"Temp's back down to fifteen under," Sam's voice was crisper than the fresh snow on the dogs' kennels, the sound unhindered by wind or distance. "Just hope the truck'll start when we need it." He shivered, tucking his chin into his collar and pulling his fur-lined hood down over his forehead. "How's the sled coming? Natasha said she'll be here in about…" he glanced at his watch, "five or ten, and you know how she gets when we're off schedule."

Steve straightened up and dusted white powder off his knees, holding one glove in his teeth as he struggled to screw in the last piece of the sled with frozen fingers. "There, 's done." Taking a step back, he stuffed his pale and stiff hand back into the glove, his blue eyes taking in the sight before him. "Looks good, right?"

Sam shrugged, cocking one eyebrow and flashing a smile. "I dunno, man. I've never actually run one of these races. I'm just here for moral support."

Steve returned the smile, although he was sure it wasn't visible beneath the thick scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face. "I'm gonna need as much of that as I can get."

The distant sound of tires skidding on gravelly ice interrupted the relative stillness of the frigid Alaskan afternoon, announcing the arrival of the final member of Steve's support team. The unfamiliar rumble of the vehicle's engine sent the dogs into a frenzy, many of them launching out of their shelters and throwing themselves furiously against their chains. Steve's lead dog, Desna, slammed into her collar with such enthusiasm that she lost her balance completely and landed on her back in the fresh snow.

Within moments of the initial disturbance, a dark grey Ford four-wheeler pulled into the packed snow parking lot behind the kennel, its roaring engine cutting out with a sound like a Grizzly bear being strangled.

"Natasha!" Sam was almost as enthusiastic as the dogs, obviously eager to greet the fiery red-headed Russian who had offered to act as Steve's quality assurance for the upcoming race. Although Steve had known Natasha for going on two years, she and Sam had only met a couple of times over the past two months, and most of their time together had been spent freezing to death in the kennels and garage. Although misery shared was one way to develop a bond, Steve was 90% sure that they would have gotten along just as well had they met in any other circumstances.

Natasha was decked out in her most fearsome winter apparel, only her eyes visible behind a thick balaclava and an even thicker scarf. Her shape was completely obscured by the multiple layers of down and polyester clinging to her body, and her gloved hands looked like they'd been drawn by a bad cartoonist—fingerless and puffy, more like black blobs than actual hands. "Sorry I'm late," she said, and Steve could hear the smirk in her words, "the traffic was bad."

"I hear the moose are slow this time of year," Sam replied, his smile widening as he reached Natasha and wrapped one arm around her in an awkwardly one-sided hug. Although Natasha obviously liked Sam, and Steve would even go as far as to call them friends by now, she had never been the hugging type. Not that it ever stopped Sam. "Takes longer to get 'em off the road."

Natasha rolled her eyes, moving past Sam toward Steve and the sled. "No, actually my idiot boyfriend was trying to cook," she lifted her fingers to form quotes around the last word, "and almost caught the kitchen on fire. I told him to stick to killing things from now on."

Steve laughed, shaking his head as he stepped back to let Natasha inspect his handiwork. "Poor Clint. He was probably just trying to impress you, you know."

"Oh, he wasn't cooking for me," Natasha crouched beside the sled's left runner, dragging her gloved palm across it to check for weak places or breaks. "He thought I'd already left the house."

Sam grinned, sticking his hands in his oversized pockets as he watched Natasha's well-trained fingers and eyes skim over the sled's slender frame. "Hey, if he gets on your nerves too much, my door's always open."

"That's sweet," she replied, "but if I leave him alone for more than two days I'll be finding dirty socks and gloves stuffed into the vents for weeks. Not to mention that time he turned the living room into an archery range and put a hole in our TV. So much for his promise to keep his friends out of my house."

"And by "friends" do you mean Tony and Thor?" Steve asked. "I thought they were in Quebec for the winter?"

"Yes, and yes," Natasha straightened up, giving the sled a look of satisfaction. "This was back in October. You're good to go, by the way. This is as good as you're gonna get."

"Quebec?" Sam interrupted, tipping his head slightly to one side. "But all the races they run are out here."

"Exactly," Steve replied. "They were getting bored—Tony especially—and wanted to try something new. Besides, I think Thor's brother lives out east and he was planning on meeting up with him or something. I dunno, Tasha's the one with the details."

Sam nodded, glancing at Natasha for further information, but she didn't seem to be concentrating on their conversation anymore. She had pulled out her phone and was cupping it between two bare hands, scrolling through what looked like a complicated checklist. "Well, Steve," she tucked the device back under her coat, pulling on her gloves as quickly as physically possible, "looks like you're ready to the run the Iditarod."

Sam's face split into a wide grin again, eyes lighting up with excitement and relief. "You guys wanna go get some drinks to celebrate? I know a place…"

"We haven't won yet, Wilson," Natasha cut him off, "don't get too ahead of yourself."

"I'd love to, Sam," Steve answered his friend's unfinished question, "but I've still got stuff to do. Like getting the dogs ready for the truck ride tomorrow. That's first priority. But if you wanna take a break, by all means, go for it."

"Nah," Sam waved off the offer, shaking his head. "If the Captain's got stuff to do, I'm here to help."

"Thanks, Sam," Steve smiled at his friend, turning away from the finished sled and starting the trudge through the fresh snow toward the kennel's entrance gate. "Alright, Sam, I need you to bring the truck around front. Natasha, come help me pick out the last three dogs for the team."

"Got it," Sam mock-saluted and headed for the garage, while Natasha fell in behind Steve.

"How about Miki and Kuni?" Natasha suggested as Steve fumbled with the padlock on the gate. "They're young, but they're stronger and more loyal than you give them credit for. You should give them a chance to prove themselves in the big league."

"They're barely three," Steve protested. "And Kuni would rather knock me over and lick my face off than actually pull a sled."

"I think she'll do great," Natasha countered. "Once she's in the harness, she'll pull just like all the others. Trust me."

Sighing, Steve resigned himself to her better judgment. "If you say so."

. . . . . .

"Everybody in!" Sam leaned out the window of Natasha's Ford as Steve finished hooking up the trailer and feeding the dogs, all of whom were loudly voicing their excitement for the upcoming trip to Anchorage. Sixteen of his best—including little Miki and half-crazy Kuni—had been loaded into the trailer, separated from one another by wooden boards and crates. After all, they couldn't risk a fight before the race had even begun, as a wounded dog would be automatically disqualified. And as Steve knew from years of experience, there was nothing these dogs loved more than fighting and running.

"Hit the brakes, Sam!" Natasha called from behind the trailer, and a second later she was at Steve's side, nodding in approval. "Everything seems to be working. Signals, brakes, even the truck's engine. I'm actually a little impressed."

"That's all well and good," Sam stepped out of the driver's seat and moved around to shotgun, leaving the engine idling lazily. "But we don't wanna use up all our luck this early in the game. I actually kinda wish something hadn't worked."

Natasha shot him a look that was half disappointment, half amusement, before turning back to face Steve. "Are the dogs ready?"

Steve nodded, wading through the snow to the truck's backdoor. Wrenching it open with a painfully shrill sound of ice grating on metal, he slid into the backseat and threw off his hood. Lowering his scarf, he lifted his gloved hands to his face and blew into the fabric in an attempt to thaw his frigid fingers. Behind him in the truck's bed he could see the fully loaded sled, which Sam had strapped down with a web of bungee ropes and thick twine. Considering the back roads and rough driveways they'd be traversing over the next few hours, it didn't even seem like overkill.

Natasha slid into the driver's seat while Sam looked through her CD collection, sorting them into two piles on his knees. Steve watched with a sense of growing awe as Natasha threw the truck into gear and pulled out of the lot, beginning the rough, bumpy journey to Anchorage. This is it, he thought, shaking his head and smiling slightly in disbelief, I'm finally on my way.