"Alright, I have a question for you, one which you don't have to answer. I feel like if you don't answer it though, you're kind of answering it, you know.."
They had just passed the sign that told them they were in New Jersey, the garden state.
Rogers had hot wired a car, which he was now driving, with Natasha riding shotgun and Michael sitting in the back.
"What?"
"Was that your first kiss since 1945?"
"That bad, huh?"
"I didn't say that."
"Well it kinda sounds like that's what you're saying."
"No. I didn't, I just wondered how much practice you've had.."
"No, I don't need to practice.."
Michael, who had followed their banter with waning interest, suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to contribute.
"Didn't you though?", he asked.
He knew Rogers was now looking at him in the rear view mirror, he didn't have to look to confirm it.
He could have ended it there, but the words kept coming out: "That's rather unkind of you, did you forget or repress?"
The former soldier turned American icon started to say something, but Natasha chimed in before he got very far: "I think I want to hear that story."
She turned her head, meeting Michael's eyes, her expression as occlusive as always.
Michael fidgeted with the device still clasped on his arm.
It suppressed his ability to read minds. Not that he had ever been able to read Natasha's without her letting him.
"I guess Steve never really told anyone who didn't ask. And who would ask Captain America if he was a two beer queer", it was an unnecessary jab, Michael knew that.
This was his own nervousness speaking.
He should have enjoyed the situation for all that it was worth, the woman who knew everything, Black Widow, listening to his every word.
And Steve Rogers, the First Avenger, at a loss for words.
But there was an uneasy feeling in Michael's stomach, a voice screaming inside his head to end this.
He spoke again: "Steve was quite accommodating, that night in New York. But then again, he had to be a bit pent up after seventy years."
There was no surprise or shock in Natasha's eyes, but Michael hadn't expected her to be. She turned to Rogers: "So what's your take on that?"
The man's eyes stayed on the road. His response was mechanic, stern: "I don't remember. Must have been too drunk."
Again this voice. Let it slide, it said.
"You seemed to remember fine that next morning. That must have been some magic alcohol you drank."
He faintly noticed the car now driving faster than before. From his position in the middle of the backseat he could see Rogers' hand gripping the steering while so tight the plastic bent.
The response Rogers gave was more biting than Michael had anticipated.
"Maybe you played one of your mind games on me."
He had wondered himself if that was what had happened.
He had been drunk and it would not have been the first time he subconsciously used mind control on someone, as Natasha well knew.
But he didn't like the implication this had. An implication that was not lost on Romanoff: "You mean he raped you?"
The grip of Rogers hand loosened visibly. Again Michael could feel his gaze, but he couldn't return it.
"Maybe..", he said, but Rogers spoke over him.
"That's not what I said."
But it was what he thought, Michael was sure of that.
Again his hands found the gadget around his wrist. If he had been wearing it a few month earlier, this wouldn't even need to be discussed.
He felt like child again, everything he said seemed to make things worse for himself.
Finally, Natasha said something else and the subject of conversation shifted. Neither she not Rogers paid any attention to him for the rest of the ride.
They finally stopped at an Army base, the place where the signal they were following had been located.
Into the secret shield bureau, disguised as a storage facility they went,
then downward into the secret super computer room, disguised as another secret elevator, disguised as a wall.
A lot of secrets within one building.
The large computer made a buzzing noise when he sprung to life:
Rogers, Steven.
born 1918.
Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna.
born 1984.
Smith, Michael James.
Born 1987
"Sounds like a recording", Natasha (Natalia?) said.
I am not a recording, Fräulein.
The computer's German accent was thick, exorbitant and sounded distinctly fake.
I may not be the man I was when the captain took me prisoner in 1945...
In that moment something grabbed Michael's attention and he zoned out. There was more to this room, he was sure of that.
Was it in the walls, yet another secret lair? No, it wasn't something tangible, not even something happening at present.
It wasn't someone else's thought either, his telepathy was still suppressed.
A dread took control of him. Something was approaching, and fast.
And then, all hell broke loose.
The door they had come in through shut close, Rogers threw his shield at it, to no avail. It was already too late.
Natasha informed them that a missile was about to hit them, and Rogers pulled open a grille on the ground.
He and Natasha jumped inside, he could see Rogers looking for Michael to follow. But Michael felt paralyzed.
Maybe this was it, the logical conclusion to his Life.
He closed his eyes, ripped off the bracelet and felt his mind fleeing from his body, looking for something to hold onto.
He didn't feel the explosion, his body being pushed and shoved.
The fire, the rubble, it was all far away.
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