Disclaimer: I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art.

Something New

"Harlowe, what's your status?"

"In position. I count two guards positioned by the door––armed pretty heavily. Automatics, by the looks of it; I think we've got our room. You got a plan, Lieutenant?"

"I've always got a plan."

"Really? 'Cause I distinctly remember a lack of planning a couple of missions ago…" Harlowe trailed off in a deadpan. With a hefty roll of the eyes and a suppressed chuckle, Art shook her head fondly.

"Stand by for orders," Art responded into her comm. She started to creep along the darkened catwalk, her footfalls making little to no sound. The grating would jostle and creak every now and then, so Art kept herself poised to pull her staff. S.H.I.E.L.D. had gained intel that an illegal arms shipment was going arrive in Iowa and then change hands and head overseas. It was suspected that some of the weapons were reminiscent of old HYDRA inventions; that in itself would have been incentive enough to stop the deal from happening. "Yates, what's happening on your end?"

"No one has entered or exited the building; if they tried, we'd have something to say about it," Yates responded, her voice babbling in Art's ear. It sounded like, despite the situation, the agent was smiling. Art's own lips quirked to the side, for Yates' enthusiasm for her job never seemed to wane. That woman had been shot, stabbed, had bones broken, and she still jumped at the chance to be in the field. Georgia Yates was one of the more spirited members of S.H.I.E.L.D. that Art had met, and she was always glad to have her on the team. Though, Art was sure if Yates were to ever meet Tony, the levels of sass and sarcasm would cause the world to implode.

"I expect nothing less."

"I'll let you know if anyone wants to crash the party."

There was a faint shuffling just down the catwalk, which gave Art pause. She fell perfectly still, form frozen mid-step. She listened for another moment and heard someone clear their throat. Her knees bent and let her sink into an effortless crouch. Art tilted her head sideways and craned it forward, trying to catch eye of what was around the corner. About forty feet down the catwalk was a guard dressed all in black. A gun was holstered at their hip, and their back was facing the crouched soldier. With caution guiding each of her movements, Art slunk around the corner and started to sneak towards the man. She could utilize the staff, but there was no guarantee that it would make him drop. Before she could coherently plan what she was going to do, the guard began to turn towards her. Having only moved a little over fifteen feet, Art launched forward in a run and then pushed herself into a leap at the last possible second. Both her arms curled around the man's throat and her legs cinched in around his middle.

A gurgled choking sound left the guard's throat as his air supply was swiftly cut off. Both of his hands curled around Art's forearms, giving a mighty pull in attempts to disengage. With gritted teeth, Art increased the pressure around his throat, trying to get him unconscious as quickly as possible. Her body had arched away from his slightly, hoping that the way her arms tightened around the guard's throat would be enough to take him down. Had she attempted such a maneuver pre-serum, the chances of it succeeding would have been slim. But since Art had a store of super-strength to utilize, it may just work. Another strangled sound squeaked out of his throat and he started to flail his arms backwards in hopes of landing a strike on his assailant. None of them hit. A moment later, the world was thrown off kilter and pain radiated across Art's back. The guard had thrown himself backwards onto the catwalk; he clearly had hoped the impact of his body crushing hers would loosen her grasp or make her let go. Her only reaction was to grunt and give a slight wheeze as air rushed out of her mouth.

One of her hands migrated up to his face and clamped down over his mouth and nose. She clamped her eyes shut and waited to feel the guard to slack in her hold. Things that Bucky had told her about hand-to-hand combat came to mind, mixing with techniques that Natasha had taught her about neutralizing a target without actually killing them. She had married the two techniques––the choke-hold and the hand over the mouth––and was praying that it would work effectively. Slowly, the man's panicked movements became slower and weaker. And then, thankfully, they stopped all together. With another grunt, Art pushed his body off of hers. She followed it as it rolled over, keeping low to the catwalk just in case someone below happened to hear their bodies hit the grating. Two of her fingers found their way to his neck, where she sought––and found––a pulse. Art's body momentarily went slack, a sigh of relief leaving her lips. The escaped air was quickly replaced, however, in order to help regulate her breathing, which had become irregular when she'd fallen. She began to remove his weapons and his communicator ear piece, casting them aside so, should he wake up, it would be just that more difficult for him.

Just as she kicked his handgun along the catwalk, the grating shuddered with footsteps. Spinning around, still crouched, Art caught sight of a second guard coming around the corner from where she had just snuck from. His eyebrows were pulled into a stern line, and his lips seemed to be pulled into a permanent grimace.

"You alright, Smith? I heard some…" The new guard's voice trailed off as his eyes snapped straight to his friend's fallen form and the woman crouched over it. "What the––"

Art's hand flew back to her hip and withdrew the combat knife she typically had strapped there. Without so much of a second thought, she aimed and hurled it in a matter of seconds, eyes fixed on the exposed skin just over the neckline of his shirt. The blade whistled through the hair and stuck into the man's flesh. A gout of blood spurted from the wound before trickling down his front in a thick ribbon; his eyes widened as he gurgled and fell to his knees, likely feeling his last moments of life slip away from his body. Art snuck back along the catwalk and reached out to grasp the handle of the knife, removing it from the guard's body with a wince. He coughed, spewing blood into the air by means of a fine mist, and blood continued to pour from the gouge in his throat. It would seem she might have hit an artery. It didn't take much longer for the man to still, eyes glazing over.

Art sat back on her heels and gently cleared her throat, activating her comm as her heartbeat steadied. "Harlowe, update." She waited for what was, typically, a prompt response, but received nothing. "Harlowe." Again, silence on Richard Harlowe's end of the line. Art felt her brow furrow and something in her chest clench. "Richard, come in. Do you read me?" A heavy sigh escaped her lips and she ran a hand over her face, the palms of her gloves gently sliding over her nose. "Yates, have you heard from Harlowe in the last minute or two?"

"Can't say that I have, Lieutenant. His end's been pretty quiet," Yates informed. Art pursed her lips, stomach twisting in an unsettling manner.

"Thanks for the update; let me know if he contacts you on a private channel."

"Will do. Stay safe in there."

With the bloody knife still in hand, Art had risen to her full height and began a faster paced walk down the catwalk. Harlowe was always good with keeping her updated on everything was going on; if he wasn't responding, then it was highly likely that something had gone wrong. It wasn't often a mission went south. The face of Bucky Barnes flashed to mind as she walked. His terrified face as he was sucked out of the train and dangled hundreds of feet above the snowy ground. She banished the memory by physically shaking her head, trying to ignore the well of guilt blooming in her stomach. Ever since the dream she'd had where Bucky blamed her for his death, she'd been thinking about him more and more often. She felt increasingly more guilty that she hadn't done anything to try and save him. That guilt had driven her try and keep every single person on her team alive and well. It felt like it was her duty to S.H.I.E.L.D. and those dedicated people that worked within the organization, especially after mind-controlled rampage against them during the battle of New York.

The catwalk, which spanned the length and also crossed the width of the warehouse, gave Art a streamlined path to the far end of the building, where Harlowe had been tasked to go searching. Art had been sticking to the right side of the walkway, which was more drenched in shadow than the left; it wasn't perfect cover, but it was something. Her eyes were scanning the ground on either side of her, trying to catch sight of her missing teammate.

"Lieutenant Knoll." Harlowe's soft voice came into being over the comms, a barely perceptible tremble clinging to his words. Art froze and tensed. She would have been relieved if the shaking hadn't been present in his voice. Harlowe was typically a very calm man whilst on missions; the fact that he might have even been a little bit nervous was concerning.

"Harlowe, what's going on?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"They want us to leave, and to leave now," he said, voice sounding doubled, as if he was standing next to her whilst they both held a conversation with the other on the phone. Art's head whipped around and she inched her way to the left side of the catwalk. In the middle of the warehouse floor stood a tall man with a familiar shock of orange hair. His gloved hands were held aloft, his rifle hung limply across his chest, and his back was ramrod straight. A man dressed all in black stood behind him, in a nearly comical manner; he was shorter than Harlowe by at least half a foot, which caused him to have to aim his gun up at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's head. The guard kicked at the back of Harlowe's knees, sending him to the floor.

"I see you. I need you to stay calm, and stay still," Art whispered. She flipped the knife around in her hand so her fingers pinched the bloodied blade. "I've got a plan."

"Where is this Lieutenant you're speaking to?" spat the man aiming the gun at Harlowe. Art slowly raised her arm, wincing at the weight of the knife's handle.

"I don't know," Harlowe spoke, voiced still doubled by his natural volume and the comm in Art's ear. She inched closer to the edge of the catwalk and saw that the guard was backed up by a second, a well-muscled woman with short cropped hair.

"If she does not confirm your team's retreat, I'll paint the floor of this warehouse with the insides of your head."

Art pinched the blade harder, gaining a better hold on the blood-slick metal.

"I would appreciate if you acted on that plan you mentioned." He was speaking through his teeth, most likely trying to hide their conversation.

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

"I'm gonna need you to take out the second guard once the first goes down. Think you can do that?" Art asked, eyes zeroing in on the guard. From the corner of her eye, she saw Harlowe just barely bob his head. With a deep inhale, Art steeled herself and prayed that the combat knife could travel the distance it needed to. On the exhale, she began a countdown. "Three… two…"

In place of one, Art hurled her arm forward and let the knife fly from between her fingers. It flew end-over-end through the air, faster than she might have expected it to. With a sickening crunch, the blade embedded itself in the head of the guard that had been threatening Harlowe. As he collapsed, the second guard quickly aimed her gun in the direction the knife had whizzed from. But before a shot could leave the barrel of her gun, a bullet flew from the barrel of Harlowe's pistol. It seemed as though it cut through the woman's left shoulder, sending her to floor nearly immediately. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent rose to his feet and turned to stare up at the catwalk, a hand having reached up to brush hair out of his eyes.

"You know, when you said you had a plan, I thought you meant you were gonna shoot him––not throw a knife into his brain. I didn't trust you that much," Harlowe called up to her, accented voice carrying up into the spacious ceiling. Art leaned forward against the rail, a relieved grin appearing across her face.

"Past-tense! So you do trust me that much, now!" she called back. Art swung herself over the catwalk railing and dropped towards the floor, landing in a crouch that stung her knees slightly. There was a puff of breath from her comrade's position, and she could've sworn she heard an exhaled 'show off.' She rose to her full height and went about retrieving her knife, hearing Yates mobilize her part of the team in the distance.

"This is what I meant by distinct lack of planning. But… thank you; I like having the insides of my head encased in my skull." He smiled at her and reached out a hand. Returning the smile, Art clasped his hand and gave it a hearty shake. It was a gesture that the two had taken to giving one another when a mission was carried out successfully. Harlowe was almost always paired with Art when it came to missions, as she almost always requested the Irishman when she was tasked with being the head of a task force. Art nodded towards him, smile becoming a bit sly.

"Don't think that I mentioned it before, but I like the beard," she complimented, extracting her hand from his. She reached down and removed the combat knife from the guard's corpse, wiping the blood off on the man's sleeve. Harlowe reached up to his chin with a grin, rubbing at the orange hair that had grown in nicely across his jaw. "Now, what do you say we get these weapons out of here and call it a night?"

"I think that's the best plan of the evening, Lieutenant."

OOOO

Art trudged up the steps to her and Steve's apartment, back still aching from the fall she had taken. It had been bruised in a few spots, but it would likely be healed by morning; till them, she felt like she was walking like she was showing her age––her true age of ninety-two. Cresting the landing, Art dug her keys out of her pocket, the pieces of metal jangling in her hand. When she rounded the corner, she spotted Kate, her pretty, blonde haired neighbor, unlocking her apartment door. She was wearing a pair of purple scrubs, likely having just come back from her shift at the hospital. A pile of plastic bags were situated at her feet, filled with numerous grocery items. Art smiled and raised a hand in greeting, receiving a bright, happy smile in return.

"Hey! You look exhausted," Kate laughed good naturedly. "Long day at work?" She twisted the keys in the lock and pushed the door open, revealing the dark room behind it. Art laughed and reached around herself to rub at a bruised spot in the middle of her back.

"You could say that, yeah. Need any help with the, uh, groceries?" Art asked. Kate waved a hand dismissively through the air, having already shifted a good number of them into her apartment. She tucked strands of flaxen hair behind her ear, looking genuinely grateful for the woman's offer. Part of Art was relieved for the dismissive gesture, as she wasn't sure how her back would deal with bending over a handful times.

"No, but thanks for offering. Oh, uh, here." Kate plunged a hand into one of the bags and extracted a tall black can that had a neon green tab situated at the top, and an equally vibrant 'M' across the front. Art reached out to accept the proffered beverage, staring at the logo. It was an energy drink. "It looks like you deserve it more than me."

Art raised her brows, laughed a bit and then held up the can in question. "You sure?" When her neighbor nodded, she smiled and popped open the tab. "Thanks." She poured some of the carbonated liquid into her mouth, tasting its tangy sweetness as it swept over her tongue. The thing was, it probably wouldn't make her feel any more awake. The wonders of a fast metabolism made sure of that, just as it made sure she would never be drunk again. But the sentiment was welcomed. Kate smiled and lifted the last two bags in one hand, shrugging her shoulders as though it was really nothing.

"You come back late a lot, and I thought you deserve a pick-me-up."

Kate had been a kind force in Steve and Art's life since the day they'd moved to Washington. She always stopped to chat with them whenever they ran into each other in the hall, that is, if she didn't have a shift at the hospital to catch. Her kindness was never off-putting, and her humor, which was often times dry and sarcastic, never failed to make Art smirk. Their interactions were often brief, but that was to be expected of neighbors who lived a hall away from each other. But it had been in Art's plans to invite her over for dinner at some point. But Art and Steve's busy schedules always threatened any potential social plans; they could be called away at any moment to be sent off on a mission to some place or another.

"Say hi to Steve for me," Kate said as she stepped over her groceries and into her apartment. Art raised her hand in a farewell and bobbed her head in a nod.

"Will do; have a good night, Kate."

"You too, Art."

The Rogers-Knoll apartment was bathed in soft lamp light that warded off the gentle darkness that evening had brought around. Art plopped her keys into a bowl, which was placed in a wooden organizing unit that separated the hall from the kitchen. It also served as shelving units, where they stored their cups and plates and the like. The keys jangled and clanked as it collided with Steve's and some spare change that had been tossed in absentmindedly. She kicked off her shoes half-way down the hall and nudged them aside; she would put them away later, if she felt up to it. Seated on the couch in the living room was Steve, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a relaxed t-shirt. The warm yellowish light danced over his face, highlighting a set of injuries that he hadn't had when Art had seen him that morning. A cut slashed through his bottom lip, creating a scabbed crescent near the corner of his mouth. A bruise blotched the area just beside his eye and eyebrow, and there seemed to be a similar one stretched along his jaw. All three injuries were apparent on the left half of his face.

"Oh, my god!" Art exclaimed, reaching out to switch on the overhead light. Its brightness filled the room and Steve squinted his eyes against it, a half-grimace, half-smile appearing on his face.

"Headache," he stated simply. Art's fingers immediately tugged the switch downwards, returning the room to its previous state of lighting. Steve smiled fully and thankfully, shifting on the couch as she approached. Art sat down beside him and tucked her legs beneath her, facing his injured side. The can in her hands was placed on the floor, and her attention was turned fully to Steve. She reached out and brushed blond hair off his forehead before allowing her fingers to drift towards the bruising.

"I take it that the mission went well?" she asked. Her finger-tips grazed the reddened area, touching it light enough so he wouldn't feel pain. Steve watched her from the corner of his eye, his lips still pulled up into a smile.

"It did. Turns out that it's pretty easy to get hit when your cover gets blown, as evidenced by, uh…" Steve chuckled and gestured up to his face. His shoulders rose and fell in a vague shrug. "It'll heal pretty quickly."

Art smiled and patted his chest, eyes still dancing over the red and minorly swollen areas of his face. "Not nearly as quickly as it would if those were my injuries."

Laughter bubbled out of Steve's chest and his eyes crinkled up at the edges. He had been smiling more, much to Art's unadulterated joy. It seemed that Steve felt more adjusted after things had settled down post-battle. He seemed to feel more comfortable in the modern world, and once that was so, he started to seem more and more like his old self. Laughter filled the apartment daily, which used to be a rare occurrence. He would grin brightly and beautifully countless times in a day and innumerably so in a week, or a month.

"Well, you look like you got through your mission unscathed," he shot back with laughter continuing to lace his voice. Art clucked her tongue and sat back, removing her jacket before she cast it side. She turned her back to Steve and clutched the hem on the neck of her shirt. With a couple of tugs, she revealed her skin of her back to him, its paleness painted with purple splotches. It wasn't long before she felt fingertips carefully trail down her spine. The touch was so light it was nearly feathery. "How'd that happen?"

Art tugged her shirt back down and turned to tuck herself into Steve's side. Her head lolled onto his shoulder and her hand casually fell to rest over his stomach. The day's events replayed in her head and a deep sigh escaped her lips. Mimicking Steve's shrug, Art clicked her tongue again.

"Well, there was a guard I needed to get past, and he was taller than me––"

"A lot of people are taller than you," Steve mentioned cheekily. Her height hadn't been subject to teasing for quite some time, but Steve had started to point it out on occasion, just like all the fellas back in the war used to. A smirk crawled across Art's face and she rolled her eyes.

"Well, you're just being a rude fella, aren't you? Anyway, I leapt onto his back and tried to choke him into unconsciousness; unfortunately, he tried to get me off him by falling square on top of me," Art summarized. "It'll be gone by morning, or mostly gone by morning." Art healed the fastest between the two of them, thanks to the modifications Schmidt had made to the serum she had been injected with. Neither of them scarred anymore, though scars from battles past––for Art, at least––still remained.

Steve turned his face down towards her, and he snuck his arm around her waist. His hand began to gently rub circles across her back, clearly being carefully not to place too much pressure into the movements. Art hummed quietly and curled her arm around Steve's front. Their foreheads came to rest gently against each other, the moment becoming increasingly tender.

"Want a massage?" he asked softly. A smile stretched across Art's face, but she shook her head.

"It still hurts a bit too much for that. Though, if the offer is still standing tomorrow, I might just have to take you up on it." Art pressed herself closer to him, aware that she could very-well end up on his lap soon. Steve returned her smile and let his hand still in the center of her back, fingers splayed out.

"Yes, ma'am."

Their lips met in a kiss, which was immediately followed by a second. Steve shifted and sat back against the couch arm, which allowed Art to straddle his lap. Her hands slid up the length of his torso in order to cup his jaw. Such intimate moments between them were few and far between, as of late. At any one time, the other was called away on a mission whilst the other was at home, or both would be away on the same mission, which left no room for such personal interactions. Though, they made it a point to go out on dates as often as possible, particularly when it seemed that they had a clear weekend. Art felt Steve's hand slip into her hair, just at the nape, his fingertips leaving a trail goosebumps as they glided up the back of her neck. Just as the impassioned nature of the moment began to escalate, Steve hissed and drew his head back. His brows were pinched together and he curled his bottom lip inward; his tongue darted out to touch the cut that marred the sensitive flesh. A thin rivulet of blood snaked its way down his chin, which he wicked away with the back of his hand.

"Ow…" he murmured.

"Sorry," Art replied. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, which remained shorn fairly short. "I guess kissing doesn't really help the healing process." Steve chuckled and shrugged, his hands having moved to sit on her waist. Art leaned forward and shifted around in order to snuggle herself in between Steve and the back of the couch. Steve adjusted his own positioning to accommodate her, keeping an arm wrapped around her waist.

"Wasn't your fault; I blame Fury for sending me on that mission."

"Don't let him her you say that, you'll get an earful."

Art pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, a smile still playing across her lips. She shut her eyes and hummed tiredly, basking in the warmth radiating off of Steve's body. The energy she expended during the mission hadn't fully returned to her, and it was all catching up. Her back ached dully and her eyes wanted to remain shut. With her head situated comfortably against Steve's shoulder, she felt herself slowly begin to nod off. Steve was talking to her, she could hear him, but she wasn't registering words. The warm tone of his voice was background noise that aided in lulling her towards sleep. Sleeping had become easier since the Loki incident, but it wasn't always peaceful. The image of Bucky's bloodied visage haunted her dreams, and more often than not, Loki would appear, grinning like a maniac. He would tell her she was a good soldier, a term that she shied away from anytime anyone applied it to her. But she found that Steve's presence beside her did help some. Art felt more comforted with him at her side, and that often staved off the nightmares. The peaceful feeling of the room was enough to give her hope that her rest would follow suit, and she would dream of nothing but the good days that were to come.

Afterword: And that's that for the first part of the Winter Soldier! We'll be diving into the movie fairly soon, once I set up their new life in D.C. and what not. I hope all of you are excited about my introduction of Richard Harlowe, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent of my own design! I picture him as looking like Domhnall Gleeson, if you're curious. Yates will be introduced, too, in all of her sassy glory.

Anyway, I've got such plans for the events of this movie and I cannot wait for you all to read it! I hope yo uenjoyed the first chapter, and I hope to get the second one up soon! Thanks for taking the time to read!
~Mary