince. “There’s only you, Nat.”

She throws him an amused smile that dashes all hope she’s reading between the lines.

“Is anything else new?” Saundra asks.

It’s as good an opening as any. “Your father’s been arrested for murder,” Steve tells Nat. “They’re saying he killed a librarian. He threatened her while trying to get me that card, and they’ve got it on tape. It looks bad.”

“What?” Saundra exclaims.

“Melina called me.” Nat tosses a cascade of red hair over her shoulder, looking unconcerned. “He’s guilty.”

“You don’t know that,” Steve says.

“Beating a woman to death with a hammer over a library card isn’t outside his wheelhouse.” Her expression is bored, as if they’re discussing the weather and not a life-without-parole sentence her father is facing. “I should’ve known he couldn’t be content with some peaceful suburban daydream. Not his cup of tea. I wish I could say I saw this coming, but at the very least I’m not surprised.”

“Natasha, this is huge.” Saundra sounds scandalized. “An upheaval to your life—your father’s been arrested. How are you processing your emotions?”

“No emotions to process,” Nat says. “I’ll visit him in prison. Maybe. We’ll see.”

Sociopath, Steve finds himself thinking, and feels his anger rising toward her blasé attitude about the whole ordeal. He wonders if she’d care if he was the one who’d been arrested for first-degree murder—probably not—and that makes him even angrier. He knows it’s not her fault, knows she keeps a tight lid on her feelings, but even so. No emotions to process is a bold statement.

“You care about him,” Steve says. “I know you do.”

“Not as much as I care about Yelena,” Nat says. “She’s having a tough time with it—seems to think he’s innocent. She’s still a kid, basically. Doesn’t understand the kind of man he is.”

“We don’t know he’s guilty!”

“Yes, we do!” Her voice is rising as well—good. Steve finds vindictive satisfaction that, all her claims aside, she’s showing some sort of a reaction. “The girl didn’t drop dead of natural causes, Steve. She died in the same way he was threatening to off her. You think that’s a coincidence?”

“I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to follow through with it after his threats were caught on camera.”

“You know for certain he knew he was being taped?” Nat counters.

“No,” Steve admits. “But he was asked to leave the library.”

“So he follows her home, makes note of her address, and comes back sometime last Thursday to get the job done.” Nat says it like that settles the matter, all collected confidence and chilly disposition. “His alibi is loose—says he was at home with Melina all day. She confirmed when I asked, but she’s not above lying to me—”

“Melina confirmed his alibi, but you still think he’s guilty?”

“I know he’s guilty.” Nat’s voice is steely. “Drop it, Steve.”

“I wish you had more faith in people,” Steve says. “It’s my least favorite thing about you, Nat. He’s your father—have a heart, damn it.”

Her mask breaks, just for a second. An expression of hurt flashes across her face, so brief he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t staring directly at her. An uneasy feeling prickles his stomach, two parts discomfort and one part regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken out of anger, but she’s so frustrating. How can she not care? Is it a façade to hide her true emotional reaction, or is she really this uncaring?

“Wow,” Nat says. “Fuck you.”

“This isn’t productive.” Saundra flips her braid over her shoulder—she sounds distressed. “Clearly we’re all processing, but there’s no nee to resort to insults. Let’s all take a breath—”

“Let’s not.” Nat rises. “I think I’m done with therapy. This is going nowhere. Thank you for your time, Saundra.”

Steve follows her out this time, catches her in the hallway. The door slams shut behind him, but he can’t find it in himself to care. All he can think about is the fact that this op seems to be ending, and when it’s over, they’ll have nothing keeping them together. She’ll keep avoiding him, perhaps more so after this failure. Her father will still be in prison, and she’ll still think he’s guilty. Barring another alien invasion, they’ll be as distant from each other as they’ve ever been.

He can’t let that happen. He catches her arm, stops her plow down the narrow hallway.

“Hold on a second,” he says. “Don’t do this, Nat. It’s just therapy.”

“It’s pointless.” She spins to face him, hissing, lowering her voice to the barest breath. “Nothing in that office is helping us catch criminals. We’re wasting our time with that woman—we both know it.”

“Maybe some good is coming out of the therapy.” His voice sounds unconvincing, even to him. “I know you care about your father, Natasha.”

“I don’t!”

“I know you do.”

“You know nothing, Steve Rogers.”

“I know you do.”

“Stop it!”

He pulls her into a hug. She resists, clawing at his arms, trying to pull herself away, but then something changes. She relaxes, leans into him, puts her head against his chest. She’s warm and soft and smells like cinnamon, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut. He holds her, just holds her, and she exhales the briefest of breaths that sounds almost like a cry. He rubs a hand down her back, the lightest of touches—is it his imagination, or does she shudder against him? He doesn’t think it’s his imagination. It doesn’t feel that way.

“What if he is innocent?” He didn’t think it was possible for her voice to get any quieter, but somehow it does. “We’ll lose him.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Steve says. “We’ll catch the guy who did it. I promise.”

She huffs out a laugh, her body shaking against his own. “So now we’ve got a murder to solve on top of a HYDRA cell to blow.”

“For all we know, they’re connected,” Steve points out. “She and her fiancé went to therapy here, and her father is a corrupt senator. That’s our in—Harold Johnson on the seventh floor.”

She pulls back, dabs at her eyes. Steve wonders if it’s emotional manipulation, because her eyes are completely dry. But then she smiles at him, that crooked smirk he loves so much, and he forgets all about it.

“Let’s go,” she says.

Chapter Text

It must be exhausting, always rooting for the anti-hero.

- Excerpt from “Anti-Hero” by Taylor Swift

Harold Johnson is in his office when they stop by, which makes breaking into his filing cabinet a no-go. His door is open; he spots them lingering on the threshold and invites them in. Water boils in a hotpot behind his desk—he asks if they’d prefer green or black tea. Nat opts for black, Steve for green. Steve finds himself seated on a comfortable couch while Harold pours the hot water into mugs. Nat sits beside him. It’s equally as strange and uncomfortable as being in Saundra’s office, more so because they don’t have an appointment.

If Harold is upset by the intrusion, he doesn’t show it.

“Yes, Madison and David were clients of mine,” he says when Nat prompts him. “Lovely young couple—they were looking forward to their wedding. David must be devastated.”

“Why were they in therapy?” Nat asks.

Harold folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not at liberty to discuss their private affairs, tragic circumstances aside.”

“Please.” Nat leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, green eyes huge and beseeching—Steve feels a thrum in his chest as he watches her. “My father’s been arrested for the murder. Any information you can give us might help clear his name.”

“Nasty business,” Harold says gruffly. He hands her a mug. “Well, I doubt David had anything to do with it if that’s what you’re hoping. He’s a nice young man, and the problems they were having weren’t serious. He wanted to move in together before the wedding, she wanted to wait until after they were married. That sort of thing. Nothing a couple as strong as them couldn’t work through.”

“Was she having issues with anyone else in her life?” Nat asks. “Her father was the retired Senator Stern, am I right?”

“They weren’t on good terms.” Harold hands Steve his own mug, then pours himself a cup and adds a green teabag. “As far as I know, she hasn’t spoken to him since the incident with his intern. The affair blew her family apart, and of course she blamed him.”

“Could he have killed her?”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Harold sips from his mug, and Steve follows suit. The tea is bitter, the feintest hint of pomegranate buried in the harsh flavor. “Just because they weren’t speaking doesn’t mean he had it out for her. If I were you, I’d start with her roommate—they were having issues.”

“Issues?” Steve asks. “What sort of issues?”

“We didn’t dwell on them—they weren’t related to her relationship with David.” Harold glances at his computer screen. “As pleasant as this is, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave. I have a client coming in fifteen minutes, and I need to prepare.”

“Might we be able to have her roommate’s contact information?” asks Nat.

“I don’t have that, but I could give you her mother’s phone number,” Harold offers. “It’s her emergency contact.”

It gives them something to go on, and they leave with their spirits slightly raised. Nat calls Madison’s mother, Helen, from the car—the woman agrees to an interview, and they plan to make the drive to Vermont the following Thursday. Nat pretends to be an investigator looking into the case—the lie makes Steve a little uncomfortable, but he can’t deny it gets results. Helen also gives them Madison’s address—and her roommate’s information.

“It’s a ten-minute drive from the library,” Nat says, checking Google Maps. “What do you say we stop by?”

Steve bangs on the partition to let Happy know.

###

“I didn’t know the Avengers look into murders,” Alison says as she lets them into the apartment. “Doesn’t SHIELD, like, fight terrorists and stuff?”

She’s a young woman in her mid-twenties, clearly grieving—her eyes are rimmed with red, and her mascara is smudged. A little on the heavier side, she’s curvy and tall, with wide brown eyes and curly hair. Dressed in a tee-shirt and running shorts, Steve doesn’t doubt she has the strength to smash someone’s head in with a hammer. How bad were the conflicts between her and Madison? Is the woman who stands before him capable of murder?

Alison leads them into a living room. It’s moderately sized with a cozy, lived-in feel. The walls are painted a warm, soft beige, with a few framed pictures of pastoral scenes and abstract art pieces. Natural light filters in through a window on the right side of the room—it’s framed by long, blue curtains.

Steve takes a seat on a comfortable, slightly worn sofa that dominates one side of the room. The cushions are disheveled, and a couple of colorful throw blankets are draped over the back. Nat sits beside him. Alison perches herself on an armchair on the opposing side of the coffee table. A few books, neatly stacked magazines, a box of tissues, and a forgotten cup of tea stand between them. A picture of Alison and Madison is front and center, their arms around each other.

Alison’s eyes follow Steve’s to the photograph—she doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that neither of them bothered to answer her earlier question. Strictly speaking, SHIELD doesn’t solve murders—then again, Steve and Nat aren’t exactly here in an official capacity.

“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Alison’s voice cracks. “I’m the one who found her, you know—she was in her bedroom. It was such a mess. Detective Matthews called yesterday. They say they know who did it?”

“We’re looking into a couple of leads,” Nat says, noncommittal as ever. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Alison. We know this is a difficult time, but we need your help understanding what happened to your friend.”

“Anything I can do,” she says without hesitation. “Anything at all.”

“Madison’s therapist mentioned she was having some problems with you recently,” Steve says, trying to sound sympathetic as opposed to accusatory. “Can you tell us about that?”

Alison wipes her eyes. When she speaks, her voice trembles.

“Yeah, we had some arguments,” she says. “Madison was under a lot of stress. She said her father was always on her, even though they were barely talking. She was acting strange.”

“Strange how?” Nat asks, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her legs.

“Paranoid,” Alison says. “She kept saying she was being watched. She accused me of spying for her father more than once—she tore her room apart thinking I put a camera there. It hurt, you know? We were best friends.”

Steve and Natasha exchange a glance—her green eyes are narrow. When she turns back to Alison, her expression is laser focused—God, Steve loves watching her work.

“Have you ever met her father?” she asks.

“No.” Alison opens her mouth, then closes it. “Look—I know he’s a retired senator, and I don’t want to get him in any trouble. But…”

“You can tell us,” Steve says encouragingly when she trails off.

Alison sighs.

“It happened about a year ago, according to Madison,” she says. “Before…y’know. The affair came out. She found something in her dad’s office—papers or documents or something. She came home really rattled—she said they were dangerous. That was when the paranoia started, I think, and it messed up all her relationships. She and David started therapy just after.”

“Did she show them to you?” Nat asks.

“No—she was too scared.” Alison pauses. “I think she told David, though. She trusts—trusted—him more than anyone.”

Is that why Madison and David started therapy at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic? Steve wonders if they were attempting the same thing Nat and himself are doing—maybe Madison fancied herself an amateur investigator, and she enlisted her fiancé’s help looking into the practice. Is it possible she found a file relating to HYDRA in her father’s office? Could Senator Stern be in on this? It seems like a stretch, but he’s encountered stranger things while working for SHIELD. Maybe Madison was onto something—and it got her killed.

“Did Madison ever mention HYDRA?” Steve asks.

“HYDRA?” Alison’s eyes widen—fractionally, but enough to notice. “Like, terrorists? No, but…well. About a week ago, she came home really late. Much later than her shift at the library gets out. She was shaking, terrified. She said she’d seen something she shouldn’t have. She wouldn’t say what—just that it was related to her dad. I tried to get her to open up, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She called David—he came to pick her up.”

Steve can practically see the gears in Nat’s brain whirring. She’s staring at Alison, unblinking, with so much attention that Alison shifts uncomfortably. Steve would pay good money to know what’s on Nat’s mind—he himself is bemused. What could Madison possibly have seen in Oakdale? Her dad is still in Washington D.C.

“I just want to know why someone would hurt her.” Alison is crying openly now—Steve hands her the tissues. “She was a good person. She didn’t deserve this.”

“We’ll figure this out,” Nat says confidently, rising to her feet. “Thank you for talking to us. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Alison nods. “She deserves justice.”

“I know.”

“One other thing,” Steve says as he stands up. “Can you tell us anything about David?”

“He’s a good guy,” Alison says immediately. “A little too into Pokémon Go for my taste, but Madison never seemed to mind. He’s studying finance at NYU—he’s a little younger than she is. He’ll graduate in May.”

“Did he ever make any threats against her?” Steve presses. “Did she feel safe with him?”

Alison wipes at her eyes. “He never would’ve hurt her.”

“Did they ever fight?”

“Not that I know of.”

There’s something she’s not telling him—she’s avoiding eye contact, and she rips tiny chunks off the tissue almost compulsively. Steve briefly wonders if pressing her will do any good—clearly she’s not interested in talking about David, but Nat’s pretty good at interrogations. He glances at his partner, but Nat seems ready to leave—she’s already turned toward the door.

“If you think of anything else, let me know.” Steve scrawls his number on a tissue. “Anything. Was there something different about the day you found Madison? Anything out of the ordinary? A strange car parked outside—something of that nature?”

“Nothing,” Alison shakes her head. “I already told the cops that. It was a perfectly normal day until I found my best friend with her head smashed in.”

“Thanks for your time, Alison,” Steve says, trying to hide his disappointment.

###

In the back of Happy’s car, Steve extracts a notebook and a pen from the seatback pocket and makes a list of potential suspects. Nat watches over his shoulder, sitting too close for comfort—the scent of cinnamon is delicate and wonderful, and he has a hard time concentrating.

1. Senator Stern. He had a complicated relationship with his daughter, and she had something on him, papers from his office. There was also an incident relating to him that spooked her. He could’ve done it himself or hired someone to do it.

“Stern’s a dick,” Nat says. “Don’t know if he’s capable of murder, though. He always struck me as weak.”

Steve continues his list without writing that down.

2. HYDRA (hitman, mercenary, etc.) If she was at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic looking into HYDRA—not for counseling—she could’ve learned something that led to them putting her on a list. They’ve killed people over less.
3. Alison Stephano. Madison was paranoid that Alison was spying for her father—maybe this was true. Plus, they were fighting—it’s possible an escalated fight led to a crime of opportunity.

“Unlikely,” Nat says. “Her grief seemed genuine—besides, killing with a hammer? How could she have known that was the death Alexi threatened Madison with at the library?”

That’s a good point—a HYDRA hitman could’ve been tailing her, but a roommate? Chances are against Alison having been at the library when Alexi made those threats, but maybe Madison told her about the encounter. Venting about work—and an unstable patron—isn’t outside the normal bounds of roommate communications.

4. David Appell. If the couple’s counseling was genuine, they could’ve been having problems. If Madison told him about being threatened with the hammer, he could’ve copied Alexi’s threats to avoid detection.

“Anyone I’m missing?” Steve asks.

“Not that I can think of.” Nat taps the first number. “It’s a good list. I say we start with Stern.”

“Think we can get an interview?”

“Doubtful. He doesn’t like me—and we’re not cops.”

“Well then, we’ll start with his ex-wife.” Steve scratches his nose with the end of the pen. “Maybe Helen can tell us something about his relationship with Madison. We could feel out the dynamics of this family, learn what we can about them.”

“Thursday,” Nat says.

“Thursday,” Steve agrees.

It’s not the best plan they’ve ever come up with together, but it’s a start. All they have to do is solve a murder—and take down a therapy clinic and HYDRA cell while they’re at it. What could go wrong?

Chapter Text

and I wouldn’t marry me either
a pathological people pleaser
who only wanted you to see her

- Excerpt from “You’re Losing Me” by Taylor Swift

“So,” Sam says as he breaks. The pool stick slides smoothly over his fingers, which are posed like a spider’s legs over the green felt. “You met Nat’s family.”

It’s Wednesday night. Steve should really be in bed, considering he has a long drive to Vermont ahead of him in the morning—but when Sam and Bucky returned from their mission and invited him out, he couldn’t say no. The Hefty Bear is abandoned, save for the barmaid and a couple of patrons throwing darts at a board in the corner. They’re far enough away that Sam, Bucky, and Steve have privacy if they talk in low voices.

The bar is dimly lit, filled with the clinking of glasses as the barmaid shuffles bottles on the shelf. The walls are adorned with vintage posters, neon signs, and sports memorabilia. A contemporary hit is blaring from the jukebox. It’s a nice evening, cool but not cold, and Steve isn’t wearing a jacket. He wonders if Madison had her windows open when someone was pounding her head in.

“I met Nat’s family,” Steve agrees. “And now her dad is in jail for murdering a librarian. I feel bad.”

“You didn’t make him kill her,” Bucky says, frowning. “HYDRA made me kill so many people under orders. So many. One time I slit a woman’s neck and wrote my name in her blood. No one made me do that, though. It was a creative outlet.”

“Knitting is a creative outlet,” Sam says. “That’s just fucked up, Bucky.”

“It’s my fault Alexi was at the library,” Steve reminds them. “Plus, we don’t know he killed Madison. My gut says he’s innocent.”

“Isn’t this dude, like, a famed assassin?” Sam asks.

“Sure, but smashing someone’s head in with a hammer?” Steve takes the stick from Sam and strikes a solid. It misses the hole by half a mile. “He’s better than that, and he says he didn’t do it.”

“This guy sounds like a professional liar,” Sam says. “We all know Nat—it runs in the family. No offense to your one true love, but she wasn’t raised by a group of saints.”

Steve ignores that jab. “Maybe—but I like Senator Stern for it.”

“You think a senator’s more likely to bludgeon his daughter to death than a literal killer?”

“They were having problems.”

Sam reaches for a french fry. “Whatever you say.”

The pool table is situated in a corner of the bar, slightly away from the main seating area to allow people space to move around. It’s lit by a single, low hanging light fixture—Steve studies the bulb. It flickers dimly, enough to give him a bit of a headache. He looks away.

“How’d the mission go?” he asks.

Bucky hits a striped ball into the corner hole and aims for another.

“Let’s just say it had a little bit of everything,” Sam says, his eyes on Buck. “We had a couple close calls, some surprise guests—Hill says hi, by the way—and one very persistent HYDRA agent who thought he could take down a Falcon and Metal Man. Spoiler alert—he pissed himself, then threw up all over my suit. Not exactly a stud.”

“Sounds typical.” Steve grins at him. “Any problems?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Sam says. “We got the intel with minimal problems—nothing that relates to the cell in Manhattan, though. I had to do some fancy flying to get us out of there. You should’ve seen me, Steve. My moves could make Tony throw a tantrum with jealousy.”

“He dropped me on my ass and laughed.” Bucky strikes out, then swears colorfully in Russan. “Dick,” he adds belatedly. “Sam, not you,” he adds, looking at Steve.

Sam pouts. “Not my fault you were squirming like a kid on Christmas!”

“You dropped me on purpose. You thought it was funny.”

“I most certainly did not, and I resent that implication.”

They stare at each other for a moment too long before Bucky hands Sam the stick. Their fingers brush, linger. Steve watches the interaction with a mixture of amusement and something else—jealousy, maybe. He’s happy for them, he is—happy they found each other, happy they’re working through their trauma together, happy they’ve gotten comfortable bickering and teasing and maybe even flirting.

It’s just…he wants that, wants that in a way that’s hard to admit. He wants to make Nat blush and laugh—not that she blushes, but a man can dream—wants to stare at her with dopey eyes, wants to linger when he passes her something just to feel the warmth of her fingertips. But he can’t, because he’s Steve and she’s Nat, and she’d probably hit him or laugh in his face if he asked her out. They’re friends, and she’ll never see him as anything more. It hurts, damn it, how they’re faking this relationship. He almost can’t stand it. Even worse, there’s no end in sight.

“Glad you got out okay,” Steve says at last—maybe if he reminds them that he’s here, they’ll stop looking at each other like that. “Any other issues?”

“Everything’s good,” Sam says. “A couple of scrapes, and Bucky might’ve bruised his butt when I dropped him. Nothing serious. We got a couple of HYDRA agents in custody out of the ordeal—SWAT team secured them after we evacuated. They’ll have a nice chat with our friends in interrogation.”

Steve nods—it sounds like everything went according to plan, not that he was worried. They’re good agents, and they make a great team. He wishes he and Nat were having half as much success at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic—maybe some of the agents the SWAT team arrested will give them intel. He’ll have to reach out to Agent Hill. He owes her a call anyway.

“Tell me what’s been going on with you and Nat,” Sam says after a pause.

“Absolutely nothing.” It’s Steve’s turn—he hits a solid into the middle pocket. “I pretend to be her boyfriend in therapy—and with her folks. We’ve been avoiding each other around the compound. Sparred a couple times. Same old thing.”

Sam snaps his fingers to get Steve’s attention as he aims the pool stick—his expression is bemused.

“Why would you pretend to date her in front of her parents?”

“To piss off her dad—and to get him off her sister’s back.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, then goes back to aiming the pool stick. It’s Bucky’s turn, but no one reprimands him. “I think he liked me, though—I was his first call after he got arrested.”

“You don’t think she was trying to come on to you?” Sam asks.

Steve grimaces. “I really, really doubt it.”

“A woman once handed me her underwear and told me to meet her in a back alley,” Bucky says. “I guess she liked my physique. Unfortunately, she was a target. I shot her five times and then dry heaved into a dumpster. Not because I had any remorse. She smelled like body odor when I got up close, and I got brains on my uniform. Did you know that brains can look green when the lighting is shit?”

“Ah yes—if flirtation fails, there’s always murder.” Sam wiggles his eyebrows at Steve. “Doubt you could get the upper hand on Nat, though. Although it would solve your problem. Can’t pine for a girl who’s dead.”

“You definitely can,” Steve says. “And I’m not going to kill Nat just because I was stupid enough to fall in love with her.”

They fall silent. Sam and Bucky are looking at Steve—surprise and pity, his two favorite emotions. Great. He’s only said it aloud twice, but saying it to his friends feels different than saying it to Melina—for one thing, he’s not pretending to be Nat’s boyfriend tonight. He didn’t mean to say it, didn’t mean to let them in on his dirty little secret, but now that it’s out in the open there’s no taking it back. Steve breathes out a heavy sigh and hits another solid. This one doesn’t make it anywhere near a hole.

“Tough luck, bro,” Sam says. “Still…you never know. She could be into you.”

“I asked what her stance was on dating the last time we sparred.” Disappointment creeps into Steve’s voice—he can’t help it. “She laughed in my face. Told me love is for children, and dating is for teenagers who got a normal childhood.”

“How do you know it’s love?” Bucky counters. “Maybe you’re just turned on by the danger of undercover work. A CIA operative once threatened to slit me open from neck to loins, and it was the most aroused I’ve ever been in my life.”

“That’s normal, Buck,” Sam says. “Super normal. Way to contribute to the conversation.”

“Thank you.” Bucky takes a sip from his soda. “I try.”

Steve grins, hands Bucky the pool stick, and takes another sip from his glass.

It’s a good night.

###

The drive from Oakdale County to Montpelier, Vermont, takes them a little over three hours. Steve tries not to watch Nat as she drives, he really does, but it’s impossible to look away. She’s wearing fitted jeans and a black leather jacket over her sister’s vest. Her hair has been straightened, and her eyes—so green, so damn green—are fixed on the road. She’s beautiful, like a classic painting or a delicate butterfly, but she’s also deadly—he wonders what it would be like to touch her face, cradle it in his hands. Then he hates himself for having these thoughts, because it’s not like he’s ever going to get to act on them.

“What?” she says eventually.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’re looking at me.”

“Just wondering if you have a strategy going into this,” he says quickly. “I mean…we told her we were cops, but she’s going to recognize us.”

“I’ll show her my old SHIELD badge and say we think this might have something to do with HYDRA,” Nat says. “I’ll say we think her husband is involved, and he might have ties to the organization. Hopefully that will prompt a discussion—we’ll see what she knows.”

“What if she thinks SHIELD and HYDRA are the same thing?”

“Alison didn’t.”

“Helen’s a senator’s wife, though.”

“Ex-wife.”

“Still…”

“We’ll have to take our chances,” Nat says. “I doubt she knows my father is connected to the murder—I keep my private life discrete, and the media doesn’t know I have a family. The suspect’s relations wouldn’t have come up with Detective Matthews when he briefed her—he’s professional enough to have kept his focus on the facts of the case.”

Steve looks down at the notebook open on his lap. The list of suspects stares back at him. Belatedly, he realizes that maybe Alexi should’ve made it onto the list—but that goes against the entirety of what they’re doing, trying to get him acquitted. He doesn’t have a heart to accuse the man of murder, especially when Alexi’s own daughter was so doubtful about his innocence. Someone needs to believe in the man—it may as well be Steve.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asks suddenly.

She shoots a glance at him, then returns her gaze to the road. “If you must.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

She doesn’t laugh like he expects her to—on the contrary, her knuckles grow white against the wheel.

He expects her to bring up Dreykov, maybe Clint. She doesn’t.

“If you have to ask me that, you don’t know me as well as I thought.” Her tone is mild, but her eyes are harsh. “Love is for children, remember?”

“Right,” Steve says. “Forgive the rest of us for being human.”

“Sure. Forgiven.”

They make the rest of the drive in silence.

###

They enter a contemporary suburb filled with classic New England style architecture. Helen’s house is a Colonial, with charming details and a welcoming appearance. The exterior is clad in clapboard siding, painted a pale yellow that was probably mandated by some HOA. The trim and shudders are a deep shade of red. A steeply shaped roof with dormer windows accents the top of the house—there’s even a tower that looks large enough to be a bedroom. There’s a swing on the wooden porch, a rocker, with large, multi-paned windows on either side. Flower boxes filled with seasonal blooms are below them.

It's a nice place. Clearly a solid alimony check went into financing it.

They exit the car and head to the porch. Nat knocks. The woman who answers looks so much like her daughter that for a second Steve thinks Madison has come back from the dead. But no—her dark hair is a little gray at the roots, and her face has the kind of lines you don’t get as a twenty-something-year-old. She looks at them, an expression of shock mingled with curiosity, and then opens the screen.

“Steve Rogers.” The woman—Helen—meets his gaze. “Natasha Romanoff. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We’re here with SHIELD, ma’am.” Nat shows her badge. “We have some questions about your daughter. Do you mind letting us in?”

“You’re the ones who called me last Monday?” Her brow creases. “I thought you said you were police.”

“No—I said we were feds.”

“You definitely said police.”

“You’re mistaken,” Nat says with an airy confidence that makes Steve’s heart beat a little faster in his chest. “Ma’am, we think your daughter’s death may be connected with the terrorist organization HYDRA, and we’re your best chance at finding her killer. Please let us in.”

A range of emotions cross Helen’s face—anger, grief, despair. At long last she nods and unlocks the screen, welcoming them into a mudroom equipped with coats, benches, and storage for boots and outer gear. They walk down a long hall and enter a living room with hardwood floors, a large rug, and a magnificent stone fireplace. There are three comfortable looking chairs seated around a table—they take their seats.

“Can I get the two of you something to drink?” Helen asks. “Do superheroes like apple juice? Freshly squeezed—I just went to the farmer’s market.”

“We’re okay.” Steve can’t take his eyes off her—she really does look like her daughter. Same dark, silky hair, same eyes, same smile—although hers is slightly frayed along the edges, as if she hasn’t had time to really process her grief. Her makeup is a little smudged, and her forehead lines and crow’s feet are pronounced in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Nat starts the interrogation. “Ma’am, can you tell me a little bit about your ex-husband?”

“Henry?” She doesn’t look angry—just exhausted. Her shoulders slump. “I thought this was about Madison. Why do you want to know about him?”

“We think he may be affiliated with HYDRA,” Nat says. “It may have had something to do with your daughter’s death.”

If he didn’t kill her himself, is what she doesn’t say.

“I suppose it’s not impossible,” Helen says, her voice a little stiff. “You think you know a man, and then he goes and sticks his genitals in a woman younger than your daughter. We were together twenty years, and I never suspected he might go and do a thing like that—who’s to say he’s not a terrorist as well?”

“Did he ever behave suspiciously at home?” Steve asks. “Did he have any friends who made you uncomfortable? Guys who didn’t seem like good men, who he brought around the house?”

“Nothing like that,” Helen says firmly. “The coworkers he brought home were always delightful—his friends were my friends. That little whore who seduced him aside, but I suppose we can’t all be doe-eyed and fresh out of college. It broke Madison’s heart, you know—the divorce. Learning her father wasn’t the all-American man he pretended to be. Broke mine too, but somehow I consider that less of an offense than letting down Maddie. Sorry—I’m not making much sense. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“That’s to be expected.” Nat’s voice is as kind as Steve’s ever heard it. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Ms. Stern. No parent should have to lose a child.”

Something catches in her voice as she gets through that last statement—something heartfelt, with perhaps a hint of longing. Steve looks at her, can’t take his gaze off her shrewd gaze. In therapy, she said she never wants children. Is it possible that this is one of the reasons why? You can’t live the life they do—soldiers, agents, operatives—without facing loss on a monthly, if not daily, basis. Hell, all the guys Steve served with are dead in the modern era—and that’s not to say anything of the coworkers they lost to ops and various alien battles. Sometimes he wonders how he can still be standing when so many good men—better men—have given their lives for the country. Maybe Nat feels the same.

If she’s a sociopath—which he’s certain she is—she’s doing a great job of masking in front of this woman. He can almost believe she’s actually getting emotional when thinking about a parent losing a child.

Maybe Nat knows that any kids she has would always be in danger. Occupational hazard of having a Black Widow for a mother—adopting a child into the chaotic frays of their life would be a no-go. Still, Steve can’t stop himself from wondering what it would be like to retire, raise little ones in a nice house like this one.

It’s a stupid thought—stupid imagining Nat being a mother, him being a father—but the mind does strange things sometimes, and this is a stressful situation.

“If Henry’s a terrorist, he hides it well,” Helen says. “I can’t stand the man anymore, but he’s led a good life in the pursuit of serving our country. I don’t think he’d betray those values, infidelity aside. He’s a cheat and a liar—not a criminal.”

“Is there anyone else you can think of who may’ve wanted to do your daughter harm?” Steve asks.

“No.” Helen’s voice wavers—her eyes grow glassy. “She was such a good girl. A sweet child turned wonderful young woman. She had no enemies—no one I can’t think of would’ve smashed her head in like that. I just can’t believe this happened.”

“Alison told us she was paranoid her father was spying on her,” Steve says—it’s their trump card, and he’s not afraid to use it. “She mentioned finding suspicious documents in her father’s office—and an encounter in Oakdale that shook her up. Do you know anything about that?”

“In Oakdale?” Helen looks as bemused as Steve feels. “As far as I know, Madison hasn’t seen her father since the divorce. How could he have been spying on her? Why would he do that?”

“That’s what Alison told us.” Steve shrugs. “She could’ve been paranoid, but considering what happened, we can’t rule anything out.”

Helen gets up to get a box of tissues. The loud sound of a noise blowing comes from the next room over. When she returns, it’s clear she’s tried to wipe off the streaks of mascara—instead, she’s just smeared it around her cheeks. Steve feels so sorry for the woman, divorced and alone, reeling from the loss of her only child. Sure, he’s felt loss before—but how can he begin to understand her devastation, when only a parent could empathize with a loss so true and great? He just can’t fathom it. Suddenly his wanton thoughts from moments before—of raising a family with Nat—seem heartless and out of place, given the circumstances.

“I can’t stop thinking about the last time I spoke to her.” Helen’s voice shakes. “It was the night before she died. Something sounded off, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. I was trying to get her to come down for the weekend—I thought it would make her feel better to go riding. She loved horses. Maybe I should’ve pushed harder, gotten her to take some time off work and come down sooner. Maybe she’d still be alive.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Nat says firmly. “She was a grown woman with a life and a job. You did your part getting her out of the nest.”

Helen buries her face in her hands.

“Is there anything else you can think of?” Steve asks. He feels like a jerk for prying, but he doesn’t want to have driven down here for nothing—unless they can get something else about Senator Stern, this was a waste of a trip. “Anything about your ex-husband—or about David?”

She looks up, nose running, eyes damp.

“David’s devastated, and so is Henry,” she says quietly. “They’re arranging the funeral together—I just can’t bear to be a part of it. If I knew anything, I would tell you. As for Henry’s contacts—he never told me much about work, and if he was involved with criminals I didn’t know it. Then again, there was a lot he kept from me. All I can say is this—find him. Whoever hurt my little girl. Please.”

“We’ll do our best,” Nat says, and rises.

Steve follows suit, more than a little disappointed.

###

“I still think it was Stern,” Nat says.

The sun has set over New York—they’re sparring in Tony’s gym. Being so close to Nat—physically touching her, smelling her sweat and the stench of her coconut shampoo and cinnamon perfume—is overwhelming and intoxicating. It’s all Steve can do to keep from reacting when she tackles him and wrestles him to the red mat. She’s straddling his chest, now, and he hates how much he loves the feeling—how much he loves her. He looks up at her, lording it over him, and raises his hands in mock surrender.

“We got his number from Helen,” he says. “You want to be the one to call him, or should I?”

“I was thinking about calling in a favor with Hill,” Nat says. “She’s friends with a guy who went to law school with him—they’re on good terms. He’ll probably say more to her than he will to us.”

“Sort of seems like giving up, doesn’t it?”

“The last time I saw him, I told him to kiss my ass in front of a room full of reporters.”

Steve swipes her off his chest with ease, twists on top of her. Their faces are inches away from each other, now, and he pins her arms above her head. She squirms beneath him—God that feels good. Breathless and sweaty, he stares into the unending greenness of her eyes and wonders how the hell he’s going to get through this match without confessing his feelings for her.

It feels like the secret is eating away at his soul.

“We haven’t talked to David yet,” is what comes out of his mouth, instead of that. “I could give Alison a call, see if I could get his contact.”

“You really think it’s the boyfriend?” Nat makes a face. “That’s such a cliché.”

“I’m curious why they were at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic,” Steve points out. “Plus, Alison said Madison might’ve told David about what she found in her father’s desk. With Madison dead, David could be the only person who knows if Stern is dirty. It’s worth chatting with him.”

Nat’s knee jerks, driving hard between Steve’s legs. It’s a tender spot and he crumples, trying hard not to howl. In a second she’s reversed their positions, pinning his arms and leering down at him.

“Tap out, Rogers,” she says gleefully. “I got you good.”

“Not a chance,” he manages to gasp, and flips her.

After the round is over, they lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling and breathing heavily. They’ve gone over this case so many times Steve feels like he knows it by heart—and for whatever reason, he can’t seem to get his mind off the hammer. How many people knew about Alexi’s threats? Who was in that library when he visited? They should really check out the security tape if they can get their hands on it—it would mean a lot to see the altercation go down with their own eyes. If they’re going to exonerate Nat’s father, they need evidence that someone was listening in—someone equally, if not more, dangerous than Alexi. It’s a long shot—likely the recordings are already with the police—but it’s worth checking out.

Despite his lifelong ban, Steve resolves to swing by the library tomorrow.

“Can I ask you something?” Nat says.

“Anything,” he says. He looks over at her, just because he can. Her gaze is fixed on the ceiling, chest rising and falling, perfect and entirely unreachable.

“What do you think it’s like?” Her voice is quiet. “Losing your fiancé, I mean.”

“Can’t be worse than losing your child,” Steve says, thinking of Helen.

“I know that. I just…” Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Madison and David were going to spend the rest of their lives together. They were fighting about whether to get a place before or after the wedding—normal couple things. They were going to therapy. They were seeing each other every time they had a day off work. By all accounts, they were happy—they’d found their person. And now…what? He moves on? Tries to find someone else? Tries to forget the fact that the love of his life was brutally murdered?”

It's such a strange speech—from Nat, of all people—that Steve’s heart feels in danger of beating out of his chest.

“I imagine it’s very difficult,” he says at last. “Knowing you’ve met the person you want to spend the rest of your life with—and not being able to have them.”

If Nat hears the sadness in his voice—or the longing—she lets it slide.

Chapter Text

If you never bleed you’re never gonna grow.

- Excerpt from “The 1” by Taylor Swift

Steve dreams of Nat.

She’s on top of him—they’re sparring, or maybe they’re doing something else. Her lips, blood red, hover millimeters over his own. She’s laughing softly. Teasing him.

“Tap out, Rogers,” she says. Breathy. Almost a moan. “I’ve got you good.”

“Not a chance,” Steve says. He grabs her hips, pulls them down onto his own. Their lips meet. Fueled by the confusing logic only a dream can produce, Steve kisses her as fiercely as he can, letting his tongue explore, letting himself thrust upward. She feels so soft and warm, pressed against him, and she’s all he can think about, consuming, inviting, inevitable…

“Steve!”

Steve jolts awake, sits up. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and looks around.

His room in Avengers Tower exudes a sense of calm and simplicity, mirroring Steve’s grounded personality. The décor is tasteful and understated, with a focus on functionality and comfort rather than extravagance. The walls are painted a soft gray, and the floors are carpeted. There’s a navy rug beneath the queen-sized bed, and his shield is hung on the wall across the room. On the bedside table is a clock, a watch, and his copy of Hamlet. A large wooden dresser sits against one wall, its top surface neatly organized with a few framed photographs, an American flag, and some medals and insignia from his military days.

Next to the dresser is his desk—Nat’s straddling his chair, staring at him with eyes that seem to know a bit too much. Her expression is amused. She’s wearing a tee-shirt that says You know nothing, Jon Snow and a tight pair of jeans—a really tight pair of jeans.

“Nice dream?” she drawls.

Steve feels his face heat, and he presses his hands to his cheeks. He hopes to God he wasn’t making noise. If he said her name and she heard it, he’d die. He’d actually die.

“No dreams,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She doesn’t look like she’s buying it.

“What are you doing here?” Steve acts. They’re not avoiding each other anymore—that’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s not in a state to be welcoming company. Steve hopes the bunched blankets are enough to hide any evidence that he was, in fact, having a nice dream. He’s too embarrassed to check.

“I had an idea,” Nat says. “How do you feel about breaking and entering?”

“Not one of your better ideas,” Steve says. “You know it’s illegal?”

“You have no problem sneaking around the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic.”

“Sure, but that’s for a mission. Is that what this is about? The mission?”

“Not exactly.” She exhales a long, slow breath through her nose. “I want to take a look around Alison and Madison’s apartment. When Alison isn’t home, obviously. Bet you five bucks there’s a spare key tucked beneath the welcome mat—we probably wouldn’t even have to pick a lock.”

Steve turns that over in his mind. “What would we be looking for?”

“Those papers Madison found in her dad’s office. The documents that spooked her.”

“You think she took them?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to look.”

Slowly Steve nods. He doesn’t like breaking rules—let alone the law—but unless David gives them more insight into Senator Stern when they interrogate him after therapy on Monday, they’re running out of leads. Alexi’s been in jail for almost a week now—if he’s truly innocent, it’s a gross miscarriage of justice. Madison’s killer is still out there, and Steve wants to bring the bastard to justice. For Helen’s sake, and Alison’s, and Nat’s father. Hell, he owes it to Madison herself.

“Okay,” he says, then— “Want to leave so I can get dressed?”

Nat snorts. Her eyes drop to his crotch. “Yeah, I bet that’s what you’re going to do.”

She’s laughing as she leaves.

Steve wonders if pitching himself off the roof of Avengers tower would resolve this situation. Couldn’t hurt to try.

###

Steve dresses, shaves, and brushes his teeth in record time—he doesn’t want Nat to think he’s doing anything else. They borrow one of Tony’s cars, a 2016 Audi A4 in a subtle and unassuming metallic gray. It’s a sleek, modern design, but it’s common enough that it’ll blend in with everyday traffic. It features smooth lines and a refined, understated appearance—the wheels are standard alloy, stylish but not overly flashy. Nat drives, and Steve sits shotgun.

Still a little embarrassed about the way he was woken, he makes the effort not to look at her as they pass the library and turn onto Main Street. It’s a quaint, bustling place filled with small, family-owned shops, cafes, and restaurants. Storefronts feature colorful awnings and large windows display various goods, from antiques to locally made crafts. They pass a gas station advertising discounted Zyn pouches and turn left when they hit Geraldine’s Boutiques.

They park outside Alison and Madison’s apartment complex between a white Kia Sedona and a jeep. Nat hands Steve a pair of binoculars, and he peers at the front doors. There’s a guard on duty outside—there wasn’t a guard when they last visited with Alison. Might be a weekend thing—Steve’s never heard of that before, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Nat picks through a bag of trail mix, extracting the chocolate and leaving the nuts.

“I always get the stakeout munchies.” She holds out the bag. “Want some?”

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

“How long do you think it will take her to leave?” He pauses. “If she’s even home.”

“We’ve got all day. What—scared of spending some time with me, Rogers?”

“Course not.” His throat feels unnaturally dry. “You’re my best friend, Nat.”

“Don’t let Sam hear you say that,” she says. “Or Bucky.”

“They’re good buddies,” Steve says. “They have each other, though—you’re my partner. If I ever had a body in my trunk, you’d be my first call.”

“Hard to imagine you with a body in your trunk.”

“Hey, you never know. Life happens.”

“You look nervous.” She’s playing with him—there’s this look in her eyes that she gets, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Spill, Rogers. What was the dream about?”

“I’d rather not say.” His voice sounds stiff, even to him. “Just a dream. Didn’t mean anything.”

“Was it a sex dream?” she says, gleeful. “It was, wasn’t it? Steve Rogers had a sex dream.”

“I’m not a nun, Nat.” It’s as close as he’ll come to admitting it. “Just drop it, okay? You should’ve knocked.”

She does not, in fact, drop it. “Who was the guest star?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Someone we know, then.” She taps her chin with a finger. “Saundra, maybe? She’s pretty, but she might be HYDRA. You sure know how to pick them.”

“I did not have a sex dream about our therapist.” Steve wonders if he’ll have any dignity left by the time they get out of this car. “That can’t be a thing.”

“It definitely is,” Nat says, suddenly serious. “It’s called transference. Gets confusing with you’re emotionally vulnerable with a person. Don’t be embarrassed—I get them too.”

Steve looks at her so quickly his neck gets whiplash. “You’ve had dreams about Saundra?”

Her smirk is wide. “That got your attention.”

“Tell me you’re joking.” He honestly can’t tell. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Maybe.” She draws the word out. “Jeez—the way you’re reacting, you’d think she was hideous.”

“I’m bringing this up the next time we see her,” Steve says. “This is…this is infidelity. I’m going to tell her we need a new shrink.”

“Do that.” Instead of reacting appropriately, Nat looks delighted by the proposition. “Maybe I’ll get a date out of it.”

“You can’t date our therapist, Natasha!” If Steve’s cheeks were any warmer, he’d be able to fry an egg on them. “I didn’t know you swung that way.”

“I don’t—calm down. It was one dream.” She’s looking out the window now. “That’s Alison. Let’s go.”

The conversation is over before it begins—Steve has so many unanswered questions he’s not sure where to start. Nat gets out of the car, and he follows her across the street. They pass the guy standing in front of the building without being stopped—at second glance he’s a doorman, not a guard. Taking the stairs two at a time, they arrive in front of Alison’s apartment in minutes. Nat looks both ways down the hall, then slides a hand under the doormat.

“See—what did I tell you?” She brandishes a key triumphantly in his direction. “Millennials. So dumb.”

“You sound like Tony.”

“Well, he’s got a point.” She slides the key into the lock—it turns. “After you, Cap.”

Madison’s bedroom is at the far end of the hall, sectioned off with yellow police tape. Nat unsticks it, careful not to make any tears. When they enter, they find no one has cleaned the blood and brains on the floorboards—the corpse is gone, but the stink remains. A cozy bed with a tufted headboard is shoved up against one wall, high quality linens with a mix of decorative pillows and a couple of throw blankets at the foot. On the nightstand are a couple of books, a photograph of Madeline and a red-haired man who must be David, and a small plant, maybe basil.

Nat heads straight to the desk. Tucked in one corner, it’s small and functional. A laptop is sitting open but black-screened on the wood, next to some stationery. Hanging above the escritoire is a bulletin board with notes, photos, and reminders—there’s a calendar too. Nat glances at it before opening one of the drawers.

“Help me go through this,” she says over her shoulder.

Steve opens another one of the drawers—he’s so close to Nat that they’re shoulder to shoulder, and he can practically feel the heat radiating from her body. A neat arrangement of pens, pencils, highlighters, and sticky notes are in a stylish holder. The drawer below holds a planner, a couple of notebooks, and some flash drives. Steve plugs one into the computer and taps the screen until it turns on.

“Any ideas what her passcode might be?” he asks without much hope.

“Actually…” Nat points to a sticky note attached to the lamp—Bookworm57492. “Try that.”

Steve tries it and finds himself facing a Windows 10 screen. There are a couple of documents—looks like the girl wrote a lot of poetry—and the home screen is a picture of David giving the camera a thumbs-up. He opens the flash drive—more poems.

“She was quite the Emily Dickenson,” he says—that’s probably the only poet he can name beside Poe. “Finding anything?”

“A bunch of take-out menus and a work schedule,” Nat says. “Try another flash drive.”

He tries it. This one has screenshots of emails from her father—Stern seems to be trying to get her to meet up with him. I swear I can explain everything if you’d only listen, one says, and the next one adds, You cannot avoid me when I’m financing your rent, Maddie. Steve reads through each and every one of the photos, but it raises more questions than it does answers. Why would Madison take screenshots when she could go back over these messages in her email anytime?

“Maybe she was assembling evidence to build for a restraining order.” Nat reads the messages over his shoulder, her brow furrowed. “He was definitely getting pushy.”

“Sure—can’t be fun when your daughter’s icing you out.” Steve scratches an ear. “Do you think it was because of the affair, or what she found in his office?”

“He’s pretty vague—we’re not going to find out from these pics. Try opening her email.”

When Steve does that, he’s presented with a login screen. He gets her email from one of the pictures, but Bookworm57492 isn’t the password.

“Gmail might require punctuation,” Nat suggests. “Try it with an exclamation point.”

No dice.

“Damn.” Nat thinks for a moment. “Well—we know he was harassing her, and now she’s dead. Think Detective Matthews would tell us if she was in the process of getting a restraining order?”

“We could always ask.”

“Hang on.” Nat looks up, her brow creasing. “Do you smell smoke?”

Steve pauses, realizes he does. The acrid stench is heavy in the air—he sees gray flowing up beneath the door. The smoke detector begins to blare—WAH, WAH, WAH. Nat claps her hands to her ears, looks around.

“Check the living room!” she shouts.

Steve lies the back of his hand to the door. It’s warm. So is the knob—he withdraws his hand, fingertips throbbing.

“There’s fire in the living room,” he tells her. “The door is stuck—it’s like someone pushed something against it.”

“You have super strength!”

“Yeah, and the damn living room is on fire!”

WAH, WAH, WAH.

“Window,” she says, shoving him toward it.

“Flash drives,” he retorts.

She shoves them into her purse, and they make their way to the window. Nat tries to open it—it’s stuck. Steve uses the lamp on the bedside table to smash the glass—Nat moves away as it shatters, covering her face. A shard hits Steve—sticky blood drips down his cheek. Smoke billows into the room from beneath the door as they clamber onto the fire escape. As they climb outside, part of the ceiling collapses—the fire is moving fast, and a rush of hot air slams against Steve.

The fire escape ladder is jammed. Steve braces himself against the exit, shoves as hard as he can. At last it slides into motion. He guides Nat to the top rung and she begins the descent. In the distance, sirens blare.

“We have to get out of here!” she calls up as he begins the climb.

No shit, Steve thinks as he follows. They continue to climb down, moving cautiously. The metal is hot to the touch, and he can hear the crackling of flames above and below him. He coughs as the smoke thickens. He covers his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt, but it doesn’t do much good—the air is heavy and thick, and he can hardly breathe.

They reach the ground level, moving away from the building. Flames explode out of the windows on the second floor—it’s spreading to the third and fourth, and quickly. All around them are screams, calls—people have their cellphones out all around them, filming the chaos. Nat pulls her baseball cap low over her face and copies him, covering the lower half of her face with her collar. Her shirt is low cut, so it’s not an easy task—somehow she manages. They push through the crowd, making their way across the street and back to their car. Only once their inside do they speak.

“That fire started inside the apartment.” Nat watches a firetruck pull around the corner, her forehead creased. “Someone was in there with us.”

“You think they saw us?”

“They knew where we were. They jammed the door.”

“Madison’s killer?”

“Probably.” She turns the ignition, puts the car in drive. “We need to find out where Senator Stern was this morning. Like, now.”

Steve pulls out his phone—nothing relevant pops up when he Googles the guy. Mostly articles about the affair with his intern, a news article with details of the divorce. There’s one that says he was lobbying last week, but nothing recent—Steve switches off his phone as Nat pulls onto Main Street.

“That was close,” she says at last. “Thanks for getting us out of there.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Steve looks at her, concentrating on the road, and his heart twists in his chest. “We’re a team.”

“I hate fire.”

“I know.”

“Think anyone filmed us?”

“We can check when we get back to Avenger’s Tower.”

She nods, still looking slightly concerned. If they’re caught breaking and entering, that would be beyond bad—Steve’s still half afraid that Detective Matthews will find out about their interviews with Alison and Helen. Plus, they’ve got the thing with David scheduled for tomorrow after therapy—they’re treating this like it’s their case, and no police officer on Earth would be happy about that. Especially since Nat’s father is the main suspect. If he gets into legal trouble…

…well, Steve will burn that bridge when they get to it. He’s done it before.

They both have.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks.

“A little shaken.” She blinks rapidly, as if surprised that she admitted it. “It was too close.”

“Yeah.” Steve shakes his head. “Thank God there was a fire exit. Otherwise we would’ve been trapped in there.”

“That was probably the killer’s plan. Maybe we’re getting close.”

“Maybe,” Steve says, and hopes she’s right.

Chapter Text

Teach me how to fight, I’ll show you how to win.

- Excerpt from “Warrior” by Beth Crowley

Saundra welcomes them into her office with a wide smile and a beckoning hand. It feels exactly the same as the last time Steve was here—same desk, same couch, same board games stacked on the far wall. Nat takes her seat on the chair, and he selects the settee. Saundra sits across from them, notebook and pencil in hand, studying them.

“How was your week?” she asks.

“Good.” Nat leans forward, expression intense. “I think we’re making progress.”

“Is that so?” Saundra checks her notebook. “I’m pleased to hear it. You’ve left these last few sessions in a distressed state—I’ve been concerned.”

Nat laughs lightly.

“I wouldn’t say I’ve been distressed,” she says. “Steve and I will work it out. We always do.”

God, Steve hates therapy.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” Saundra suggests.

“Actually, I have a few questions about this clinic.” Nat’s gaze becomes downright dangerous—clearly she’s sick of pussyfooting around and wants some actual answers. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you worked here?”

Saundra looks surprised. Her eyes widen slightly, and she recrosses her legs. She’s wearing another one of her floral skirts, this one with sunflowers patterned down the sides.

“About five years,” she says at last. “This was my first job after graduating. I know I’m unseasoned, but I assure you, I did several internships during my time at Yale—and I’ve been doing this for a while since I finished school. If you’d prefer another therapist—”

“Of course not,” Steve says quickly. “We like you, Saundra.”

That makes her smile. “I’m happy to assist in any way I can.”

“Have you ever noticed anything odd about the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic?” Nat asks. “Any coworkers you don’t like? Any difficulty getting paid, suspicious activity on the financial side of things?”

Saundra’s thin lips purse into a frown.

“Paranoia is very common in your line of work.” Her voice is kind but brisk. “I don’t blame you for your suspicion, especially with your father’s recent arrest. Nevertheless, this is a great gig—I’ve never had any problems here. May I ask where these questions are coming from?”

Nat ignores the question. “Have you ever lived abroad?”

“I did a semester in Germany when I was an undergraduate.”

That catches Steve’s attention. “Why Germany?”

“My father is from Berlin.” She looks on edge now, recrosses her legs for a second time. “It’s a beautiful city, and I learned a bit of the language. It was only a semester though—someday I’d like to go back.”

“Are you political?” Nat asks.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to therapy,” is her response. “Let’s focus on the two of you. What activities have you done together this week?”

They’re not about to tell her about the breaking and entering—or the fire—so they focus on sparring.

“It’s a good outlet,” Nat says. “With everything that’s going on, it’s easy to take it all out on each other in the ring.”

Saundra nods encouragingly. “Would you describe it as foreplay?”

Steve feels his cheeks heat—Nat is looking at him carefully, her expression amused.

“No,” Steve says.

At the same time she says, “Definitely.”

“Let’s talk about some of the strategies we went over at our last session,” Saundra says. “How have you been applying them to your daily lives?”

“We’re trying to communicate more,” Nat says smoothly. “We’ve been avoiding each other less—that’s a start.”

“It’s been helpful,” Steve lies. “Understanding where Nat’s coming from has made a huge difference. I’ve been really trying to listen to her perspective.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Saundra says. “Communication is key to any relationship. Have you noticed any improvement in your ability to solve conflicts?”

“I think we’ve been more patient with each other,” Nat says. “Taking time to talk things through instead of jumping to conclusions. Patience has definitely been a focus for us. We’re learning to give each other space when we need it, and when to probe. Say—what can you tell me about Harold Johnson?”

“Harold?” Saundra pauses to collect her thoughts. “He seems like a nice man and a good therapist. Why do you ask?”

“He was Madison’s shrink.” Nat leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “How difficult do you think it would be for me to get the notes from their sessions?”

“Unless you’re a police officer with a warrant, I’d say impossible.” Saundra’s voice is firm. “I know you’re worried about your father, but confidentiality is our highest priority at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic. That benefits the two of you—and Madison, may she rest in peace.”

“Have you ever had any problems with him?” Steve asks.

“Of course not.” Saundra’s expression has become closed off—she checks her notes again. Yes, Steve thinks, she’s hiding something. “Let’s return our attention to what’s important, shall we? Have the two of you encountered any triggers or challenges in the past week?”

“No,” Nat says shortly. “Can you tell me who else works in this building?”

Saundra’s lips twitch. “Am I about to be out of a job?”

“As Steve said, we like you.” Her smile gleams. “Just curious.”

Saundra takes a long time to answer.

“There are five counselors currently practicing in this organization,” she says at last—they already know this, of course, but it’s nice to get the confirmation. “You already know about Harold—he works on the fourth floor. Scott Doyle has the office next to mine, and Mya Gordon has the office on the other side of us. Teresa George is on the next floor down, next to Harold. They’re all good people.”

“What about the other staff?” Nat asks. “The ones in finance?”

“I’ve never had encounters with them,” Saundra says delicately. “This is the second time you’ve brought up our financial staff—are you having difficulties with the payment plan? We do take most major insurances.”

Fury’s covering that, so Steve’s not worried.

“Sorry for probing,” he says, a little sheepishly—Nat’s treating this with such intensity that he’s worried it’s putting Saundra on edge. “Like you said, it’s an occupational hazard of working in our industry. We like to know who’s behind the closed doors.”

“Completely understandable.” Saundra nods. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t told any of my colleagues that I’m seeing you—except for Harold, who told me you stopped by his office. I can tell your father’s arrest is affecting you deeply, Natasha. Why don’t we talk about that? I’m sure it’s had an impact on your relationship.”

“We’re managing,” Nat says. She sounds a bit stiff. “Thank you for your concern.”

“It’s important to lean on each other during times of crisis,” Saundra says. “Natasha, how are you feeling about the situation?”

An unreadable emotion crosses her face. Steve has to look away.

“Conflicted.” Her voice is tight as a cocked gun. “I want to believe he’s innocent. Sometimes I think that would be worse. I don’t know how to feel.”

“Family matters can bring up a range of emotions,” Saundra says. “Steve, how are you supporting Natasha through this?”

Well, I broke into a dead girl’s apartment and almost burned to death, Steve thinks, but he doesn’t say it—he wonders what Saundra’s reaction would be if he let it slip. He’s better than that, though, and Nat’s counting on him. He’s not going to out her secrets—not even the one about her dream starring Saundra. He teased her, sure, but he’s not ready to bring that level of discomfort into the room.

“I’m here for her, whatever she needs.” He chooses his words carefully, hoping Nat’s listening to everything he says. “We’re trying to piece together what happened. We’ll get our answers—I’m sure of it.”

It’s as close to brute honesty as he can bring himself to come.

###

Harold Johnson is in his office when they swing by the fourth floor—this time, they take care to avoid being seen. Steve and Nat exchange disappointed glances. They don’t have time to do much of an investigation—they’re scheduled to meet David at a coffee shop near NYU at 3 PM, and traffic in the city is terrible this time of day. It was the only time he was available to meet with them, which means another week has gone by without them making any progress with their investigation at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic. They’re running out of time.

Steve knows better than to be frustrated—that isn’t productive—but he can’t help it. As they climb into Happy’s car, he goes over the case repeatedly in his mind. He feels like there’s something he’s missing, something obvious, but he can’t put his finger on it. HYDRA is laundering funds through the therapy clinic—that much they know—but they’re still ignorant as to where the cell is located, and who all is dirty. Is it possible both Saundra and Harold are clean? Could the corruption be limited to the finance staff? Is it possible Madison’s murder is unconnected, and she and David were attending therapy for unrelated reasons?

They’re about to find out.

Happy pulls up in front of Spill the Beans five minutes early. A windchime rings brightly as they enter the premises. The counter takes up the far wall, and a variety of pastries beckon invitingly from the display case. Tables are scattered around the room, and a few booths are on the opposing side. There’s a miniature library with novels and books of poems, a few comfortable looking easy chairs in front of the shelves. The room echoes with the clinking of glasses and low conversation. Steve pulls a baseball cap low over his face as he enters—Nat does the same.

“Two coffees—black,” Nat tells the barista.

“May I please have a slice of that lemon cheesecake too?” Steve asks with a smile.

“Coming right up, hon,” she says—if she recognizes them, she doesn’t show it. Smacking chewing gum, she gets Steve’s cheesecake and fills two paper cups with steaming brown liquid.

Nat nudges Steve with her shoulder. “He’s over there.”

A tall, lanky, red-haired man is in a corner booth, playing with his phone. They get their coffees and walk over to him, sliding onto the opposing bench. David looks up as they take their seats—his eyes are watery and blue. He rubs his nose with the cuff of his sleeve and surveys them, his expression troubled.

“When you said you were Avengers, I didn’t believe it.” He tries for a smile. “Hi. Call me Dave. I’m a big fan.”

“I’m Steve, and this is Nat,” Steve says. “Pleasure to meet you, Dave.”

“We appreciate you taking the time out of your day to see us,” Nat says earnestly.

She sips her coffee—Dave does the same. He has some whipped thingamajig topped with caramel—it looks good.

“Can you tell us about Madison?” Steve asks.

He squirms on his chair.

“She was a great girl,” he says. “Stubborn. A-type. She knew Krav Maga—no thug would’ve been able to get the jump on her without a fight. I still can’t believe this happened. We were gonna get married. We were gonna spend the rest of our lives together. She was my soulmate, and now she’s just…gone. What do you want me to say?”

He stares at them sullenly, sadly, stabs at the whipped cream with his straw. Steve takes a sip of coffee—with what Dave just said about soulmates, he can’t help but think about the fact that Nat knows he takes his coffee black. She knows everything about him, Nat does, and he couldn’t imagine losing her. It’s unfathomable.

“She was having problems with her dad, right?” Nat asks. “Alison told us she may have found something in his office. Do you know anything about that?”

He dodges the question. “Why are we even talking about this? I thought they caught the guy. Some Russian assassin or something—probably got her because her dad was a senator.”

“We don’t think he did it,” Steve says. “We’re exploring other avenues.”

Dave sighs a long, drawn-out sigh.

“You think it was Henry,” he says. “You think he killed his own daughter.”

“That doesn’t seem to surprise you,” Nat says.

“I mean, the guy’s a dick.” He glances at Nat. “Sorry—my mom told me I should never cuss in front of ladies, but there’s no other word for what he is. He’s a dick. Mads thought he was stalking her, putting cameras in her room and shit—I don’t know if I buy it, but after what she found in his office…well. Nothing’s impossible.”

“What did she find in his office?” Nat asks again.

“He was getting payments from the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic,” David says. “A lot of money—we’re talking, like, two-hundred grand a month. The papers said he was a consultant, but that didn’t make any sense to Mads—she confronted him about it, and he said he’d been helping them with their business license. But two-hundred grand a month for over a year? That’s a lot of money—too much for a consult, even if it was with a senator. It didn’t make any sense.”

“Is that why the two of you started counseling?” Steve asks.

“We didn’t really need it.” David looks a little sheepish. “We made up some bull about moving in together before the wedding—I wanted to, she didn’t. In actuality, I didn’t mind waiting—figured it would be even better once I made an honest woman out of her. But Harold Johnson seems like a legitimate shrink—Mads liked him. I mean, she really liked him. She even started going to individual counseling sessions with him.”

Nat and Steve exchange a glance. “Harold Johnson didn’t mention anything about that to us,” Nat says.

“Well, they’re big on privacy there,” David says. “We never found anything. Seemed like a legitimate business. We were going to quit going, but Mads said she thought it was helping us. It started off a gig, but I think she liked talking about her feelings. She didn’t do a lot of that growing up—not with her dad being who he was. It was good for her. Good for us.”

“Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt her?” asks Nat.

“No, everyone loved her.” Dave pauses. “Well…she was having some problems with Alison. We thought maybe Alison was spying for her dad. But, I mean, they were best friends. It’s not like Ali would…y’know. I don’t think she’s capable of that.”

“Do you by any chance have copies of the pay stubs?” Steve says, knowing he’s pressing his luck. “The ones to Senator Stern from the True Love Counseling and Recovery clinic?”

“No—Mads took pictures, though, and I think she kept it on a flash drive.” He shakes his head sadly. “They’re probably gone now. Did you hear her place burned down?”

“We heard about that,” Nat says, voice neutral.

“You don’t think it was her dad, do you?” Dave leans forward, his expression suddenly suspicious. “Like…he knew she had the pictures and was trying to destroy evidence?”

“We’re open to all possibilities,” Nat says carefully. “A detective I know was able to get their hands on a couple of flash drives from Madison’s apartment—they’re passcode encrypted. I don’t suppose you know the key?”

“I don’t—sorry.” Dave takes another sip of coffee. “I never even saw the pictures myself. Mads just told me about them. Wish I could help your detective friend, though—if Henry did this, he deserves to rot in hell.”

“We think so too.” Steve gets to his feet. “Thank you so much for your time, Dave—unless you can think of anything else?”

He’s eager to get home and see if Tony’s had any luck getting into the flash drives—he’s had his AI working on it since Nat and Steve brought them home on Sunday. He said to give him three days, but there’s always a chance he got in early. They need to know what’s on them—it would be great to have evidence of corruption if—and when—they confront Senator Stern.

“No.” Dave looks sad again—his eyes are damp. “Do me a favor—find out who did this. I haven’t been able to sleep since she died.”

Nat favors him with a small, grim smile. “We’re working on it with everything we’ve got.”

###

Tony hasn’t gotten anywhere with the flash drives when they swing by his lab.

“I told you to give me three days,” he grouses. “Do you have any idea how many combinations of letters, numbers, and symbols there are in the English lexicon? It’ll take time, damn it.”

He chugs the cup of coffee they brought for him from Spill the Beans without pausing for breath, crumples the cup, and tosses it over his shoulder without looking to see where it lands. Dum-ee chirps merrily from beside him, and Steve pats the robot on the head. He examines the lab—the whirring machines, the modern art on the walls, the pristine tables strewn with spare parts and drops of oil. A half-assembled Iron Man suit is on the floor—looks like it’s being redone. The air reeks of paint and acid.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Nat complains. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this, Tony.”

“My algorithms are working on it,” Tony says snidely. “Maybe you should work on your patience. I’m not the problem here.”

Peter pops up from behind a table, brown hair a rat’s nest, a drop of motor oil dripping down his cheek. “What’s on the flash drives?” he asks.

Steve starts. “Didn’t know you were here, kiddo,” he says. “Make a noise to let a fellow know, why don’t you?”

“Is it HYDRA stuff?” Peter looks beyond excited as he glances at Tony. “Are we going on a mission?”

“No,” says Tony, grinning at the kid. “It’s not for us, kid. They’re undercover. Guess where.”

“Tony, don’t do this.” Steve’s cheeks feel like they’re getting warm. “Please.”

“A terrorist cell?” Peter guesses. “No, too obvious. Uh…a laundromat that’s a front for the mafia?”

“Couple’s counselling,” Tony says smugly. “How long do you think it will take Ms. Romanoff to become Mrs. Rogers?”

“You’re kidding!” Peter looks back and forth between the two of them, delighted. “I didn’t know you were dating! Two of my favorite people, nipped by cupid’s arrow—what a joy! I was just telling Mr. Stark that love is in the air. MJ actually looked in my direction the other day—she even let me borrow a pencil! Romance is all around us, people, and the world is beautiful.”

“You do know what undercover means, don’t you?” Nat asks dryly.

Peter beams at her. “You’re telling me you’ve never looked at Steve and thought he’s yolked?”

“I…don’t know what that means.”

“Swol,” Peter suggests. “Thic. Crispy.”

“Are you speaking English?”

“C’mon, Ms. Romanoff—Steve’s hot.” Peter turns his attention to Steve. “And Mr. Rogers, you couldn’t find a better babe if you looked under every rock on Coney Island. What are you two waiting for? Birds do it. Bees do it. The raccoons in the trash can behind my building do it, usually while I’m trying to sleep—”

“Peter.” Tony looks like he’s not sure whether to be amused or embarrassed. “As a general rule of thumb, it’s not polite to encourage your coworkers to have sex. Your aunt should’ve given you this talk a long time ago.”

“Well, I’m not saying they should do it here—”

“Okay!” Steve claps his hands together, his face uncomfortably hot. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

“Think about me,” Nat says teasingly.

Tony and Peter burst into raucous laughter. Steve rubs the back of his neck as he exits. He loves Tony, loves the kid…but they’re a lot, especially together. He and Nat are a lot of things, but they’re not the racoons in Peter’s dumpster—and they never will be.

It’s inappropriate how badly he wants to be something more.

Chapter Text

You’re my mortal flaw
and I’m your fatal sin.
Let me feel the sting,
the pain,
the burn,
under my skin.

- Excerpt from “Warrior” by Beth Crowley

The next night, they camp outside a bar in uptown DC. Lights glow from within, casting a golden glow onto the sidewalk. The red sign screams Paul’s Pints and sports a buxom lady with two pitchers of beer. A couple of ravens perch on the swinging post—Steve imagines if they rolled down a window of the car, they could hear fluttering wings. It’s a small, gritty establishment—nothing like you’d expect a senator to patron, even a disgraced ex-senator, but Steve did a little research and apparently their taps are unrivaled in the capitol. The entrance is marked by a weathered wooden door with peeling paint. The parking lot is mostly empty, with a few cars parked haphazardly—an old pickup truck, a beat-up sedan, a couple of motorcycles, and a brand new Testla that must belong to Stern.

“That’s him.” Nat unlocks her door as a heavy man in a long coat exits into the night. “Let’s grab him.”

The abduction is quick and quiet. One second Senator Stern is walking down the street, and the next he’s pounding on the inside of the trunk of their car, screaming obscenities and threats.

Nat hums as she drives them to a back ally a few blocks away—the street is abandoned, and aside from a few rusted cars and a rat scurrying between trash bins, there’s not a living thing in sight.

They pull him from the trunk. When Steve grabbed him, he took the ex-senator from behind—once Stern sees who it is, his fury doubles.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he snarls, saliva dripping down his chin. Behind his back, he rubs his wrists, testing the ropes Nat tied around skin. “You’ll go to prison for this. I’ll see you rot in there, Rogers.”

“Save the threats,” Nat says. “We’re here about Madison. We all want the same thing, don’t we? Her killer brought to justice.”

A little of the fight goes out of Stern’s eyes, and he seems to sag.

“Tell us what you know, and we’ll let you go on your merry way.” Steve keeps his voice light. “We know you’re working for HYDRA—we have screenshots of the payments from the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic. Tell anyone about this, and those pictures will be on the front page of every tabloid from here to California.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Stern says, but there’s no bite to his voice.

Nat pulls out her phone—Tony got into the flash drive around 3 AM last night, finally breaking through the encryption and waking them both up as soon as he did so. Photographs of the check stubs are clearly visible on the screen—almost twenty pictures of checks, ranging in sum from $100,000 to $300,000. Stern looks at the photographs, mouth slightly agape, eyes furious as he scans the screen. Then he turns his attention to Nat.

“I’m a consultant,” he says at last. “I’m assisting them in maintaining a business license. My consult isn’t cheap.”

“Sure you are.” Her smile gleams in the starlight—it’s dark in the back alley, but Steve can see every one of her pearly whites. “Is that what got your daughter killed? Your consulting?”

“Don’t you dare talk about my daughter.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Nat asks. “It’s your fault she’s dead.”

“Look—I might’ve been willing to cooperate with this charade if it had been conducted under different circumstances.” Stern tugs pointedly at his bondage. “Seeing how you’ve conducted a highly illegal abduction, however, I’m under no obligation to tell you anything. My daughter’s murder was a tragic accident—unusual for Oakdale County, but New York is New York. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m heartbroken, but nothing I can do will bring her back from the dead.”

“I’m sorry about the circumstances, and I promise we’ll make this as quick as possible,” Nat says. “We’re just trying to get the truth about Madison’s death and the circumstances leading up to it.”

He looks nonplussed, but his eyes are damp. “Why do you even care?” he says. “Surely the Avengers have bigger worries than my daughter, even if you do have a vendetta against me.”

So—he doesn’t seem to know Nat’s father has been arrested for the murder. That’s the good news. The bad news is he seems stubborn and resolute that his affiliation with the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic had nothing to do with his daughter’s death—and unless he starts confessing to consorting with criminals, which Steve doesn’t find likely, they’re back to square one. Nothing to go on.

Luckily Nat isn’t finished.

“We know you’re affiliated with HYDRA,” she says. “We have the documents Madison found in your office—the pay stubs, for starters, and the other files. What do you have to say about that?”

“I have many files in my office.” He blinks, wide-eyed and innocent. Steve doesn’t buy it for a minute. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“We both know she found sensitive information related to HYDRA activities in Manhattan,” Nat presses. “We believe she was killed because of what she discovered. The question is, was it you who put the hit on her—or was it one of your affiliates?”

She’s recording this conversation, obviously—her phone is on in her purse. Stern must know that, or at least suspect it, because he takes a while to answer. When he speaks, he’s obviously choosing his words with great care.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says at last. “HYDRA is a thing of the past.”

“Senator—sorry, force of habit—ex-Senator?” Steve pauses for dramatic emphasis. “HYDRA has never been obliterated. Not fully. You know that as well as we do. If you have any information, now is the time to share it. You may have betrayed your country, but you aren’t past the point of no return—you can still help us stop them.”

“Madison accused me of the same improprieties.” He sounds cold, now, and sad. “She was…curious. She had a habit of digging into things that didn’t concern her. It’s hard, you know, watching your little girl grow up into a woman you don’t recognize. Neither of you have children. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Is that why you killed her?” Nat asks.

“I did not kill my daughter.”

“Is that why you paid someone to do it, then?”

“I had nothing to do with her death!” His voice rises—Steve’s half afraid someone is going to hear him. “Look—you have the files. You know about the…sensitive information she found.”

“Tell us about that,” Nat says, even though they spent all day pouring over the documents.

“They contained details about covert operations,” he says delicately. “Things that were done in the name of national security. But they were old, from a time when we were still dealing with the fallout from World War II. Even if someone discovered she had access to that information, it wouldn’t have been enough to get her killed. You don’t think I haven’t thought about it? You don’t think I haven’t spent every minute since she died going over the last ten years of my life, over and over, wondering if I could’ve done something different? Believe me or not, I don’t care—but I was horrified and distraught by my daughter’s murder, and I have no idea how—or why—it happened.”

His eyes are wide, earnest, but politicians are liars and Steve wouldn’t put it past him to be pulling all of this shit out of his behind. Still—he glances at Nat, wondering if she can get a better read on Stern than he can. She’s scrutinizing him with a peculiar expression on her face, half disappointed and half curious, and—God—she looks beautiful in the moonlight.

“Those covert missions,” she says. “They weren’t American. They were HYDRA.”

“Some of them—yes.” He sounds defeated. “There were also operations to root out HYDRA cells still operating covertly—these were revealed to the enemy, and a number of federal agents died in the fallout. I think those were the ones that struck her the hardest—she thought I was responsible, but I was still a very young man when all this went down. I should’ve burned the papers. I should never have kept them.”

“What else was in the documents?” Nat asks. “What was most important to you?”

Because what’s important to him, Steve reminds himself, will also be important to HYDRA.

“Names. Locations. Funding sources—including that therapy clinic she and David started going to.” He stares at the ground, expression blank. “She never told me about that—Helen did, after she died. She should have stayed far, far away—she’s not a spy like you are, Agent Romanoff. I suppose it’s possible she found something that could expose an active HYDRA cell.”

“Where were you on Sunday morning, when your daughter’s apartment burned down?” Steve asks.

“I was in DC.” He sniffs dismissively. “I spent all day in meetings with other lobbyists, going over the agenda for our presentation to congress next week. Would you like their numbers to check my alibi?”

“That would be helpful,” Steve says, even though he knows he’s being fucked with.

Nat’s focused on other matters. “Do you have other documents?” she asks. “Ones your daughter didn’t find?”

“Perhaps.”

“We’re going to need those.”

“I’m not going to prison,” Stern says. “Nor am I cooperating with two rogue agents who clearly think themselves above the law. SHIELD has been terminated, and neither of you have any authority to conduct this operation. I advise you to let it go.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Steve says. “You can give us the documents, or we can hack your computer—your choice. Either way, we’re finding out where the money goes once it leaves the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic—besides your pocketbook, of course.”

“We’re also going to need names,” Nat adds. “Everyone you’re in contact with who might be affiliated with HYDRA—and everyone who knew Madison got her hands on those documents.”

“You really think I’d be stupid enough to let slip that my daughter had covert intel on a terrorist organization?” Stern snaps. “I’ve made a few mistakes—more than a few, perhaps—but Madison, may she rest in peace, remains my greatest accomplishment. I never would’ve done anything to put her in danger.”

“We’ll be the judges of that.” Nat slips a knife behind his back, undoes the bonds, and then hands him a sheet of paper and a pen. “Names, Stern. Now.”

###

Back in the car, Steve examines the list of contacts and phone numbers Stern provided them with. He isn’t sure if they’ll pan into anything—maybe Stern was lying to get them off his back—but he checked his phone for their contact information, and Steve is optimistic.

There are only three of them. “These are the only operatives I know with certainty are affiliated with HYDRA,” Stern assured them. Steve doesn’t recognize any of the names, and he doesn’t see anyone from the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic on the list—plus, there were no signatures on the checks. When they asked Stern about that, he clammed up and said he’d given them what they wanted. He refused to answer any further questions.

Ulrich Ivanov – (212)-394-2019
Artur Kolesnikov – (646)-293-9210
Lotta Belova – (332)-193-3281

“212, 646, and 332.” Nat’s looking at the list over his shoulder. “Those are all Manhattan area codes. They’re all locals.”

“Think one of them killed Madison?”

“He said he didn’t tell anyone she had the documents.”

“She told people, though.” Nat pauses. “Well…she told David. Maybe we should put a tail on him—and them, if we can track them down.”

“Seems like a good place to start.” Steve scratches the tip of his nose with the pen. “We’ll do some digging when we get back to the base. See what we can find out about them. At the very least, Stern’s testimony might be enough for Fury to get some warrants.”

“He’s not the head of SHIELD anymore.”

“Sure, but he’s got contacts.”

Neither of them say the obvious—without a confession, or a stronger statement from Stern about their affiliation with HYDRA, it’s going to be hard to pin Madison’s murder on any of the names. That means Alexi’s going to be in jail indefinitely—his arraignment is in about a week, and Steve’s not looking forward to it. He promised the guy he’d find Madison’s killer and get him out of the cellblock before this thing went to trial, but that’s looking less and less likely by the day. This investigation is ticking by at a snail’s pace—even if they manage to track down the agents and put tails on them, they’re no closer to compromising the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic than they were before talking to Stern.

“We’re getting close,” Nat says. “I can feel it.”

“Maybe.” Steve looks at the list of names with confidence he doesn’t feel. “I hope you’re right.”

###

The next morning, Steve and Nat pay a visit to the Oakdale Regional Correctional Facility and Sherriff’s Station to see Alexi. They’re escorted from the visitor’s area by a kindly-faced woman and led to the booth where Nat’s father is waiting. The room is small, with a thick glass barrier separating prisoners from their visitors. A phone is on either side of the glass for communication. Nat sits in the chair and presses the phone to her ear. Steve hovers behind her, a little uncomfortable. He hates the sight of Alexi sitting there in his brown jail garb, New York Department of Corrections stamped across his chest in black lettering. He feels guilty, somehow, like they’re not doing enough to get him out.

Nat’s face is carefully free of emotion as she speaks into the phone. “Alexi.”

“Natasha, my little Avenger.” Alexi is grinning despite the circumstances, but he looks exhausted—one of his eyes is bruised and bloodshot. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What—I can’t visit my father?”

“Yelena has been here every weekday without fail. You’ve had yet to see me once.”

“I’ve been a little busy working on your case.” Her voice is clipped. “We need your help. It’s about Madison’s murder.”

His smile fades, replaced by a serious expression.

“I don’t know what I can possibly do to support you from here,” he says. “Nevertheless, I’ll do whatever I can—I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.”

Nat presses the list of names against the glass—Stern’s names. “Do you know of any of these people?” she asks. “Have you heard of them?”

He scans the list. “All of them, in fact.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do you really think I would joke about such things, my little angel?” He smiles. “I worked with Russian intelligence for a long time. You meet people. Also, Lotta Belova lives across the street from us. I believe she goes by Anna Homes these days, but I recognize her from an operation in Munich. You can change your name, but you can’t change your face.”

That’s quite a coincidence—judging by her expression, Nat’s thinking the same thing.

“Lotta Belova lives down the street from you?” Her eyes narrow. “Have you interacted with her?”

“I say hello every time I go outside to get the newspaper and she’s watering her lawn.” He looks affronted. “I am not a rude man, and I do socialize with my neighbors. I’ve thought about inviting her over for dinner, but single people make terrible company. She never married. Doesn’t have the face for it—although I would never say that to her directly, goodness, no.”

“What’s she like?”

“Keeps to herself.” He looks suddenly interested. “You don’t think she killed Madison?”

“It’s a possibility,” Nat says. “She’s HYDRA, and Madison was looking into a cell. That’s why she and her boyfriend were going to therapy in Manhattan.”

“Interesting—very interesting.” Alexi turns back to the list of names. “They’re all HYDRA, now that I think about it—although none of them told me directly, it makes sense given their backgrounds. The names ring bells for dogs, as our friend Pavlov would say. I’ve crossed paths with all of them during past…engagements.”

Steve doesn’t want to think about whatever those “engagements” entailed. He leans down to Natasha’s ear, speaking into the phone and getting as close as he dares to Nat. She smells phenomenal, a mixture of coconut and cinnamon—it’s positively intoxicating, but he resists the temptation to sniff her neck. That would be weird, he thinks. Very weird.

“Can you tell us more about them?” he asks. “Anything you know might help.”

“Alright,” Alexi says. The room is empty save for them, and Steve can hear him through the holes in the glass—they don’t even really need the phones, now he thinks about it. “Understand my memory isn’t what it used to be. And HYDRA, they have ways of making people disappear. I’m not certain any beside Lotta are still alive.”

“Just do your best, Alexi,” Nat says. “Please.”

“Very well, my girl.” He sighs. “This one here, Ulrich Ivanov. Dangerous man. He was an information broker dealing in secrets—as far as I know he’s never murdered anyone directly, but he’s likely blackmailing a good percentage of your congressmen and senators, and he can put a man to death with a single codeword spoken into a burner phone. He’s trouble.”

“If he found out Madison had her father’s documents, he could’ve been the one to put a hit on her,” Nat murmurs—her eyes grow focused. “Tell us about Artur Kolesnikov.”

“He was involved in financing,” he says. “Had ties to several shadowy operations in Eastern Europe. Always kept a low profile, but if you needed a loan to get out of dodge fast, he could hook you up. For a considerable interest, of course.”

Nat jots that down onto the sheet of paper, as well as information about Lotta and Ulrich.

“Is there anyone else you can think of who might be affiliated with HYDRA?” she asks. “Anyone you may have encountered during your various…engagements?”

“I can only name two others off the top of my head,” Alexi says. “Igor Petrov and Dormir Makkov. Muscles for hire—I worked a few operations with them back in the 90s, before I learned that they were Nazis. Not that the Red Room discriminated when hiring applicants for jobs such as these, mind you. Very good at what they do. If HYDRA needs dirty work done, they’re on the shortlist. May I ask if the senator was warned that his daughter was on a hit list?”

“Not that he mentioned, and we pressed him pretty good,” Nat says. “Good enough for him to cough up these names, I guess.”

“I doubt it’s a complete list.” Alexi looks one more time at the list, along with the two added names Nat scrawled on the bottom of the sheet. “Makkov has two k’s, my dear.”

Nat fixes it. “Thanks, Alexi. This helps a lot.”

“Be careful, both of you.” He leans closer and keeps his voice low—Steve can barely hear him through the glass. “HYDRA has already killed one person, and they will not hesitate to do it again. Natasha, Steve…take care of yourselves, and take care of each other.”

“You too, Alexi,” Nat says. “Who gave you the shiner?”

“Another inmate.” He grins. “You should’ve seen his face when I was done with him. He won’t be speaking to anyone else for a long, long while.”

Nat frowns. “You shouldn’t be fucking with people before your arraignment,” she says. “They could hold it against you.”

“Nonsense—the guards are very lax in this place.” He shifts on his seat, looking uncomfortable. “Plus, he attacked first. What was I supposed to do, my girl? Sit there and take it? I am the Red Guardian, and I should be feared by all who set foot in this morose place of sorrow and despair. Sometimes you have to put your foot in people’s mouths to show where you are on the food chain, eh?”

“You put your foot in his mouth?” Steve demands.

“I don’t recall saying anything about putting my foot in his mouth.”

“Let’s go, Steve.” Nat hangs up the phone. “I’ll be back soon, Alexi,” she calls through the glass.

“Make sure you do that.” He waves, rises. “Try not to get yourself killed, my girl. And you, Captain America—we’re going to get you that library card if it’s the last thing I do. First thing on my list when I get out—I promise.”

If anything, it amplifies Steve’s guilt tenfold.

###

They shoot out an email to Fury as soon as they get back to the tower, and ten minutes later they have more information on every HYDRA operative on their list—everything SHIELD’s got on file.

Lotta Belova—also known as Anna Homes, Jennifer Wilson, and Emma Johnson—has a last known address directly across the street from Alexi and Melina. That can’t possibly be a coincidence. She’s in her early 30s, Russian in nationality, and highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat. She knows Krav Maga and Systema and is an expert in espionage, with extensive training in infiltration, surveillance, and counterintelligence. She’s adept at blending in and assuming new identities and is fluent in Russian, English, German, French, and Mandarin.

“One hell of a spy,” Nat comments. “Too bad she’s neck deep in HYDRA ideology—if it weren’t for the new world order stuff, she’d make a good coworker.”

“Too bad,” Steve agrees, but judging by the list of suspected targets she’s allegedly neutralized, he never wants to meet the woman.

Alexi was underselling Ulrich Ivanov when he labeled him dangerous. According to the file Fury sends over, he’s a master of gathering, storing, and selling secrets. He has an extensive network of contacts in various networks, including government, military, and corporate. His primary method of control is blackmail, and he possesses compromising information on numerous high-ranking officials. Highly proficient in hacking, encryption, and espionage, he uses cutting-edge technology to gather and protect his information.

“I can’t think of anything in Stern’s documents that would’ve incriminated Ivanov,” Nat says. “If he put her on a list, he was doing it for HYDRA—not himself.”

“Maybe he knows something about Stern,” Steve suggests. “Who leaked the thing about the intern?”

“She came forward herself.” Nat looks thoughtful. “I suppose he could’ve nudged it—maybe we could talk to her. See if she knows anything.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Igor Petrov and Dormir Makkov. Igor is known for his brutality and lack of mercy—he enjoys violence for the sake of violence, and his file shows little regard for human life. Despite his ruthless nature, Igor is loyal to those who pay him well—namely, HYDRA—and enjoys challenging assignments. Dormir is methodical and precise, often taking a more strategic approach to his work. He plans carefully and considers all variables. Emotionally detached, he views his work as purely transactional and is indifferent to the suffering of his targets. Both Igor and Dormir have left a lot of bodies in their wake.

“Either of them could’ve taken a hammer to Madison’s head,” Nat says.

Steve agrees.

But the real lead—the first one they’ve had to go on—is Artur Kolesnikov. He’s in his mid-fifties, Belarusian, a financial genius with a deep understanding of international finance, money laundering, and offshore banking. He excels at creating complex financial structures to hide and move money. He has extensive known connections with criminal organizations, and rogue financers across Eastern Europe and beyond. These connections allow him to facilitate loans and financial services for various illegal activities. He’s a master at keeping a low profile, avoiding attention from both law enforcement and rivals. He operates through a web of shell companies and proxies, making it difficult to trace activities back to him, but SHIELD knows a few of his aliases—and one of them is Patrick Morris.

“Patrick Morris,” Steve says. “Hang on—I’ve heard that name before.”

“So have I.” Nat pulls a sheet of paper out of her bag and hands it to him. “CFO of the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“How have we not looked into him already?”

“Nothing popped up when I plugged him into the SHIELD database.” She looks as confused as he feels. “It’s a known alias, goddamn it—he needs to be at the top of our list.”

“Definitely,” Steve says. “This guy is the top rung of Madison’s therapy firm, and he’s known HYDRA. He had to have figured out what she was doing.”

“So he puts a tail on her, has her followed to the library.”

“Hears Alexi’s threats.”

“An opportunity that’s good as gold for either Igor or Dormir. One of them takes the case. A blow to the head, Madison’s gone and Alexi is framed. Easy as saying cut off one head.”

Nat’s forehead is creased, and she’s looking at him with a strange expression on her face—she’s delighted, he realizes.

Goddamn it, they may’ve just solved this thing.

Chapter Text

Love is a ruthless game unless you play it good and right.

- Excerpt from “State of Grace” by Taylor Swift

Steve calls Hill that night and asks her to investigate their suspects. Artur Kolesnikov, AKA Patrick Morris, AKA CFO of the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic—is at the top of their list.

The runners-up are Igor Petrov and Dormir Makkov—the muscle—and Lotta Belova, the neighbor. He mentions Ulrich Ivanov but says they don’t have any reason to believe the man is connected to the therapy clinic or Madison’s murder—most accounts of him trend toward his preferred victims being political or military, and Madison doesn’t fall under those categories.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hill says, her voice tinny and distant, a cell phone speaker. “But I’ll have you know that all those people are already on SHIELD’s watchlist. We tailed Lotta Belova for a while after she moved to New York, but she kept her head down and has a low profile—we think she’s retired and had to drop the case. Igor and Dormir are still active, but we lost them in Chicago a few years back—haven’t heard from them since. As for your man Artur, well, if he wasn’t affiliated with the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic, I’d say he’s gone straight. He’s on the financial oversight board for several organizations and nonprofits, and none of them have any ties to HYDRA…that we know of.”

Key words being that we know of, Steve thinks.

“We think the corruption at the recovery clinic is mostly financial,” he says. “Artur has to be heading it.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She sounds casual. “What’s this got to do with your girl?”

“Madison was looking into the practice. She found some suspicious checks in her dad’s office.”

“How do you think Artur found out about that?”

“Maybe she told the wrong person.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking. “She told her fiancé. Maybe she told her therapist too.”

“Lot of maybes there,” Hill says. Steve kicks his feet up on his bed’s headboard, reclines on his back, and braces himself for the coming mood killer—Hill’s signature move. “Look, Steve, I sympathize with what Natasha is going through—I really do—but at this point, you’d need a confession to keep Alexi out of prison. In my experience, HYDRA operatives aren’t great talkers—most of them clam up during interrogations, and I doubt Artur would be any different. Unless you can find concrete evidence that he was in Madison’s apartment the night she was killed—or that he ordered the hit on her—you’re out of luck.”

“C’mon,” Steve says. “You don’t think the man whose organization she was investigating had anything to do with her death?”

“You’ll have to convince a jury—not me.”

“Think we can get an interview with him?”

“Two Avengers getting a meeting with the CFO of the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic, who’s probably HYDRA?” She clicks her tongue, sounding impatient. “Steve, you know better than that. I’d ask my contacts in the FBI to get a subpoena, but you don’t have enough evidence. They’d laugh in my face.”

“I can’t get a confession if I don’t talk to the guy.”

“You can’t get a confession either way, probably.”

“You’re a peach, Agent Hill,” Steve says. “A real doll.”

“I’m a realist,” she says, but she’s smiling—he can hear it in her voice. “Take care of yourself, Rogers—and take care of Natasha.”

She hangs up. Steve tosses his phone on his pillow and stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes, thinking. About HYDRA, and how he’s still out here fighting the organization nearly eighty years after World War II ended. About Artur, how he must’ve figured out Madison and David were at the clinic under false pretense, how he took the life of a nice young woman and left her poor mother childless. About Nat, too. Mostly he thinks about Nat—he can’t stop thinking about her. It’s like prodding a sore tooth—it hurts, but the painful nudge becomes an addiction as tongue prods rotting bone. The flecks of gold in her green eyes when you get close to her—kissing distance close. The way the corners of her mouth turn slightly upwards when he says something funny. That serious, all-knowing look she gets on her face during an interrogation, how she can put the suspect at ease while simultaneously milking them for everything they know.

Steve gets to his feet before he knows what he’s doing, and the next thing he knows he’s plodding down the hallway toward her room. He raises his fist to knock, thinks better of it, then raises his fist again. His stomach twists like he’s eaten something sour or spoiled.

He knocks.

She answers wearing a pair of shorts—short shorts, he can’t help but notice—and a tee-shirt. It’s…holy crap, it’s a Captain America tee-shirt, shield and everything, and she smirks as he stares at it. It’s so unlike Nat to wear someone else’s merch that he can’t keep his gaze from lingering, and too late he realizes that maybe she thinks he’s been leering at her chest. He quickly pulls his gaze to her face.

“Like it?” she asks, still smirking. “Peter gave it to me.”

“Wow,” he says, because he’s an idiot and he can think of nothing else to say. “Just…wow.”

“Come on in,” she says, and leaves the door open behind her. Steve follows, heart hammering in his chest. This feels too real, he thinks as soon as he crosses the threshold, too much like a hookup, although obviously nothing is going to happen. If something were to go down between them—which it won’t, because Nat doesn’t date, and Nat doesn’t have one-night stands, and Nat doesn’t fall in love—it wouldn’t be in the midst of a murder investigation and an operation to expose a HYDRA cell. Steve knows that, but he looks at her anyway, because—damn it—she’s wearing a Captain America tee-shirt.

He sits on the desk chair. She sits on the bed.

“How’d the talk with Hill go?” she asks.

“We need a confession,” Steve says. “To get a confession, we need to talk to Artur. Guess who we’re not allowed to talk to?”

He expects her to be disappointed, but she just nods. “Figures.”

“Find anything on Igor or Dormir?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re in New York, actually,” she says. “Tony helped me get into the FBI’s facial recognition software—Dormir was pinged buying beer and cigs from a gas station in Hell’s Kitchen a few weeks back. It was on a Friday—the morning after Madison’s murder, actually. That puts them—or at least him—in the state around the same time she was killed.”

That’s a lead—that’s a good lead, actually. “Think he did it alone, or with Igor?”

“We don’t have enough of a case to start making accusations,” she says. “All we know is he was within fifty miles the morning after.”

“Has he been seen since?”

“No—he’s careful.” Her brow creases. “Too careful, actually. He’s been pretty successful at staying off the radar. If he’d committed homicide, you’d think it would’ve increased his paranoia, not negated it.”

“Maybe he was shaken,” Steve suggests. “Killing a girl must take a lot out of you.”

“Maybe—but he’s a professional, and I doubt it.” She plays with a strand of her hair. “No sign of Igor in New York or anywhere else, and I can’t find anything that ties him to Artur. If they know each other, it’s not a public connection. They keep it under wraps.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Three suspects—four, really—one dead girl, and not much time.” Her gaze is intense. “My father’s arraignment is next Monday.”

“I know.”

“Tony found a lawyer for him. We’re not optimistic about the chances of him making bail.”

“We’ll find the guy who did this, Nat.”

“And get a confession out of him—or her—before Alexi’s carted off to federal prison to await trial?” The confidence of earlier is gone—now, she just looks sad. Sad and tired. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Steve crosses to the bed, throws an arm around her, pulls her against his chest. She leans against him, hugging him tightly—the scent of her coconut shampoo is wonderful, overpowering, alluring. He brushes his lips against her forehead, imagines kissing her—really kissing her—and lets his eyes flutter closed.

He enjoys it.

More than a little.

He’s human, after all.

###

“So that’s it?” Sam asks later, at the bar. “A long, lingering hug? Damn, man—hope you were wearing a condom. Don’t want to make any babies from that.”

“It was more than a hug,” Steve protests, feeling like an embarrassed schoolboy—he downs the pitcher of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We lingered. She relaxed. It felt like something. More than something, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Sam agrees—there’s that word again. Steve’s starting to hate it. “Hey, here’s an idea—ask her out.”

“Hey, Nat, how does dinner and a movie sound?”

“That’s generally how you do it.”

“She’s not like that, though.” Steve stares down at his empty glass. “She doesn’t date.”

“So you’ve said. Many, many times. I feel like we’re having the same conversation over and over again.”

“Let’s have a different conversation, then,” Steve says. “What’s going on with you and Buck?”

Sam grimaces, takes another sip of his beer—his pitcher is still half full. The barmaid behind the counter is listening to music, headphones in, bobbing her head to the metallic twinge of some punk band. There are a few people in the corner booths, and a bunch of frat boys have been hogging the pool table for the better part of an hour, but other than that the bar is empty. Business seems slow—Steve wonders if they’d stay afloat without the checks from Pepper.

“It’s hard,” Sam admits after a slight pause. “He’s pretty closed off, you know? Not my usual type.”

“Are you sleeping together?” It’s nosy, but Steve can’t help it—he’s curious.

“Couple of times.” Sam doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. “Once on a mission. After our last bar night. It’s good, man—it’s really good, but he gets this vacant look in his eyes afterward, like he doesn’t know where he is or who he’s with. Makes me feel bad, like I’m taking advantage of the guy. Like he’s too damaged for something serious—or even something casual.”

“Buck knows what he’s doing,” Steve says. “You’re not taking advantage. You’re figuring things out.”

“Speaking of figuring things out, you need to talk to Nat,” Sam says. “Get this off your chest. Make a move.”

“She’d shoot me down.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And we’re back to the same conversation—what is this, the fiftieth time?” Steve helps himself to a sip of Sam’s beer, since his own is empty and the barmaid looks preoccupied. Sam makes a face but doesn’t comment. “Okay, let’s say I go for it. We have a pretty great friendship to ruin if I mess things up.”

“Or the friendship could turn into something better.”

“Damn it, man, don’t give me false hope.”

“How about this.” Sam finishes the beer, slams it on the counter—the barmaid jumps—and looks at Steve with grim eyes. “You have until the end of day tomorrow—this is a dare, by the way—to stop being a coward. Tell her…fuck, I don’t know. Tell her you want to take her out, or kiss her, or both. See what she says. No matter what, you have your answer.”

“No way,” Steve protests.

“You’ve fought aliens, Steve,” Sam says. “You’ve fought Nazis. How is this any scarier than that?”

“I’d take a Nazi over confessing my feelings to Nat any day of the week.”

“Fine—be a little bitch and die alone.” Sam pauses. “Let me know how it goes.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“You’re to much of a chicken for a simple dare?”

Yeah, Steve thinks, yeah, he definitely is. On one hand, it’s tempting. If Nat rejects him, he could start the slow, arduous process of moving on—this in-between stage is torture for him, feels like its eating him alive from the inside out. Love is like flesh eating bacteria that starts in one place and then spreads to your whole body—there’s no getting rid of it, no cream or ointment or pill that can make it go away. He hates it, hates how he feels, hates himself for feeling it—but he knows it’s just as much a part of being human as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes or breathing. He fights HYDRA, he puts on his pants one leg at a time, he loves Nat. It feels like a part of his identity now, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever get over her, not sure if he’s capable of that.

“Okay,” he says at last. “You’re right. I need to know.”

Sam claps him on the back. “End of day tomorrow.”

End of day tomorrow, Steve thinks, and fuck it—there’s a little bit of excitement beneath the tangle of nerves coiled in his gut like frayed electrical wire.

Chapter Text

I’m weak with your memory over me
That’s a real fucking legacy, to leave.

- Excerpt from “Maroon” by Taylor Swift

He starts the conversation when they’re sparring, because of course he does. When else would he feel compelled to tell Nat he has feelings for her aside from when her fists are flying at his face, when they’re both dripping with sweat, when her face is fierce and screwed up and tense, amid the throes of battle?

He trips her, she falls, he’s on top of her, and suddenly he’s whispering, “I love you.”

The three greatest—and worst—words in the English language. They’re out of his mouth just like that.

She goes still beneath him. Corpselike.

“What?” she says, green eyes narrowing to slits.

No backing out now. “I said I love you.”

“Oh.” She shifts a bit, muscled and sinewy, flexing beneath him like a lizard. “Yeah. Okay. You too, Rogers.”

It’s not what he means—how can she possibly think that’s what he meant? —and that’s not the response he was looking for, but he doesn’t have time to elaborate. The door of the gym bangs open, and Peter and Tony enter. Tony’s wearing a suede tracksuit, and Peter’s in a tee-shirt and shorts. They grin, wave, no idea they just interrupted the most important moment of Steve’s life. Heart hammering in his chest, he takes a sip from his water bottle and leans back on an elbow. Nat’s still looking at him, a buried emotion in the depths of her green eyes—he can’t read it, damn it, so he turns his gaze away. Studies Tony instead.

“Hey.” Tony slings his gym bag on one of the chairs beside the wrestling ring and ducks under the rope. “Mind if we join you? We need a break from nanotech, and a little fisticuffs might just break us out of our slump.”

“Free country,” Nat says. “How’s school, kid?”

“Terrible.” Peter sighs a breathy, dramatic sign and ducks under the rope as well—Steve and Nat vacate the ring. “We’re dissecting frogs in science class—these poor, innocent creatures whose lives were cut short for the brutality of human discovery. I tried to tell Mr. Peters I’m not touching one with a ten-foot pole—let alone with a scalpel—and he had the audacity to tell me he’d fail me on the assignment! MJ and I are putting together a protest group. We’ve got signs and magic markers and everything. Down with animal experimentation! Down with murder! Down with the patriarchy! All that jazz.”

“You’ll beat the shit out of a guy in downtown Queens, but you won’t dissect a frog?” Tony raises his fists. “Come at me, kid.”

Peter ducks under a punch, throws a jab of his own. “It’s not fair,” he says, like he’s being asked to cure cancer instead of performing the most basic tenth-grade science project in existence. “I like frogs. They’re so cute, so full of life—what’s next, dissecting a cat? A puppy? Twisting a duck’s neck with our bare hands? Life is a cold, cruel, miserable existence, and Old Testament God will send us all back to hell at the end of it. What’s the point in hope? In optimism? We’re all just dead meat sacks walking anyway.”

“How are those antidepressants working out for you, kid?” Nat asks.

“I think they’re really starting to kick in,” he says. “Thanks for asking. This morning I actually got out of bed and brushed my teeth without needing a ten-minute pep talk from May.”

He’s dodging Tony’s blows with complete accuracy while maintaining the conversation, not even a little out of breath. Tony looks like he’s getting tired—the kid’s reflexes are no joke. Steve sometimes worries about him swinging around Queens with only a homicidal AI and a super suit for backup, but watching the kid now, he has no reason to be worried—he actually does a backflip to get out of the way of one of the strikes, then completes the move with a gymnast’s finished.

“Yeah, that’s all the Peter I can take.” Tony’s sweating profusely. “Nat—wanna tap in?”

“Sure,” she says, and ducks under the rope.

Tony takes the seat beside Steve, mopping his brow. Nat doesn’t have much better luck—the first time she dueled with Pete she was able to take him down, but he’s too quick for her these days. He keeps getting stronger, faster, braver—the rest of them can’t keep up. Must be nice to be sixteen, Steve thinks—he barely remembers being a teenager. It was a long, long, long time ago. He misses it, a little—not being skinny and weak, but running around with Buck and flirting with girls who never looked twice at him and getting into fights with dudes who beat both his eyes black. Even though he was a broke little scamp, he had a good childhood. He misses his ma, misses Bucky’s sisters. Things weren’t so bad in the good old days.

He has a new family now, a new life, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Still…

“Hope we didn’t interrupt anything when we came in here,” Tony says to Steve. “You guys looked pretty serious.”

Nope, Steve wants to say. I was just confessing my undying love to a sociopath. Normal stuff. Instead he shrugs and picks a scrap of lint off his shirt, not meeting Tony’s eyes. He doesn’t know how much Tony knows—or has guessed—about his feelings for Nat. He’s not ready to talk about it with anyone who’s not Sam or Buck—especially not Tony, who’d probably make a big deal about it and tease Steve until he was red in the face. That’s just how Tony is, blunt and unserious and sort of a jackass. It’s not his fault, and it’s not that he can’t be trusted—he’s just…not one of Steve’s confidents.

Not anymore.

Maybe not ever again.

“How are things with you and Pepper?” Steve asks instead.

“We’re solid.” He pops a stick of gum in his mouth, chews, and the stench of spearmint hits Steve like a smack to the face. “How’re things with Nat’s dad?”

“Arraignment is scheduled for next Monday.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Roger that. Thanks for finding us the lawyer.”

“Sure, anytime.” Tony pauses, visibly hesitates. “Are you okay? You seem…off.”

It’s surprising that Tony noticed, but maybe it shouldn’t be. He’s always been too smart for his own good, too observant, and the hard truth of the matter is that Steve is off. This thing with Nat is really starting to get to him—you too, Rogers—what does that even mean? She didn’t say I love you too, Steve, she said you too, Rogers…honestly, he would’ve preferred it if she just choked him out or something. Probably would’ve hurt less. At least she didn’t make a joke about it, he thinks, although even that’s a small comfort.

Why can’t he get over this?

Why can’t he get over her?

“I’m fine,” he says, and tries to mean it.

Tony gives him a suspicious look, but he doesn’t push it.

Sometimes Tony can be good like that.

###

“I brought coffee and pizza,” Nat says. “Want a slice?”

“Sure,” Steve says, and grabs a piece of pepperoni from the open box.

Hill called them two hours ago—they got a hit on one of Dormir Makkov’s aliases checking into a motel in Brooklyn. It’s an honest-to-goodness stakeout now; the street is dimly lit, and it’s a quiet, rundown neighborhood. The motel is a shabby, single-story building with a flickering neon sign that reads only “MOTEL – POOL – FREE WIFI.” It’s late at night, and the area is eerily silent save for the occasional car passing by.

Steve and Nat sit in an unmarked, nondescript sedan parked a safe distance from the motel. They’ve got a clear view of the entrance and parking lot, and they’re dressed in casual clothes. Hopefully they’re not drawing too much attention to themselves—although they’re loitering on the street like a couple of no-good hooligans, Steve thinks they’re blending into their surroundings quite nicely.

Steve peers through his binoculars—from this angle, he can make out the door to Room 17. “No sign of him,” he says. “He’s got to come out eventually—unless he’s sleeping.”

“Dormir’s patient.” Nat sips from the thermos of coffee. “He knows how to wait. If he’s up to something, we’ll figure it out eventually. We’ve got all night. Almost feels like old times, doesn’t it?”

“Except this time, we’re not just fighting bad guys,” Steve points out. “We’re trying to solve a murder.”

“It’s always something with HYDRA.” Nat sighs. “Madison didn’t deserve to get caught up in this. My father did—but you’d never catch me saying that to Yelena. Did you hear the sketchy way he talked about his old assignments? Reminds me of my Red Room days. Sometimes the leger is just red, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“We’ll clear his name.” Steve sets down the binoculars and takes a bite of the pizza—the taste of melted cheese fills his mouth, gets his saliva glands going. “And we’ll get the people responsible.”

The streetlights cast long shadows along the parking lot. A few cars are parked haphazardly near the motel’s entrance. The neon sign buzzes intermittently, adding to the desolate atmosphere. The motel itself looks like it hasn’t been renovated in decades, with peeling paint and a faded sign.

A figure in a hooded jacket exits one of the cars. They can’t see his face, but he beelines directly for Room 17 and pounds on the door.

“Could be one of Dormir’s contacts.” Steve watches with interest as the lights flick on in Dormir’s room. “Any way we can hear what they’re saying? Don’t suppose you brought one of Tony’s sound amplifier thingamajigs?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Nat reaches into her bag and brandishes the audio gun. “We’ll have to get closer, though—it’s worth the risk of being seen. I’ll pull into the parking lot.”

The man looks back at them as their headlights flash across the parking lot—he’s in his late 30s, broad-shouldered and muscular, standing at about 6’2. He has a rugged, weathered face with a closely cropped beard and short, dark hair. His eyes are dark and piercing—menacing, Steve thinks, shark-like. It’s Igor, all right—Igor Petrov.

Nat parks directly in front of the door and kills the headlights just before it swings open. Petrov casts one last look at them before entering the room—Dormir must be standing behind the door, because they don’t catch a glimpse of him. Nat switches on the audio gun—the dull, gray noise of static fills the car—and points it at the door. She spends a few seconds tuning it, and then they catch their first hints of the conversation—a crackle here, a voice there. To his disappointment, Steve realizes the men are speaking in Russian.

“They’re talking about a rendezvous point.” Nat’s brow creases. “Sounds like they’re getting ready to move—damn it, Steve, they’re leaving the city.”

The audio cuts out, and the red light on the direction microphone stops flashing. Nat thwacks it with the palm of her hand, but it doesn’t turn back on. She looks at Steve again, eyes calm despite the circumstances.

“What should we do?” she asks.

“When Igor leaves, I’ll follow him to his car on foot,” Steve decides. “You circle and cut him off.”

“We’re going to confront a known HYDRA asset in a motel parking lot?” Nat quirks a perfect eyebrow. “Can’t imagine that not going well for us.”

“We need to find out if he knows anything about Madison.”

“You think he’ll tell us?”

“Doubt it—but this could be our last chance for an interrogation.”

At long last, she nods.

“Then we knock on Dormir’s door?”

“You got it.”

The minutes drag on, each feeling like an eternity. The tension in the car is palpable—they remain vigilant, ready to spring into action at any moment. Steve silently curses the directional microphone for malfunctioning—he’s going to be having serious words with Tony when they get back to Avenger’s Tower. Any slip-up could mean losing Igor and Dormir permanently, especially if they’re leaving town—and aside from Artur Kolesnikov, the hired muscle are the biggest leads in their investigation.

Seems like they’re having a nice long chat—the door doesn’t open again. Steve reaches for another slice of pizza.

End of day tomorrow, Steve, Sam’s voice tells him in his mind. He’s already missed the deadline—it’s past midnight—and it went terribly this morning, but Steve might as well try again. Igor hasn’t come out yet, and they have nothing else to talk about. Now or never.

“Do you ever think about what life would be like without all this?” Steve asks, trying to keep his voice casual. “Without HYDRA, without the missions?”

“Sometimes.” Nat pauses, her eyes fixed on the door of Room 17. “But then I remember we’re fighting for a world where people can have that kind of life. That’s enough for me. I don’t know what I’d do without this job.”

“SHIELD agent, or Avenger’s Professional Problem Solver?”

“Both.”

The door of Room 17 slams open—Igor exits, and the door closes behind him. Steve and Nat get out of the car, trail him to his parked vehicle—he knows he’s being followed. He whips around, knife in hand, and Steve grabs his wrist. Igor tries to drive the blade toward Steve’s chest—Steve squeezes till he lets it drop, swearing in Russian.

Nat, who’s shorter than Igor by about a foot, stands on tiptoe to press her forearm against his throat, slamming him against the car. Igor raises his hands in surrender. He glances toward the door of Room 17, seems to consider screaming—the lights in the room are out again.

“Madison Stern.” Nat’s voice is low, menacing. “Tell us what you know, Igor.”

“I don’t know a Madison Stern.” His voice is heavily accented, and his eyes dart between the two of them. “You’ve got the wrong guy, madam.”

“We don’t have time for games,” Steve says, pressing closer. “Madison Stern was murdered, and we know you were in New York at the time. We know you’re muscle for HYDRA, and we know she was onto something at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic in Manhattan. Tell us what you know, Petrov.”

“HYDRA?” Igor’s eyes blink, wide and innocent. “You think I care about their little schemes for worldwide domination? I’m a simple businessman—barely a mercenary. I know nothing of them—consider me an independent contractor.”

Considering his accent, he’s got a pretty wide vocabulary. Steve wonders if HYDRA makes their assets memorize this little spiel and makes a mental note to ask Bucky about it.

“A businessman who deals in blood and chaos.” Nat’s voice is barely above a murmur. “Did your work as an independent contractor lead to Madison bleeding out in her apartment?”

“I told you—I don’t know any Madison.” Igor’s hands are still raised in surrender, but his gaze drifts to the knife on the pavement below him. Steve kicks it to the side, far out of reach. “Maybe she was just unlucky.”

“Unlucky, or a target?” Steve presses a finger into Igor’s chest. “She was investigating HYDRA, and now she’s dead. That’s not a coincidence. Did you do it alone, or with your pal Dormir?”

“You’re in a tight spot, Igor,” Nat adds. “SHIELD’s got you on a watch list. The local police don’t even know you’re in the state, or you’d be in federal custody before you could say cheese for your mugshot. You help us, maybe things will go easier for you.”

“Easier?” Igor scoffs. “With the likes of you after me, there’s no such thing.”

“Last chance, Igor,” Steve says. “If it wasn’t you, tell us who ordered the hit on Madison—and who carried it out. Give us names, and maybe we can cut you a deal.”

“Even if I knew, do you think I’d tell you?” Igor’s eyes narrow. “You told me this is a HYDRA affair. I’d be dead before I left this parking lot.”

“That’s a risk we’re all taking,” Steve says. “But you’re already cornered. Cooperate, and we can protect you. We just want to find out what happened to our girl—we don’t care about your bloody past.”

“Well…we care a little,” Nat says, pressing her arm into his throat.

“We care a little,” Steve amends.

“Protection?” Igor snorts. “Don’t make me laugh. I will hold my silence, thank you very much. Unless you start ripping out my fingernails—and even then, perhaps—you will get nothing from me. You’re wasting your time.”

Nat and Steve exchange a glance. They’re dealing with a seasoned, veteran HYDRA operative—if he says he’s not going to talk, he’s not likely to go back on that. Steve is under no illusion that Nat wouldn’t start pulling out fingernails if he gave her the all-clear, but he’s not ready to do that—not even for Madison. Torture isn’t in his wheelhouse, and that’s not a line he’s willing to cross. His morality is what separates him from guys like Igor and Dormir, and he wants to hold onto his innocence as long as he can—even if it means letting this asshole walk away with nothing to show for their efforts.

“Let him go, Nat,” he says at last.

“Are you serious?” Her nostrils flair. “One fingernail. Just one. Have a stomach, Steve.”

“I said to let him go.”

She releases him, steps back—she’s clearly fuming. Igor gives her a triumphant smirk and gets into his car. He drives away. Nat stares after the departing car, her lips curled.

“He was our best lead,” she says.

“We can still talk to Dormir.”

“Like he’s going to give us more than Igor,” she snaps. “Let’s just go home. I’m tired.”

“We should really—”

“If you’re not going to let me have fun, Rogers, then there’s no point.” Her voice is clipped. “You heard Igor. He’s not talking—and neither is Dormir. The best we can do is put a tail on him. Call Hill as we make our way back to the compound—when he skips town, he won’t do it alone. Tip off one of them, we still have a shot at following the other, starting a legitimate investigation. Tip off both and we’re beyond screwed.”

“Roger that,” Steve says, defeated.

There’s nothing else he can do.

Chapter Text

One day my tired heart will take its final aching beat.

- Excerpt from “My Good Days” by Beth Crowley

“I don’t know what else I was supposed to do,” Steve says. “She was down to torture the guy. Maybe I should’ve let her. Maybe I’m a pansy.”

“Don’t do that, man.” Sam shoots a solid into the center hole of the pool table. “When you’re dealing with crazy, it’s best to take the lead. You think I let Bucky go all whammo-kablammo on the HYDRA guys we find on missions? Hell no. I take point.”

“I’m with Nat,” Bucky says.

“Shocker,” Sam says.

“You should’ve let her rip out some fingernails.” Bucky takes a sip from his beer, and some foam catches on his upper lip. “Maybe then you’d have answers—now you’re back to square one.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says.

“Where’s the fun in life if you aren’t bathing in blood?” Bucky asks. “HYDRA took everything from me. I’m well within my rights to cut off some fingers.”

“How’d we go from pulling out fingernails to cutting off fingers?” Sam asks, squinting across the pool table at Buck.

“One leads to the other,” Bucky says. “It’s like foreplay. Natural progression. It just follows.”

“I think Nat’s pissed at me,” Steve says. “She wants to get to the bottom of this—maybe she could’ve done it if she’d been operating alone. I shut her down, and now she’s avoiding me again.”

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky says. “Sam dared you to tell her you caught feelings, and instead you enacted your golden-boy righteousness on her investigation. Way to kill a lady-boner, Rogers.”

“I did tell her.” Steve takes the pool stick from Sam and aims at a stripe. “She didn’t get the message.”

“Were you unclear?” Sam asks. “What did you say?”

“I told her I loved her.” Steve makes a face, hits a ball—it goes nowhere near the hole. “She said, you too, Rogers.”

Sam claps him on the back. “That’s great, buddy!” he says. “That means she feels the same way.”

“It most certainly does not,” Steve says. “She thought we were saying it platonically, not romantically. That’s the only explanation.”

If she’d said I love you too, Steve—well, that would’ve been different. But she didn’t, and it’s likely those words would never come out of Nat’s mouth in one-million years. Steve’s okay with that—he’s made peace with it, really—but…

…but nothing. He knows how Nat feels.

He needs to move on.

Somehow.

Maybe she needs a guy who’ll rip out fingernails with her, or at the very least will watch her do it. Someone like Bucky, someone who’s willing to get their hands dirty. Maybe she and Steve are too different and they always will be, not compatible for a long term relationship. Opposites attract, as the cliché statement goes, but she’s a sociopath and he’s…kind of the opposite. Steve feels too much, he always has. He asks people how they’re doing and genuinely cares about the answer. He thinks about his ma at least four times a day. He tears up at rom-coms and, once—although he’d never admit it—at a commercial of a family buying pet food. He’s a feeler, and she’s a thinker, and there’s no getting past that.

But damn, he wants to.

“Hey, gang.”

Steve looks up in surprise. Tony’s standing by the pool table—Steve was so out of it he didn’t hear the door jingle as it opened. He’s wearing a thick black coat and jeans, sneakers coated with a layer of oil and grime. He looks between the three of them, obviously uncomfortable, and clears his throat.

“Sam invited me to your little boys night,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Hope that’s alright.”

“The more the merrier,” Steve says, but glances at Buck. Tony catches it.

“Barns and I are working through the whole he-murdered-my-mother-and-turned-my-best-friend-against-me-and-then-they -beat-me-up-for-being-mad-about-it thing,” he says in one breath. “I’ll never forgive him, but I get that he was brainwashed. And—let’s be real—I need a night away from Pep. She’s driving me crazy. What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?”

Silently, gut churning with guilt, Steve hands Tony his half-finished beer. Tony downs it, sets down the glass, and perches himself on a table.

“Finish your game, and then we’ll start another,” he says. “Me and Steve versus Sam and Barns—you two are going down, by the way, but maybe I’m being overconfident. I haven’t played pool since college. What were you all talking about so seriously before I came in?”

“Steve’s crush on Nat,” Bucky says as he aims at a solid.

Tony whirls on Steve. “You’ve got a thing for Nat?” he demands. “How do I not know this?”

Steve shifts from foot to foot, feeling deeply uncomfortable. “I’m trying to get over it.”

“So the couple’s therapy isn’t working, eh?” Tony’s smile is positively demonic. “Peter and I thought it was strange you guys weren’t feeling anything in such a romantic setting—it seemed odd. I guess we were right to wonder. When’s the wedding?”

“No wedding,” Steve says—it’s his turn again, and he aims at a stripe. “She doesn’t feel the same way.”

“Well, she’s Nat,” Tony says reasonably. “I don’t think she feels anything, ever. That said…she told me last week she’d jump you if you weren’t such a boy scout.”

Steve looks up sharply. “She said what?”

“Yeah, something about how she’d be down to take your virginity if she wasn’t scared you’d fall in love with her.” Tony looks at him with interest. “Is it true, Rogers? Are you a virgin? Because I’m pretty sure Nat would take care of that for you if you promised it would be a one-time thing.”

A range of emotions hit Steve like a freight train—betrayal, because he told Nat that in confidence, damn it. Intrigue, because there’s a part of him—an ugly, evil, primitive part of him—that’s interested by the proposition. Helplessness, because he’s already in love with her, and he’s pretty sure sleeping with her would do nothing to cure him of that. And, lastly, curiosity—because she’s talking about him with Tony, and talking about a guy with your friends is usually a sign that something’s going on…even if she’s denying her feelings, she’s still talking about him. That’s something, right?

“I don’t want a one-time thing, Tony.” Steve misses the corner hole. “I want a relationship.”

“Ew. Gross. Get a Tinder.”

“You’re literally married.”

“I can think love is gross even if I’m in a stable, happy, committed relationship, Rogers.”

“Did she really say that?” Steve takes his empty glass back and gestures to the waitress—she brings another tray of drinks from behind the bar, this one with four. He waits for her to retreat before he elaborates. “That she’d…y’know. Hook up with me if I didn’t want anything serious.”

“Why does it matter?” Tony’s eyes narrow. “You just said you did want something serious.”

“So?”

“So, that’s not what Nat’s looking for. Seriously—get a Tinder. I’ll even help you set it up.”

“I’m not getting a Tinder,” Steve says, embarrassed.

“Do you have any idea how many chicks would swipe right on you?” Tony asks. “No, wait, this is actually a good idea. I’ve been looking for a new hobby—scrapbooking is too dumb, tennis is too sweaty, and Pep said I’m not allowed to say the word nanotech within fifty feet of her. This could be good for both of us. You meet a nice girl who isn’t a famed ex-assassin, and I get credit for helping you pop your cherry. We both win.”

“Not a bad idea, actually,” Sam says. “There’ve gotta be some great pics of you out there, sweaty and bloodstained and fighting aliens—ever Googled yourself?”

“This is ridiculous,” Steve protests. “Buck—back me up.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Bucky says. “You need to get over Natasha, and there are plenty of women out there. What have you got to lose?”

“You know what? I don’t need this.” Steve hands off the pool stick to Tony and grabs his coat from where it’s slung over the back of the chair. “I’m in a committed relationship—even if it is fake. What would our couple’s counselor say if she knew I was downloading dating apps?”

“Come on,” Tony says, wheedling. “It’ll be so much fun, Rogers. Why don’t you trust me? Don’t you love me? Take a leap—have some fun.”

“No,” Steve says firmly. “I’d rather die.”

###

He downloads Tinder later that night.

He’s not sure what makes him go to the app store, what possible reason he could have for clicking the download button. It’s not that he wants to know what’s out there—he gets hit on when he goes out, sure, and he’s had flings in the past. Peggy’s niece, the check-out lady at the grocery store who he took out for coffee, a woman he met while browsing the shelves of a bookstore in Manhattan. It’s just…no woman he meets on this thing will ever be Nat, y’know, and he doesn’t want some random woman who’ll only see him as Captain America and not a real, living, breathing person.

Still—he downloads the app anyway, picks out a few pictures from his camera roll. A selfie that’s not too shabby, a picture of him with his arms slung around Bucky and Sam, a shot of him splitting wood up at Clint’s cabin. No shirtless pics, nothing that shows off his lower half, nothing indecent. He puts his name as Steve and limits his profile to three words—Yes, it’s me. Not the best thing he’s ever come up with, he figures, but it’s also not the worst. He figures he’ll play with the app for a night and delete it in the morning. He even does that Tinder verify thing so the ladies know he’s not pranking them.

He swipes right on every picture he sees, not wanting to reject anyone. Wouldn’t want to hurt feelings—does Tinder let you know if someone swipes left on your profile? Probably not, but it isn’t worth the risk. They all seem like nice gals, even if he couldn’t see himself getting serious with any of them. He falls asleep with his phone in his hand. Tired, a little bored.

That’s Tinder in a nutshell.

###

He wakes up to a text from Tony.

If you’d let me sign you up for the private app, this never would’ve happened. Idiot.

Tony also sends him the link to an article. The words scream up at him as he rubs the sleep from his eyes: STEVE ROGERS IS NOW ON DATING APPS!!!

He groans, then throws his phone across the room as hard as he can. It shatters against the far wall, lands cracked and broken on the floor. Big mistake, because the screen is now frozen—he can’t even delete the stupid app now.

Why does he have to be so dumb? Surely getting over Nat isn’t worth the entire world knowing he’s looking for someone. I’m going to die alone, he thinks. Oh well. At least he has friends.

Think of the devil, and they will soon appear—there’s a knock on his door, and Nat pokes her head into the room. Steve says a silent prayer that she hasn’t seen the article, then realizes he’s shirtless—cheeks growing warm, he grabs a shirt that’s slung over his desk chair and pulls it over himself. Her eyes watch him carefully—is it just his imagination, or is there an amused glint in them?

“I’ve got a lead,” she says casually. “A friend from SHEILD was able to hack Artur Kolesnikov’s email.”

“Who?” Steve asks, a little absently. She’s wearing a tee-shirt that’s ridiculously tight, and it’s taking all his energy to keep his gaze on her face. Is he going crazy, or did she give him a once-over before he put on his own shirt?

“Artur Kolesnikov?” She quirks an eyebrow. “Also known as Patrick Morris, the CFO of the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic? It’s his work email, so he probably didn’t order the hit on Madison through it—but you can never be too careful. I made us toast and eggs—we can start looking through it while we eat.”

She always eats toast and eggs for her first meal of the day—Steve knows that, just like he knows she probably spent last night binge watching some TV show or another. Just like he knows her favorite drink is hot chocolate. Just like he knows her favorite brand of protein powder is Muscles4Days, and her signature lipstick is Crimson Kiss, and she brushes her teeth for at least five minutes before going to sleep at night.

“You made me breakfast?” he asks.

“What, you want a blowjob to go with it?” Her too-straight teeth glint as she smiles. “Word on the street is that you’re on the market, Rogers. Tinder, eh?”

“Very funny.” If Steve’s cheeks get any warmer, he could heat up her eggs on them. “I guess you heard about that.”

“Tony texted me.”

Fucking Tony. Traitor. Steve’s going to have some serious words with him later.

“Wouldn’t have to use the internet if you’d go on a date with me, Nat.”

He’s not sure what makes him say it, and he claps a hand over his mouth as soon as it slips out, but it’s too late. Nat’s eyes widen, and an expression of childish delight crosses her face. It’s such a surprising reaction—and so unlike her—that he stares.

“Should we go see a movie?” She’s snickering. “Go dutch on dinner and then sit in the back row like a couple of teenagers? Are you going to try to slip a hand under my shirt when we park offroad while making the drive home? Are we sixteen? Wanna go steady?”

“I hate you.”

“I know, and it’s adorable.” She’s still grinning. “Artur’s emails, Steve. Focus up, and try to stop thinking about how much you love me.”

It hits too close to home—Steve feels himself stiffen. “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously, Nat?”

The smile slips off her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” His voice is curt. “Artur’s emails.”

“Artur’s emails,” she agrees.

They eat in silence, the only noise the clicking of the laptops as they flip through invoice after invoice.

###

“I think I’ve got something,” Nat says.

It’s been two hours. They’ve found nothing—no HYDRA contacts, no record of Madison as a client, not even a mention of her name. Steve’s eyes feel dry and painful from staring at the screen, and he rubs them before getting up and moving behind Nat.

“Look at this.” She points. “Read it. It was sent the day before Madison was murdered.”

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Urgent Concerns Regarding Therapist Conduct

Dear Patrick Morris, Blake Ngiri, Andrew Sandman, and other executive staff,

I hope this message finds you well. I am writing to bring your immediate attention to some deeply concerning behavior of one of the therapists at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic. Due to the sensitive nature of this matter and for my own safety, I must remain anonymous.

I have been a client at your clinic for several months now, and have always appreciated the professionalism and dedication of your staff. However, recent interactions with one of your therapists, Harold Johnson, have raised serious red flags. Specifically, I have observed the following behaviors:

1. Inappropriate boundaries. Harold Johnson has repeatedly made personal advances toward clients, including myself, blurring the line between professional and personal interactions. This has made several clients, including myself, feel extremely uncomfortable and unsafe.

2. Confidentiality breaches. There have been instances where confidential information discussed during sessions has been casually mentioned in public spaces within the clinic. This not only violates client trust but breaches the core ethical standards of your profession.

3. Unethical behavior. I have reason to believe Harold Johnson has been involved in activities outside the clinic that are in direct conflict with the ethical guidelines of your practice. This includes possible associations with unsavory individuals and organizations.

I understand the gravity of these accusations and do not make them lightly. It is out of concern for the well-being of other clients and the integrity of your clinic that I feel compelled to reach out. I urge you to conduct a thorough investigation of these matters and take appropriate action to ensure the safety of all clients at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic.

Thank you for your attention to this urgent matter. I trust that you will handle this with the utmost confidentiality and care.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Client

“Harold Johson,” Steve says slowly. “That was Madison’s therapist.”

“The email is well written,” Nat says. “Could’ve been done by a librarian—I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“This includes possible associations with unsavory individuals and organizations,” Steve quotes, staring at the line. “That has to be HYDRA. You said this was written the day before Madison was killed?”

“Affirmative.”

“Stick with me on this one,” Steve says. “Madison starts to think her therapist is dirty. She emails several people at the top of the organization, hoping one of them will look into it. Unknowingly, she emails Artur Kolesnikov—CFO, HYDRA operative, and colleague of Harold Johnson’s. He tracks the email, figures out it came from her, and puts the hit out. She’s dead in 24 hours. Can’t report Harold to the police if you’re six feet under.”

“We’re assuming A Concerned Client is right and Harold is corrupt,” Nat says. “What if they were wrong? We went on his computer—aside from his porn habit, he seemed clean.”

“Maybe we didn’t look hard enough.”

“Maybe.” She thinks for a minute. “Okay, we need to find out who sent this email. You’re right about one thing—if it was Madison, it might’ve been the reason she was killed. I’ll hit my friend from SHIELD up—give me a couple hours.”

“You got it,” Steve says, heart hammering in his chest.

They’re getting close—he can feel it.

Chapter Text

“We think Harold Johnson is working for HYDRA,” Steve tells Saundra—he’s being as blunt as he can. “Our investigation is closing in. We have federal agents combing through your emails and your financials. If you’re on the bankroll too, we’ll find out about it.”

“Now’s the time to tell us what you know,” Nat says.

It’s Monday. They’re back in the therapy clinic, but it’s different this time—this time, they’re laying it all out on the table. Fury called in the feds, and they’ve relinquished Madison’s pictures of Senator Stern’s check stubs to the FBI. Nat’s contact told her that, with the evidence they have already assembled, the clinic should be shut down within the month. This will be their last appointment. Steve has good reason to hope that Harold Johnson and Artur Kolesnikov’s arrests are imminent.

Now, they just have to worry about finding Madison’s killer.

Saundra’s blond hair is smoothed back into a ponytail. She’s wearing a navy suit that accentuates her curvy form. Her mouth opens into a delicate O, then closes. She looks like she’s not sure how to react.

“I’m confused,” she says at last. “You think Harold is a Nazi?”

“Not all HYDRA agents are Nazis,” Nat says.

“Most are,” Steve says.

“Most are,” Nat agrees.

“See, we’re not a couple.” Steve narrows his eyes, leans forward. “We’re not dating, Saundra—we’re investigating this corrupt organization and all your fellow employees. We know about the money laundering. We know your CFO is a high-ranking member of not one, but several terrorist organizations—he’s at the head of this. And we know we have a dead girl who was once a client here. She sent an email airing out Harold’s dirty laundry to several executives, and now she’s dead. We don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“You’ve been faking your relationship?” Saundra demands. Two splotches of pink have crawled their way into her cheeks. “Do you have any idea how much time I’ve dedicated to helping the two of you work through your problems? Are you telling me I’ve been wasting my time?”

“This isn’t about us,” Nat says.

“This is couple’s counseling!” Saundra’s voice rises to a hysterical pitch. “Who else would this be about?”

“Arthur Kolesnikov,” Nat says without missing a beat. “Do you know anything about the hit he put out on Madison?”

“If you know something and don’t tell us, we’ll charge you with accessory to murder and obstruction of justice,” Steve says.

“I’ve never heard that name before in my life.” Saundra sounds angry, now—her hands are clenched into fists on the arms of her chair. “But I do know this—you two love each other deeply, and the relationship between the two of you isn’t fake. There’s too much emotion here—too much chemistry. Why don’t we talk about it?”

“There’s no chemistry,” Nat says.

“Right,” Steve says. “We’re platonic. One hundred percent. Completely.”

“Steve’s on Tinder,” Nat adds. “He’s getting all the bitches.”

“I broke my phone throwing it across the room, and now I can’t delete the app,” Steve says. “I’ll be on it forever. Plus, Nat’s fucking Tony on the down low from Pepper. And Thor. And…Sam.”

“It’s true,” Nat says. “I’ve been having three-ways with him and Barns.”

“Stop.” Saundra holds up a hand. “Surely the two of you realize that this amount of deflection isn’t normal?”

“Yes it is,” Steve says.

“Super normal,” says Nat.

“Can’t the two of you agree that there’s something here?” Saundra’s tone is beseeching. “Look—I don’t know anything about this Artur, or if Harold was inappropriate with clients, or Madison’s murder. But I’ve been a couple’s counselor for many years now, and I know love when I see it. You two are meant for each other.”

“We never said anything about Harold being inappropriate with clients,” Nat says.

The room falls silent.

“You must have,” Saundra says.

“We just said we thought he was HYDRA.” There’s a predatory look in Nat’s gleaming green eyes—a wolf stalking an abandoned lamb. She leans forward, hands interlaced, the fingertips of her index fingers tapping together. Tap, tap, tap. “What makes you think he was inappropriate with clients?”

Saundra visibly hesitates. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did.” Tap, tap, tap go Nat’s fingers. “Care to elaborate?”

Saundra sighs—a long, heavy, drawn-out sound that sits in the room like a bomb ticking toward detonation. When she speaks, her voice is low and carefully controlled.

“I brought him coffee one time—this was about two months ago,” she says. “There was a young woman in his office, which I thought was peculiar. At this clinic, we treat couples. She was alone, and he seemed…frazzled. Caught. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it was suspicious. That’s all—I promise.”

“Can you describe this young woman?” Nat asks, still tapping. The barest hint of a smile is on her face. One of her eyebrows twitches. Steve can’t look away. Goddamn, she’s beautiful when she’s focused. Just watching her is enough to make his breath a little labored. Has anyone in the history of ever been more fucked up about a gal? He doesn’t think so.

“Mid-twenties,” Saundra says. “Dark hair. Slender.”

“Madison.” Nat’s voice isn’t a question.

“It might’ve been,” Saundra says. “Or it could’ve been a different client. We just don’t know.”

Nat looks at Steve, meets his eyes. “Johnson never said anything about counselling Madison individually, but David brought it up. Johnson is hiding something.”

“I think it’s time we paid him a visit,” Steve says, and rises.

“I take it this will be our last session?” Saundra quirks an eyebrow. “Unless you two are ready to deal with the reality of your relationship?”

“I’d rather bite a bullet,” Nat says.

“I’d rather pitch myself out of that window,” Steve says.

“I’d rather be buried alive in a coffin filled with flesh-eating ants,” Nat says.

“I’d rather—” Steve begins.

“I get it.” Saundra holds up a hand. “Feelings are complicated, and you two are clearly incapable of dealing with them. When you’re ready, though…well. You have my number. I hope you use it.”

Steve thinks that’s about as likely as all the HYDRA agents in the world putting down their guns and turning themselves in, but he casts one last glance at Nat. She’s also risen, and she’s adjusting her tee-shirt. This one says Hailey Should’ve Ended Up With Andy in big, capital letters—probably a reference to one of those TV sit-coms she can’t stop binging. Her hair hangs in delicate ringlets around her face. Her lip gloss is perfect, her winged eyeliner accentuates the slant of her eyes, and when she meets his gaze, she offers the barest smile.

Maybe someday, he thinks.

You never know.

###

The door to Harold Johnson’s office is ajar. He’s sitting behind his desk sipping a cup of tea, and he looks up as they enter. Nat nudges the door open with the toe of her heeled boot, waits for Steve to duck around her, and closes it behind them. She stalks over to the desk, slams both hands onto it, and towers over Harold. He looks up at her, wide blue eyes confused. Some of the tea slops onto the hem of his collared shirt.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.

“Madison was seeing you for private counseling—without David.” Jesus, Nat doesn’t waste time when she’s on a rampage. “Care to explain what you were doing with her?”

Harold’s brow creases in confusion. “The two of you need to leave,” he says. “I have a client coming in five minutes.”

“Not until we get some answers,” Nat says. Her voice becomes coy, dangerous. “We know you’re HYDRA, Johnson. We know Madison complained about you—for inappropriate behavior, for your connections to a terrorist organization, for confidentiality breaches, for unethical behavior. Did you kill her?”

Harold opens his mouth, then closes it. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and a hint of red creeps into his cheeks. He glances toward the door, then returns his gaze to Nat’s face.

“My client will be here any minute,” he says weakly. “These allegations are baseless. I’m a simple counselor—where is this coming from?”

Nat pulls out her phone, opens the email Madison sent to the higher-ups at the True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic.

“This was sent to your bosses by Madison the day before she died.” Her lips purse into a cruel smile. “Are you really telling me you knew nothing about it?”

Harold glances at the email, then shakes his head.

“She had a crush on me,” he says weakly. “That’s why she scheduled the individual appointment—I realized it too late, once we were already in session. She was planning on leaving her fiancé for me. It was classic projection, and tragically, it’s not the first time I’ve had a client cross a boundary. I rejected her, and this is clearly retaliation. I assure you, nothing unethical happened between myself and her—or any other client, for that matter. I take my profession very seriously.”

“We have a witness who saw you leaving Madison’s building the night she was killed,” Nat says. “We also went over the security footage the day of the fire—a man with your build was lingering outside the apartment complex. His face was obscured, but he was wearing the same shoes you have on now. Care to explain that?”

The shoe thing is accurate—they went through the footage last night—but the witness who saw him leaving Madison’s apartment is a bluff, a stone-cold lie. Steve stares at Nat, nonplussed. She’s clearly following some hunch, but he’s not sure where this is going. If Harold is innocent, it puts doubt into every other one of the accusations she’s just made against him. What’s Nat playing at?

Steve forgot one thing, though—Nat’s hunches are good. Too good. Harold stiffens immediately, as if she’s just doused him in cold water. The redness in his cheeks grows more pronounced. He looks desperately at the door one more time, looks at Nat, looks at Steve. He’s panicking, Steve realizes—his eyes are beady, unfocused.

“You two need to leave,” he says again.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Nat says.

“I’m not asking,” Harold says, and reaches under the desk.

He pulls out a gun.

Steve reacts immediately and without thinking, grabbing Nat, pulling her away from the desk. He shoves her behind him, stands with one hand raised. Harold’s hands are shaking, but the barrel is pointed directly at Steve’s chest. For a minute no one says anything—the only sound in the room is the sound of Harold’s heavy breathing.

“Holy fuck,” Steve says at last. “You actually did kill her, didn’t you?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Harold’s voice rises to a yell—the barrel of the gun moves to Steve’s face. “She reported me! She was out for blood! My career was on the line—my livelihood. An anonymous client starts poking around, putting my entire organization at risk? That’s on my head, and the people who pay me expect the highest level of discretion! I had no choice!”

“Why a hammer?” Steve fights to keep his voice level—he can feel Nat behind him, struggling to get out of his death grip and peer around him, but like hell if he’s going to let her get between him and a loaded pistol. “Beating someone to death takes a lot of guts, Johnson. Can’t have been the first time you’ve done something like this.”

“Her fiancé let slip that some psycho had threatened her at work.” Harold sounds anguished. “They had it on camera. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to hurt her. I was just going to threaten her, scare her a bit. I had a mask. It all happened so fast.”

“What about the fire?” Steve asks. “What did she have on you?”

“I saw the two of you going into her building.” Moisture beads in his eyes. “I thought she had files on me—notes from our sessions. If she sent the email, she must’ve had proof to back it up. I couldn’t have the two of you poking around where you didn’t belong, I just couldn’t! This isn’t my fault. None of this is my fault!”

Steve takes a step forward. “Put down the gun, Harold,” he says quietly. “This is your first offense, right? We’ll put in a good word for you with the DA, tell them you complied. You’ll get a cush cell with a TV if you plead guilty. No one else has to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to prison,” Harold says, “and the two of you aren’t leaving this office.”

He pulls the trigger.

It comes in flashes after that. The bang. Nat’s yell. A hot, stinging sensation in Steve’s left pec. He touches his fingers to it, distantly aware of pain but unable to process it, and his fingers come away warm and sticky. Red. He coughs. He stares. He stumbles. He starts blinking—rapidly, it feels like, but it can’t be, because he’s able to watch what’s happening.

First blink. Nat vaults over the desk like an Olympic gymnast, slamming against Harold with the full force of her weight. Second blink—Steve’s ass hits the floor, the wind is knocked out of him, and pain explodes across his torso. Third blink. Nat has the gun, Harold has his hands in the air—he’s crying openly, but Steve doesn’t feel the slightest bit sorry for him. Fucker just shot me, he realizes—the fact that he’s been shot feels distant and unreal, dreamlike. Forth blink. Nat pulled zip ties out of her pocket and is securing Harold Johnson’s hands. Fifth blink, sixth blink, seventh.

At the eighth blink, he realizes his eyes don’t want to open anymore. He sags against something squishy—the sofa, maybe. Distantly, a siren wails. A hand pats his cheek. Nat’s voice. Low. Urgent.

“Damn it, Steve, why’d you pull me away from the desk?” She sounds close to tears, but that doesn’t make sense—Nat doesn’t cry. “I could’ve taken the gun from him. You idiot. You stupid, goddamn idiot. There could’ve been time for an interrogation after we brought him in.”

Ninth blink—Steve opens his eyes. She’s close to him—kissing distance close—but her face is blurry. Is her face always blurry? Does he need glasses? He smiles, licks his lips. Is it just him, or is there a funny metallic taste in his mouth?

“I love you,” he slurs. “We should see Saundra for real. Figure out what this is.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you right now.” Her hands press a something against his wound, a handkerchief, and a fresh bolt of agony shoots across his chest. “Not while you’re bleeding out. Get better—then we’ll talk.”

If he’s going to die, he’s going out with a clear conscious. “I want to be with you, Nat.”

“I want you not to be shot!” she yells in his face. “Clearly we both have issues!”

“Admit you love me too.” His voice is quiet, pleading—God, he sounds whiny. “Let me die happy.”

“If you die, I’ll track you to the afterlife, tie you to a chair, and rip out your fingernails,” Nat snarls. “Then I’ll do your toenails. Then I’ll carve up your chest like a thanksgiving turkey, just for funsies. You. Are. Not. Leaving. Me. Capiche?”

That’s a declaration of love if Steve’s ever heard one—maybe it’s as close as Nat gets. He smiles at her.

“How about a kiss for luck?” He must really be dying—he’d never be this bold if his head wasn’t spinning. “Just one.”

“There’s blood coming out of your mouth.” She’s forcing herself to be calm, but her eyes give her away—too bright, too green, too scared. “Steve, stay with me.”

His eyes close.

There’s a light pressure against his lips. Haunting. Soft.

“Stay with me,” she says again.

He can’t, though, because the dark is too inviting and the room is too warm and the sound of Harold Johnson’s sobs are fading to a distant echo.

Also…he got the kiss.

He got the kiss.

It was a joke, the whole dying happy thing, but as he sags back and lets the darkness take him, his smile is giddy. Uninhibited. Uncontrollable.

He’s dying, and he’s never been more ecstatic.

If he survives this, he should see a therapist.

Chapter Text

Get me with those green eyes, baby, as the lights go down.
Give me something that will haunt me when you’re not around.

- Excerpt from “Sparks Fly” by Taylor Swift

A steady beeping noise chimes somewhere to the left of him. The sharp scent of antiseptic hangs in the air. Heavy and reluctant, Steve’s eyelids flutter open. The sterile lights above his gaze are harsh, and he has to squint as his vision adjusts. Softly glowing morning light filters in through the blinds.

He’s on an adjustable cot, mostly reclined, a thin blue blanket stretched over him. He’s shirtless—he peers down and sees neat bandages wrapped around his upper chest. The bed is surrounded by medical monitors and machines—an IV stand that’s plugged into his arm, a heartrate monitor with wires stretching under the bandages. On the other side of the cot is a nightstand with a vase of flowers, three cards, and a glass of water. A comfortable looking chair is positioned next to the bed—Nat’s slumped on it, feet curled beneath her, eyes closed, head tilted back. She’s wearing the same clothes she wore to their therapy appointment—jeans and the lettered tee-shirt. He wonders how many days it’s been.

The walls are painted a soft, neutral green. A couple of generic pieces of artwork hang on the walls—a landscape painting, an abstract piece with muted tones. There’s a small oxygen canister nearby, but it’s not in use. That’s a good sign, right?

“Hey,” Steve says softly.

Nat’s eyes blink open. They’re rimmed with red beneath rubbed-off liner—why are they rimmed with red? She was worried, sure—but worried enough to cry? That’s not Nat. That’s never been Nat. Steve’s heart beats a little faster in his chest.

“Hey yourself,” says Nat. “Glad you’re not dead, Rogers.”

Steve’s glad too. He smiles at her, a twitch of the lips which she returns. They sit in silence for a few minutes—Steve’s head is pounding, and it takes him a while to get his bearings. His chest aches, his toes and fingertips tingle, and his mouth tastes metallic and foreign. Still, though, he’s breathing. He pulled through. Can’t complain when you take a bullet and live to tell the tale, he supposes.

“Not my first time getting shot.” He winces. “Never gets easier. First time the shooter was a shrink, though.”

“Believe it or not, it isn’t the worst experience I’ve had in therapy,” Nat says. “Saundra’s little you two are meant for each other bullshit takes that cake.”

“Technically he wasn’t our therapist.” He know she’s joking, trying to make light of what was a terribly awkward situation, but he’s annoyed anyway—she kissed him, damn it, and no one was holding a gun to her head. Like hell if he’s going to let her brush that one under the rug. “Plus, maybe she has a point. We do have some stuff to work out. Don’t deny it.”

Nat sighs a long, heavy sigh. “You’re biting off more than you can chew.”

“I have a fast metabolism.”

“I don’t do romance,” she says. “Or dating. Love is for children—I stand by that.”

“I’ll be very unromantic,” Steve assures her. “Want me to pick my nose? It feels a little itchy.”

She makes a face. “I think your little fantasy of retiring and starting a family is stupid.”

“Family doesn’t necessarily mean kids.”

“I have detailed, in-depth fantasies where I torture HYDRA agents to death,” she says. “I find them enjoyable. I’m not in my happy place unless there’s a gun in my hand.”

“I can live with that.”

“Can you?”

“Nat—you’re you.” He laughs—a soft, light sound, even though he doesn’t think fantasizing about torture is funny at all. “I’m not asking you to change.”

“You wish I was different. Don’t lie.”

“I know who you are,” he says. “Your obsession with TV shows borders on addiction. Sit-coms, fantasy, even reality television. You’d never admit it, but you’re thoroughly invested in this season of The Bachelor. You drink way too much hot chocolate. You eat the same thing for breakfast every day—toast and eggs. You had feelings for Dreykov—and Clint, at one point in time, but we don’t have to talk about that. You love your sister. You love the Avengers, being part of a team. You name your weapons. You’re sadistic and frustrating and ridiculously complicated—”

She rises, leans over him, and presses her lips against his. Maybe she hates hearing about herself—maybe she’s just trying to shut him up—but he’s not currently passing out from blood loss this time, so he takes it as a win. Her lips are soft, full, dry—the gloss has rubbed off and she hasn’t reapplied. He loses himself in her, a bit, lets a hand drift up to cup her waist. A sharp bolt of pain to his pec sends him reeling backward, but he grins through the pain. Her lips curve into a smile.

“You taste like blood,” she says. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Well. That.”

“You haven’t brushed your teeth in days.” She makes a face. “Was that your first kiss since the escalator?”

“No.” His cheeks heat. “Can’t you be nice to me for three seconds?”

“Maybe.” She checks her watch. “I could set a timer.”

“Or you could just…y’know. Be a decent person all the time,” he says.

Her smile is pointed, demonic, utterly magnetic in a way that makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat. He knows what she’s going to say before she says it.

“There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers.”

He wouldn’t want it any other way.

###

Nat leaves when Steve’s doctor enters the room, both to give him privacy and to go home, shower, and change clothes—Steve gets the feeling she hasn’t left his bedside, which fills him with a warm and fluttery sensation that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

His prognosis is optimistic—the shot to his chest came in close to his vital organs, namely his heart. It caused significant tissue damage but miraculously avoided critical structures due to Steve’s enhanced musculature. There are some complications—potential pneumothorax, significant blood loss, risk of infection—but the doctor seems happy with his enhanced healing.

“The surgery went well,” the doctor—Dr. Adel Boulos—assures him. “We removed the bullet, and it didn’t fragment. We did the best we could to repair the damaged tissue, and you stabilized quickly given the circumstances. You’re in the ICU for close monitoring, and you were briefly placed on a ventilator to ensure proper lung functioning. I’ve prescribed antibiotics and pain medication in high doses, but I’m afraid your metabolism is fast enough it won’t do much good.”

“How long until I’m discharged?” Steve asks.

“That’s your first question?” Dr. Boulos looks baffled. “Mr. Rogers, do I need to remind you that you were shot in the chest?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Dr. Boulos sighs. “I expect you’ll make a full recovery in a few weeks—significantly faster than a normal human with a similar injury. You’ll be able to resume light physical activity within that period of time, gradually increasing intensity as your body heals. Due to your enhanced healing, scarring should be minimal. I want you in regular physical therapy sessions to ensure full restoration of strength and mobility, and regular check-ups to monitor healing progress and detect late-onset complications.”

“That’s still not an answer.” Steve wonders if the doctor is dodging him on purpose. “You’re going to keep me here forever, aren’t you?”

“Again—you were shot, Mr. Rogers.”

“I’m a soldier,” he says. “Soldiers get shot all the time.”

“Not in New York, sir.”

“How about this afternoon?”

“How about we see how your wound heals and reevaluate in another three days?”

Dr. Boulos is almost as bad as Saundra, Steve decides. You two are in love. You were shot. Blah, blah, blah. For Christ’s sake, he’s good at hiding his feelings for Nat—and the bullet didn’t even hit his heart. What’s with all the overreactions in this field? Medical professionals these days. Sheesh.

###

In the end, he’s discharged in two days instead of three. Two brutal sessions of PT and one shaky walk down the hallway later, he’s exiting the doors of the Hospital for Special Surgery and clambering into Happy’s car, guided by a very concerned Sam and a this-isn’t-a-big-deal-Sam-I’ve-been-shot-loads-of-times Bucky.

Steve sags on the plush leather seat between them, breathless and sweaty from the walk. His chest aches—the pain meds haven’t been working for shit—but he’s relieved to be out of the damn hospital, so he can’t complain.

“Where’s Nat?” he asks. “I thought…”

…thought that she’d be here to help collect him, maybe. She hasn’t visited since he woke up two days ago, and he’s trying—and failing—not to let it bother him. Maybe she’s changed her mind about their relationship. She seemed open to it when they talked—hell, she kissed him again, hospital breath aside—but she never came back, even though she said she was just going home to shower. What gives?

“Dealing with her dad,” Sam says. “His bail was set for one million at the arraignment, but Harold Johnson confessed to killing Madison a few days after. Still hasn’t been released, but it should be any day now. The bureaucracy is really slowing things down.”

That makes sense, Steve supposes. “Is Johnson talking?”

“Squealing like a gutted pig,” Bucky says. “Fury has agents interrogating him around the clock. The True Love Counseling and Recovery Clinic’s been shut down, and Artur Kolesnikov’s been arrested. He tried to flee, but feds caught him boarding a flight to Sweden at JFK. Turns out when protected custody is on the table, a rat would chew off his own leg to protect himself. The cell is going down.”

It's a relief to hear, even if Steve was expecting it. “Johnson turned on the organization?”

“He’s weak.” Bucky wrinkles his nose. “We didn’t even have to torture him. Pity. Would’ve been fun to make him cry for his mother. There’s this neat little trick I’ve been wanting to try out on someone—”

“Bucky.” Sam snaps his fingers. “No torture talk during times of peace. You know the rule.”

Nothing ever happened between Steve and Bucky, but there was a time he considered it—maybe he has a type. Sadists do it for him, apparently. He really does need therapy, probably, but he’s never planning on going again. This entire ordeal was too stressful, too personal, and Steve sincerely hopes the next time a HYDRA cell launders funds from an organization it’ll be something cool, like an amusement park or maybe a circus. Or not—Nat’s not partial to clowns. Neither is he, for that matter. They do have some common ground.

“What’s our next move?” Steve asks.

“There is no our,” Sam says. “You got shot, man. Lie low for a while. Kick up your feet. Recover. Eat some pickles and peanut butter.”

“I’m wounded, not pregnant.”

“I don’t know why you went to the hospital,” Bucky says. “You could’ve just plucked the bullet out with tweezers and then poured some vodka on it. That’s what I used to do.”

“Hygienic,” Sam says. “Ever heard of infection?”

“Vodka cleanses all,” Bucky says. “Infection. Blood poisoning. Sin.”

“Vodka does not cleanse sin,” Sam says crossly. “Besides, do you have any idea how much bacteria festers in open wounds—”

Steve leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, listens to his buddies bicker, and smiles.

He’s going home.

Chapter Text

Steve is laying on his bed watching something stupid on TV—Tony subscribes to Netflix, and Steve put on the first show that popped up, some British baking thing—when someone knocks on his door.

Steve sits up, winces, presses a hand to the bandages on his chest. Grinding his teeth, he scrambles for a shirt.

“It’s unlocked,” he calls.

Nat enters the room.

Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck. She’s wearing a low-cut, lacy black dress and pumps—hair curled into delicate ringlets, mostly natural make-up, thin coat of red on her lips. Steve’s hands clench into fists, then release. His palms are slick with sweat. He can’t stop staring at her—then realizes, belatedly, that she’s holding two mugs. She gets close—really close—to hand it to him, and it takes all he’s got to keep his gaze on her face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her lips quirk into an amused smirk. “No physical activity for at least a week, Rogers.”

“You look…” Incredible. Intense. Indescribable. “…nice.”

She gives a little twirl—some of the hot chocolate in her mug slops onto the floor, but Steve’s never cared less about his carpet.

“I’m going out,” she says.

“I hope I’m invited.”

“You’re on bedrest. I need my I-closed-a-case drink.”

“Have it here.”

“I’ll stay until I’ve finished this hot chocolate,” she promises. “Then it’s down to the Hefty Bear with Tony.”

She’s dressed like that for Tony? “Is Pepper going?” Steve asks.

“If he can tear her away from the Stark Industries board of director’s meeting.”

She sits on the end of his bed and sips her hot chocolate. One of the straps of her dress slips down over a porcelain shoulder. Steve’s not ogling her, he’s not, but damn does he hope she kisses him again. Now that they’re something—more than nothing, at the very least—there’s the potential he could slide his hands over that dress, and suddenly it’s all he can think about. God, he needs to get ahold of himself—she’s not a piece of meat for him to drool over—but…Christ. It’s Nat. Dressed like that. Who could blame him for looking?

“What are you watching?” she asks, eyeing the TV with interest.

“No idea,” he says. “Something to take my mind off the pain.”

“Looks like the Great British Baking Show.”

Of course she’d know what it is. “It’s okay.”

“I’ve seen this season before,” she says. “Twice.”

Who rewatches reality TV? Nat, that’s who.

“I’m surprised you have time to train—how many hours a week do you think you spend staring at a screen?” he asks.

“Ever finish Hamlet, Rogers?”

“…I’m getting to it.”

“So you have the intellectual high ground here? Can’t even finish a two-hundred page book?”

“Hey, the librarian who got us that book was murdered, and I got a little caught up in that.” Steve pauses, trying to think of anything but Nat’s outfit. “Speaking of which, how’s Alexi?”

“He’ll be released as soon as they finish the paperwork,” she says. “Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. He says thank you, by the way.”

“Hopefully I’ll see him soon,” Steve says. “Maybe the next family dinner?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Take one bullet for me and you think you’ve got a regular invite?”

“I’m sorry—you expect more?”

“Three bullets,” she says. “That’s the minimum.”

“You’ve got a gun,” he says. “Finish the job.”

“Where do you want them?”

“Anywhere but the face.” He sets down the mug to cover his eyes with his hands. “Nowhere south of the equator—except maybe the thigh.”

“That eliminates so many lovely spots to shoot.”

“Got a favorite place to nail someone?” He realizes how it sounds as soon as it leaves his mouth, and his cheeks heat. “With a bullet, I mean.”

She’s giving him that look—that look—lips pursed, teeth parted behind them, barest trace of a smile, eyes amused. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He would, actually.

###

In the end, she blows off Tony to watch the show with him—he knew she would, knew or hoped, it doesn’t matter. She curls against his side—his shoulders are so broad she’s leaning on him more than the back rest—and tells him tidbits about the show. How Paul, King of Bread, apparently likes store-bought loafs according to an ex-girlfriend. How ridiculous it is that the contestants aren’t paid. How Lila would get more air in her eggs if she beat them on a lower setting—Steve’s pretty sure Nat’s never baked a cake in her life, but apparently she’s watched enough of this show to be an expert.

He listens with half an ear, overwhelmed by the scent of chocolate from their drinks and cinnamon from her perfume. She’s warm against him, her head is on his chest, she’s got a leg thrown over his, and her hand is rubbing tender circles on his bandages—not enough to make it really ache, but enough to feel.

When the episode ends, she turns to him. “How long did your doctor say it would be before you can do cardio, Rogers?”

The eye contact is too firm, too intense. Steve has to look away. “Um…”

“Waiting for an answer.”

“What, you want to spar?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I want to spar.”

She kisses him, or he kisses her—either way, they’re kissing, and then she does something with her tongue against his bottom lip that makes him moan and press against her—and then he’s promptly ripped back to reality by the jolt of pain that runs down his side. He pulls back, but she doesn’t let him—she grabs the neckline of his tee-shirt and pulls him back in again. The comedians are talking in the background—he guesses the next episode started playing automatically—but he doesn’t care, can’t care, because her hand is drifting down his chest, down, down, down…

“One week,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“Till what?” She sounds breathy, unfocused.

He’s having a hard time thinking in complete sentences. “Cardio.”

“You’ve got three days, Rogers,” she says. “Then we’re sparring. No holds barred.”

“You’ll kick my ass,” he says. He wouldn’t want it any other way, but still. Going up against Nat barely a week after getting shot? He’s asking for another trip to the hospital.

“Fucks sake, Rogers,” she says, pulling back, grinning. “Sparring is a euphemism. I’m being classy. God, you’re an idiot.”

“I need therapy,” he agrees. “We both do.”

“Too soon,” she says, and kisses him again.

###

They’re sitting across from Saundra in her new office, a nice building in Brooklyn. The space is warm, welcoming, and professional, and the window overlooks a river. A sleek, modern desk is pushed against one wall, with a comfortable chair behind it—Saundra watches them from it with her legs crossed. On the desk is a computer, a few framed photographs, and a potted plant. The board games are stacked neatly on the shelves behind her—Steve wonders if she’ll let them play something today.

Nat’s seated beside him on the sofa, expression impassive, posture stiff. It’s different from their other therapy appointments—they’re not investigating anything today. Saundra’s emails and financials were cleared—she’s clean. They’re here for honest-to-God therapy, and it’s so weird and uncomfortable and unlike them that Steve doesn’t know where to start. He’s half convinced that Fury is lurking in the shadows and holding a gun to Nat’s head. When he suggested this, he never expected her to agree. But she did, and here they are.

“So,” Saundra says, eyes narrow. “You two have started dating. For real this time.”

“Harold Johnson shot me two weeks ago,” Steve tells her. “Nothing like a near death experience to bring people closer together.”

“I thought I’d lost him.” Nat’s voice is low, quiet. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

Saundra nods. “You’ve worked through your resentment surrounding Peggy?”

“Nothing to resent,” she says, and there isn’t. Peggy’s his past, Steve thinks, but Nat’s his future.

“And you, Steve, have worked through your resentment surrounding…” She checks her notes. “Thor, Tony, Sam, and Bucky?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah…none of that ever happened.”

“I see.” Saundra pauses. “Can I note that the two of you are exceptional liars? That’s not steady ground to build a relationship upon.”

“C’mon,” Steve says weakly. “We needed a cover. You needed to think we have problems.”

“It’s my clinical opinion that you do have problems, but I don’t think I can help you.” She closes her notebook. “I thought I could do this, but the more I consider the depth of deception that’s gone into our professional relationship, the more I think you two should seek an alternative counselor. I have a list of friends in the profession I could suggest, but I’m afraid I must resign as your therapist.”

“Hang on,” Nat says. “You’re breaking up with us? You said we could see you again.”

“I’m sorry if this comes as a shock or disappointment,” Saundra says. “I simply don’t feel qualified to guide you considering the entirety of our history was based on lies. We’d have to start from scratch, and I’m not sure I can trust either of you to be candid with me. Therapy is built on mutual trust—and we have none of that.”

“What you’re saying is, we don’t need therapy,” Nat says.

“That’s most certainly not what I’m saying.”

“Sounds like it to me.” Steve rises. “We’re good to go, Nat. Thanks for your time, Saundra—and really, I’m sorry about leading you on for months on end. Wasn’t personal.”

Saundra sighs a long, drawn-out sigh. “Might I suggest Fedosov Makarovich?” she asks. “He’s another therapist in this practice. Or Rudy Miller. Samuel Gabes. I don’t feel comfortable with the conclusions you’ve drawn, and I highly recommend another counselor.”

“Fedosov Makarovich sounds Russian,” Nat says. “Have you noticed any suspicious behavior? Any ties to organized crime?”

“No,” Saundra says. “Just…no. Please, stop.”

“Has he ever mentioned the Red Room?”

“It’s come up in casual conversation around the water cooler,” Saundra says. “I’m joking,” she adds hastily when she sees Nat’s face. “Natasha, has anyone ever told you that you display paranoid tendencies?”

“We both have trust issues,” Steve says. “Honestly, Saundra, I don’t think either of us is prepared to find a new therapist. We know you. We like you. It’s you or no one, really—any chance you’d reconsider?”

She thinks on that. “We would need new ground rules.”

“Okay,” Nat says. “Like what?”

“No lying.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “No deception. No investigating my coworkers—”

“I can’t make any promises on that last one,” Nat says. “This Makarovich guy sounds suspicious as hell.”

“He’s been an American citizen since he was two!” Saundra gives another one of those sighs and continues listing ground rules. “I want to see you twice a week for the first month—”

“Twice a week?” Steve can’t believe what he’s hearing. “We’re so dysfunctional you think we need to see you twice a week?”

“PTSD is no joke, and the two of you are dripping with it,” she says delicately. “Building a relationship amidst a murder investigation, a terrorist operation, and the arrest of a family member—not to mention your history of organized crime, Natasha, and I won’t even touch on your past fighting aliens—means navigating the trauma together and coping in productive ways. I believe I can help the two of you—if you’re honest with me—but you need to commit.”

“Twice a week,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Jesus.”

Nat’s gaze is intense, focused. “Chickening out on me, Rogers?”

“I’d never.”

“Good,” she says, and then echoes his words from their second appointment. “Because I’m all in.”

Saundra looks at Steve expectantly. As if he has a choice, when Nat is looking at him like that.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s build ourselves an empire. As a team.”

Saundra reopens her notebook.

Steve takes Nat’s hand.

Together, they get started.