Slap slap. Slap slap. (Inhale. Exhale.) Slap slap. Slap slap.
The sound is imaginary, felt in the rhythm of her feet against the pavement, the jarring in her bones as the shock of impact moves up her ankles and knees. There's no pain : no ache from lifting shoes made of heavy leather or canvas, and the muscles and tendons in her legs are strong and thick, hard and ropey from a lifestyle of sprinting and super-serum.
She runs hard - harder than she should probably, she's still only human - but enough to feel her body, make it hers again with the burn in her lungs and thighs, until she's wobbly and hungry for breakfast.
Her shoes are some combination of rubber and foam, so lightweight she can barely feel them and electric blue, because at the time it seemed cheerful (and of all the neon colors in the shop, she likes blue the best.)
(Natasha bought a purple and yellow pair; they look like wildflowers on her feet. Anna will never mention it, but it does make her smile.)
Slap slap. Slap slap.
She's used to it now, how this is nearly silent, how she can eat swaths of pavement and make no noise. In the steely grey of morning, there's only the steady sound of her breath dragging in and out, the whisper from the fabric of her running shorts, the faintest murmur of traffic in the distance.
It's unconscious. Effortless. So unlike the willful silence of the soldier, crouched in the mud and rain, placing each step carefully (so carefully, watch for twigs, mind the puddles, don't trip we're right on top of 'em now, hissed voices in the darkness) and she does not think about that, does not, will not, because this is just a run, it's the same every morning, blissfully boring.
(Inhale. Exhale.)
On a good day, she can run the 4 mile loop of the National Mall several times before the city stirs, rousing into a bright cacophony of horns and voices, and the smell of coffee grounds and gasoline.
It's a good day.
She stutters to a stop at the edge of the park, breathing deeply and gratefully, one hand against a thin tree, the other wrapped around her shoe, pulling into a deep stretch. There's a breeze coming in over the reflecting pool, cooling the sweat on her forehead and raising goosebumps along the back of her arms; under her thin shirt, the familiar weight of a metal chain is cold against her neck.
It's not until she spots him that she realizes she's been scanning the crowd around her – not a crowd so much, not really, it's still early – taking in faces and patterns (tall black man always jogging down the street in his pinstripe suit, perpetually late; round woman with short blonde hair and the briefcase, waiting to cross the street, tapping her toe; taxi man with his baseball hat pulled low down on his face against the rising sun, idling in the no-parking zone).
He does stand out a little, amid the suits and ties, and she recognizes him right away: longish hair, jeans, a t-shirt, zipper front sweatshirt.
(It's not often she recognizes a face in the crowd and knows the name and story behind it: Kristoff Bjorgman. 58th para-rescue. Works at the VA. Runs slower than she does.)
Before she really knows what she's doing, she's pulling sweatpants on over her shorts, and jogging down the street, one arm waving.
"So what do you go by these days, anyway?" He asks as they meander away from the coffee cart, slowing when he carefully passes her the white cardboard cup (it's black, extra hot; she can't get past the idea of coffee any other way).
"What do you mean?"
"What," he articulates, grinning around the lid of his own drink, "do you call yourself? Seems like everyone has a name for you these days: Captain Arendelle, Princess Anna – Xena, if you talk to the right people – so what do you like?"
Anna laughs, and winces when it comes out sounding more bitter, more cold that she intended, like a bark or a truncated sob.
"Captain Arendelle? Princess Anna? Sorry Kristoff, it's just - Arendelle doesn't exist anymore."
Kristoff takes a sip from his cup and doesn't say anything, which she appreciates, because this is the first time she's said the words out loud, and if he tried to say 'it's okay, or it will get better' she might have been tempted to test the strength of her fingers against his face. He doesn't though: just plucks at the frayed corner of the coffee sleeve and waits for her to continue, blue eyes kind and thoughtful.
"You probably already know this, but Arendelle disappeared in the Cold War," she huffs. " It's part of the Russian state now. I don't have a home, and I'm certainly not a princess."
Kristoff nods, and says, "You've been to the Smithsonian," which is not a question – he's mentally checking off boxes under her name; it would bother her, she thinks, if it were anyone else. He's a stranger still, well, practically, but there's something comforting about being around him, this person who walks and talks like a soldier, stands with back ramrod straight, and takes his coffee black, army strong and inky. (Once she might have recognized it as a potential friendship, but like so many other things, it's an unfamiliar sensation, to be reflected upon later.) She nods, and rolls her shoulders in a sort of half shrug.
"Granted honorary citizenship in 1950, revived in 2012, rank and position restored in the United States Armed Forces, recruited and currently employed by the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"Anna, that is practically word for word what it says on the exhibit."
"Well, that's who they say I am now."
"Is that who you want to be?"
They've stopped walking. Anna swallows, watching a pair of joggers over Kristoff's shoulder, letting his question mellow before answering. Steam blows off her unlidded coffee in the early morning air, but the day is going to be warm and clear, sun rising unobstructed in the sky.
"I know you're out," she says, feeling the words out slowly. "But – the army, or some branch, I'm not even sure what you'd even call SHIELD – it gives me a place, and a purpose." Anna pauses, and looks up into Kristoff's face. He's almost smiling, mostly with his eyes. "I can work with that for now."
He quirks his lips but doesn't reply, claps a hand against her shoulder and they resume walking, feet quiet on the pavement. It's a few minutes before they speak again, content to meander slowly in the direction of downtown DC, watching as traffic picks up around them and the city blooms with pedestrians and bicyclists, more joggers and people walking their dogs, talking on cellphones and inhaling coffee from silver and black tumblers. They're waiting for a crosswalk to blink green when Kristoff pulls his not-coffee hand out of his jacket pocket, checks his watch, snorts, and gives her a keen look.
"Restored your rank, eh? That would make you a Captain?"
"That's right."
"Okay then," Kristoff says, and shuffles over to punch the opposite crossing bell. "I need to head back to the VA, but you keep doing superhero-y stuff and swing by if you want to chat."
"It's been good talking," Anna says, and finds she means it sincerely.
He nods with the same considered not-quite smile as before and says "Look out for yourself, Cap, " before stepping out into the crosswalk.
She grins then, forcing the smile through the melancholy she can feel building (it grows like a scowl in the back of her mind, and she doesn't have the time to nurse that today – not today) and spreads her hands in a sweeping gesture in front of her.
"That's me," she calls, half bowing, spilling coffee on the pavement, and ignoring the way the chain with her dog tags slips out of her shirt and dangles, twisting, in the air in front of her nose. "Captain America. At your service."