Authors Note: hi guys, I haven't written fanfic in ages, so please bear with me here! The story will be a lot of action, (explosions! shootings! backflips! lasers!) a lot of lolz, and a bit of Romanogers in later chapters (slow-burn romance rather than fully blown love scenarios guys, I'm not a big fan of that lovey-dovey shit), and the rest of the Avengers will of course make an appearance, and there may be other romances if I feel like it. we'll see. If there are discrepancies with the Marvel Universe - my bad. It's a fanfic, shit happens.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for a couple of OCs that appear along the way.

enjoy! x S

1: Disruption

Steve was sitting as far back in the coffee shop as possible, facing away from the entrance. The window next to him was strangely high, but he didn't mind. It meant that he could not be seen from the street. His cappuccino was almost finished, his eyes trained on an open copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. He was surprised at how much he was enjoying what he had initially considered to be childrens books, which he had been reluctant to read. But Clint had insisted, and Steve had got through the first two books within a week. He'd left his Brooklyn apartment this morning to pick up a copy of the third one from a second hand bookshop just up the street, and now he was completely absorbed. He could of course have downloaded it on to his tablet that Stark insisted on providing him with, but he still preferred the feel of the paper between his fingers when reading.

He was so absorbed in Harry's first encounter with the Dementors on the Hogwarts Express he didn't notice Natasha until she slid into the seat opposite him. He looked up in surprise and she smiled, pushing a fresh cappuccino towards him as she stirred her own.

"Thanks,"

"No problem, how's the book?"

"Kind of dark for a children's story," he answered honestly.

"Don't call it a children's story in front of Clint," Natasha told him. "He will put an arrow through your tongue."

"Yeah, I got the sense he was a real fan."

Natasha nodded, taking a sip of her coffee, and licking the chocolate sprinkled foam off of her lips.

"He is. And just so you know, it gets a lot darker later on."

"As long as the house elf doesn't die, I can handle it. I like the house elf."

Natasha said nothing, checking her phone and typing out a quick text message to Clint.

"How's your arm?" She asked, when she has put her phone away.

The last mission Steve had been sent on, involving a half million dollar Heroin drop in New Mexico, he'd had a considerable chunk of flesh carved out of his arm by flying shrapnel from an exploding car. A week later, although mostly healed due to his superhuman enhancements, he still had a dull ache in his upper left arm.

"It's fine. I'm allowed to go back to working out normally now, there's been no major tissue damage and my muscle has repaired itself. How was Prague?"

"Pretty straight forward. Went in. Got the information I needed. Was on a plane back less than twenty four hours from when I first landed. Didn't fire a single shot."

Steve raised is eyebrow at her. He knew better than to assume that this meant nobody had died.

Natasha pulled a Kindle out of her worn leather bag – one of the few items she owned, Steve had noticed, that showed any signs of wear and tear – and switched it on. Settling back in her chair, she pursed her lips in concentration as her eyes began to rapidly scan the page. He smiled to himself, knowing that Natasha was being kind the only way she knew how – by not leaving him alone.

They sat in silence, both completely absorbed in their books for another hour or two, and had another round of coffees brought over to them. The owner recognised Steve, not only from TV, but because the good captain was in his coffee shop often. The elderly Italian man pitied Captain America, who was so kind and courteous, and always tipped the barista. Fame was difficult for those born in our time, but for someone like Steve Rogers, who had gone to sleep in the war and woke up to the technological era, it must be hell.

Stefano regularly deflected potential fans who may have recognised the good captain, their whispers of "is that him? It's totally him! I mean, it could be, can you see his face?" quickly cut off by Stefano, who laughed at them. "He is an NYU student, he rents my spare room! Let the poor man study in peace!" when they look doubtful, he would add "I keep telling him he should be a double for the good captain, he would make good money, no? I can charge him more rent!" And then laugh to himself. This would usually convince the would-be groupies that the blond man, sitting with his back to the rest of the cafe, was no-one special.

Stefano did not realise that Steve's enhanced hearing meant that he heard almost every single time the owner of the coffee shop had spared him the stress of dealing with zealous fans. He didn't realise that in doing so, he had created a little oasis of peace and calm, a comfort zone for the great Captain America to retreat to, when he could no longer handle the outside world. He didn't realise how grateful the captain was. And he definitely didn't realise he was going to get shot for it.

They both tensed up, half a second before it happened. Even as the window shattered, Natasha was leaping to her feet, gun drawn. Steve was holding the chair he had been sitting on less than a second ago, ready to attack or defend as necessary. The other customers in the shop were all diving under the tables, scrambling to take cover. There wasn't much screaming, Natasha noted. The people of New York were far too used to crazy shit happening.

Something rolled through the doorway – a canister. The people under the tables really did begin to panic this time, scrambling away from it and trying to get to an exit, as thick white smoke began to pour from the smoke grenade. Steve inhaled. There was no itching or burning in his throat – it wasn't tear gas. The people in the shop would be ok as long as they get out. A figure stepped through the doorway, clad in black. Black boots. Black jeans. Black hoody. Black balaclava. He raised his hand and pointed at Steve with his left hand, his handgun hanging loosely at his side on his right.

"You." The man began to speak, but his words were cut off as another gun appeared pressed against the side of his head.

"Drop it," came Romanoff's voice from behind the man, who obliged. Her arm around his neck, she dragged him backwards out on to the street. The smoke was already dissipating through the shattered window of the coffee shop, and Steve could see two more black clad bodies out on the street. Natasha had gone out of the window above the seats where they had been reading, and taken the guys out with ease.

Although he knew Natasha was very good at incapacitating her opposition, Steve wondered at the speed with which she had dispatched them. It had taken her about a minute to take out four guys – they can't have put up any kind of fight whatsoever. He hadn't seen her run across his field of vision, so they must have all been grouped on the left side of the building - evidently none of them remembered basic military training, if they'd had military training at all.

This whole operation seemed very amateur in Steve's opinion. That made him very suspicious.

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