Disclaimer: Do not own.

Author's note:Honestly intended this to be a one-shot. And then it spiraled out of control. And 100% sorry for my writing in general. Plotholes. Major plotholes everywhere. I'm never not sorry. Thanks to deadlyromanova who urged me to finally post this thing that has been rotting in my laptop since forever.

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Façade

[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]

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He saw her first.

"—yeah, see. And then I told Pepper that this is your first big break and she said that's a lousy excuse because I'm just trying to escape my responsibilities and that you'll understand because she'll be the one coming there instead and also because I had promised her that I would finish this paperwork and attend like, a thousand meetings apparently."

Steve chuckled into the phone that was pressed to his left ear. "I already saw her; but she left because of some emergency that I assume was your fault. And I'm sure it's not a thousand meetings."

He could practically hear the smugness in Tony's voice. "She said attend the meetings. Not participate. That may or may not have pissed some government officials. But hey, fuck them."

Steve sighed. "You can't possibly still be pissed about the incident a month ago."

"Spangles, nobody mess with my tech. Nobody."

Steve knew why, the incident in Afghanistan really opened Tony's eyes. Since then, the man had fought teeth and nails to make sure nothing remotely similar would happen again. "I know."

"I gotta go, Pepper's here. Good luck with the show, Cap."

"Sure," Steve said. "And Tony—thanks again for the opportunity."

"You earned it."

The call disconnected and Steve put his phone back into his pocket. His eyes darted around the exhibition room. Various paintings and sculptured were positioned around the huge hall, and he honestly felt a bit nervous. He had spent four months arranging every little thing of the Stark art exhibition, and now when the day finally came he just hoped everything would go as smoothly as possible. The room was crowded though, and he took it as a good sign.

It had been three years after the ice. Time had passed, moving on as if he hadn't just lost his whole life. He had woken from his apparent death and had been told that the war was over, that there was no need to fight anymore and that life as he knew it was gone. But that was also a lie, because now what the world had was still not peace, instead it was something else—a bit more deadly, a bit more dangerous. A bit more hidden.

And it had been hard—he had swallowed himself in SHIELD missions and assignments, not allowing himself a second to wallow. Until one day, Fury had thrown him into the Avengers initiative. It wasn't something he had expected, and he still couldn't wrap his head around it sometimes. He had met Tony, Clint, Bruce, and Thor—yes, that Thor from that mythology. It was weird. But he himself had been frozen for so many years and literally grown inches because of a serum, so. His life had just become a long list of weird.

The Avengers was a covert initiative SHIELD had assembled as a response team to dire emergency situations the military or other agencies couldn't handle. They were individuals with different abilities, and it had baffled him at first. Thor was a demigod, for god's sake. Bruce turned into a green creature whenever he wanted to. Tony wore a suit of armor that could fly, fully equipped with weapons. Clint? A scarily talented marksman. But then again, he had woken up after being frozen in ice in the future, so he guessed he didn't have a right to say what's normal and what's not anymore. Luckily, their identities were able to be kept as a secret and they managed to have an actual life besides from their weird one. No one knew he was Captain America besides from a few trusted people, even during the war he had remained nameless and he was thankful that particular secret hadn't yet gotten out until now. No one knew Tony was Iron Man, Bruce was the Hulk, Clint was Hawkeye, or Thor was - well, Thor. That was how their initiative remained covert.

Steve didn't see it coming, but they had grown on him. Clint with his recklessness. Tony with his brashness. Bruce with his perceptiveness. Thor with his wise words. Missions went by and suddenly they became partners, friends, and permanent fixtures in each other's lives. Steve couldn't envision a life without them anymore. They didn't always go along with each other, their personalities clashing more often than not, but they wouldn't hesitate for a second to trust each other with their backs. Their operations also gave him something to focus on, but sometimes—it wasn't enough.

That was when Tony had approached him with an idea. He was trying to expand his company into the art industry and he said he remembered Steve loved art. Steve had refused because he didn't want to take advantage of his connections like that, and because he didn't feel qualified. Tony had given him a deadpan stare and said: don't flatter yourself Rogers, I'm not doing this because you're my friend, but because I've seen your paintings and they're good, so accept the damn offer because I'm not going to leave you alone until you do. So he had. To be honest he enjoyed the job more than he had thought he would. Accepting the job had given him something to anchor himself, and something to do in between missions. Tony himself had seemed pleased with Steve's work, and Stark's industry art department quickly became one of the most famous in the country. As per Steve's request, Tony had kept the branch small, and Pepper had been kind enough to help him with the technical stuffs—giving him pointers at how to manage a department. He was surprisingly good at it. And to be honest, he loved the job.

He and Tony didn't always get along, much like with the others, even with the long history Steve had with Howard (he half suspected that might be the reason). But after a particular hellish mission in Bangkok involving elephants (don't ask), they came to form this tentative friendship.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket and he took it back out to see a text message from Clint and his lips quirked. Cap srry cant go, mission. Goodluck. Laura said hi—he texted back a reply to that, navigating his way to the quiet corner of the room where they hung one of his paintings. He hadn't really expected any of them to come, to be honest. He understood that they were all very busy people, and Bruce had that science conference in Seattle while Thor had to be back at on Asgard for the remainder of the month. He just wished that he had someone he actually knew there, to calm down his nerves.

He paused on his steps when he saw someone was standing in front of his painting.

He knew her. She was one of the ballerinas performing at the ballet theatre next door. He had watched their performance earlier, before the opening ceremony of the Stark exhibition. Their ballet group was up and coming, he also knew. They were in this tour across Europe and US right now, which was why when Pepper had offered him a ticket he had been curious to watch them. The whole buzz was right, they were breathtaking.

She was wearing a dress now, red like her hair that fell slightly above her knees. He watched her, because he liked seeing people's reaction to his painting. Different than other painters, he didn't find the need of talking to the audience of his painting. He would much rather observe them, see the way they pointed at the details they liked and the quiet hushed conversation they had with the person next to them. It was more revealing than the false compliments people usually throw.

"Are you going to talk to me? It's impolite to stare."

She glanced indifferently at him from the corner of her eyes.

"Sorry," he flushed, ashamed at how rude he had been and walked a few steps closer so he was standing right beside her. He gestured pathetically at the painting in front of them. "That—uh, I painted that."

That, at least, got some reaction from her. She looked at him and raised a slender eyebrow. Her eyes were green. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Huh."

He tilted his head. "What's wrong?"

She half-shrugged, turning back to observe his painting. "You're just not who I pictured you to be."

It was his turn to quirk an eyebrow. "Oh, and how exactly did you picture me?"

Her answer was short and to the point. "Old."

He let out a forced chuckle. Not that she had been wrong. The painting in front of them was one of his favorites. Not because it was good, but because it was a painting of Brooklyn from his childhood, drawn straight from his memory. It had also been the hardest painting to finish, for him. "Is that so?"

She hummed, but she wasn't really paying any attention to him. "Perhaps you got an old soul."

"Yeah," he agreed softly, prepared to excuse himself to give her some space. He had the impression that she didn't really want him to be there. "Perhaps."

That was why it surprised him, when she turned to look at him with this coy smirk and all the indifferent demeanour gone from her expression. Her voice was light and friendly, he noticed the slight dimple when she smiled. "So, are you going to buy me a drink?"

He couldn't help but smile back. "How about coffee?"

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He was charming.

He opened doors for her, slowed his strides so his pace matched hers, asked her about herself, and was genuinely interested as she entertained him with her tightly woven lies. Meanwhile, he told her the basics about himself and mainly explained his paintings—of each historical elements and life he thought he could implement in a picture. And then he apologized if he had bore her. It surprised her, how behind that quiet reserved front he was highly intelligent with just the right amount of dry humor. She was Natalie Rushman, the multi-talented ballerina who spoke Latin and various other languages. Apparently he could too. She ordered black coffee with two sugars and he ordered tea. A friend of his makes extremely good tea, he explained. He was starting to get addicted. She responded to that in German because Natalie Rushman was coy and intriguing. He smiled at her, and replied in Dutch. She raised a challenging eyebrow and put on just the right amount of dare in her voice as she spoke in French. His French was very fluent. She stirred her coffee slowly just to give him an air of relaxed poise. The coffee shop was almost deserted besides from them and a couple of other people. His green tea was served in a red mug she thought was ridiculous.

"I bet, you've never tasted worse coffee than the one I had in Bangladesh," she said in Russian. The accent was heavy on her tongue, but it flowed smoothly, and she had never thought of this before—she missed home.

He blinked and the corner of his lips twitched up. "Alright, you win. I don't know Russian."

She told herself that she was not disappointed because—why would she be? Instead, she leaned back on her chair and gave him one of her most cunning smile. "Who said it was a contest?"

He laughed.

They talked for a little longer than she had anticipated, and by the end of it he offered to walk her to wherever she needed to go. In the end, he walked her back to her dressing room. Once they reached her door, he shuffled awkwardly and broke the silence. "So, I guess this is it."

"Yes."

"Will I be seeing you again?"

The Black Widow didn't do coffee dates. Neither did Natasha Romanoff. Natalie Rushman did, but it usually ended in a bed somewhere with someone she would never see again.

"Probably not," she answered. "I don't expect I'm going to have any business in America for a while."

He didn't hide his disappointment but he smiled at her as he reached into his wallet to take out a small white card. Steve Rogers, it said above a series of phone number and an address for his art studio.

"In case you're ever in town," he told her.

She was sure the card was useless, but she made a show of putting it inside her purse. "Thank you."

She gave him a small wave and watched him walked away because that was what Natalie would do. Natasha was out of the country with a gun strapped on her thigh the first thing in the morning. The Black Widow, they had called her. Assassin. Spy. Pretty much anything you wanted her to be.

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To be continued.

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Author's note: Should I? Yes? No? I don't know? If yes, the next chapters are supposed to be longer because I have half of this story written already—but we'll see.

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