It started, the way most things do: by accident, in this case, getting jostled by a fugitive basset hound on his evening run that had to be tackled to the ground before it ran out into traffic. Though he was quickly returned to his grateful owners, for a dog that size, Flash had lived up to his name. And so it happened Steve Rogers, covered in sweat, dog hair, and dog spit, ended up in front of the Velvet Rose Lounge. It wasn't exactly a good look, but then, he wasn't planning on going in.

At least, until he heard it. This voice, this ethereal siren's call that wrapped around him like a London fog, drifted out the door like a sweet perfume singing a song he hadn't heard in… well, he'd been in a much smaller uniform then.

The haunting notes of 'Skylark' called to a spot in his heart that was especially tender, bringing thoughts and recollections to the surface he normally didn't allow in daylight hours. The aching sadness of the voice, so gentle and pure, accompanied by a piano, left him rooted to the spot, caught in the vice grip of memories so potent they made his eyes burn.

"Move it, buddy!"

It was only when he was almost taken out by a bicycle delivery rider that he was able to snap back into place and time. Shaking off the spell of the music and the voice, he continued his run and wound his way back to Avengers Tower. Home sweet highrise.

The feeling of melancholy memories followed him into his evening, keeping to himself instead of eating dinner with his chosen family, which he did most nights. Instead, he retired to his studio and had Jarvis cue up as much Hoagy Carmichael as he could stand as he let his pencils and charcoals etch out his mental ephemera.

"A bit maudlin, don't you think?"

If he was surprised to hear Natasha's voice in the doorway behind him, he didn't show it. She didn't make a habit of breaking in, but she was more than capable when she needed to be.

"Maybe." His shoulder rose but he didn't look back at her as he traced the fine lines of a woman behind an old school microphone stand. "Maybe I just felt a little… old today and wanted to reminisce. Something wrong with that?" His gaze flicked over his shoulder, catching the assassin's as she made her way over to the other stool in the room.

She looked comfortable, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt that looked like it might have been sized for Thor hanging off her shoulder, her long red hair tied up in a messy bun held up with potentially lethal chopsticks.. "Missed you at dinner."

The corner of his mouth curved into a slight smirk as he took in her painted toes curled around the rungs of the stool. "And you were the one nominated to come check on me?"

Natasha huffed a quiet laugh. "Actually Clint drew the short straw, but he's not really someone you want assessing anyone's emotional state."

Steve snickered and dipped his head with a nod. "Fair enough. Tell everyone I'm fine, just wanted to draw a little tonight. Nothing serious."

Her gaze was a tactile thing, a scan he could almost feel as she weighed the truth of his statement. "Okay. I'll leave you to it then. See you in the morning?" Every morning they met in the gym to work out and spar.

He flashed her a grin, a quick show of teeth as he watched her back out of the room. "Bright and early as always."

The moment he heard the door close behind her, he set his charcoal down and sighed. The woman, the nameless beauty whose musical notes burrowed under his skin even now, owned the stage he'd set for her, accompanied by a man at the piano and a faceless man smoking as he plucked the upright bass.

"Lady Sings the Blues" he wrote in the corner with his initials before turning the page. With that, he blew out a deep sigh and put his art supplies away for the evening and had Jarvis kill the music. It felt like a good spot to leave his memories where they belong, in the past.

It didn't matter the path his nightly run took, somehow, some way, he managed to end by wandering past the Velvet Rose in hopes… Just 'in hopes', of hearing that voice, of hitting that time portal he found that first day. He wasn't disappointed, either. From the outdoor patio area that met the sidewalk, he could hear her, soft and clear, so passionate. Bringing life to feelings and recollections that left him, for just a moment, feeling whole again. Normal.

He didn't miss dinner again, though, because worrying his overbearing teammates usually resulted in 'conversations' he'd just as soon forego. But late at night, when he couldn't sleep, he'd draw and think of her.

It took almost two weeks before he convinced himself to actually go into the bar. Around his demanding schedule leading the Avengers, he didn't have too much in the way of time for recreation that he didn't carve out himself. But somehow, in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, he found himself dressed in his regular clothes, pondering entry into what was clearly a hipster establishment.

The bouncer seated by the door simply nodded as he entered, and again Steve appreciated the anonymity the city afforded him. Especially in the dimly lit interior of the vintage-inspired speakeasy and club. The darkened stage was empty, unfortunately, and he was one of maybe two or three inside who weren't working there preparing for the evening.

As disappointed as he was that she wasn't onstage, he figured he could at least learn her name. Steve flagged down the bartender merely by picking up a coaster.

After ordering a beer, Steve decided to go for it. "There's a girl who works here…" he started, trailing off as he felt the slightly self-conscious flush begin to creep up his neck, but the bartender simply raised an eyebrow. "She's a singer?"

The man stepped away for a moment to grab his bottle, and Steve couldn't help but follow his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder to the stage, now lit with a single overhead spotlight on the piano. The lone figure he hadn't noticed before emerged from the wings of the stage, dressed not too differently from how he'd seen Natasha dress, in jeans with artful tears and a long-sleeved shirt that hung low on one shoulder, revealing the tank top underneath. Her curly hair was pulled back into a thick but unruly bun at the base of her head.

God, she was beautiful. His artist's eye took in everything about her, mocha skin that looked soft to the touch, she was shorter than he expected, curvier, but that was all he could really see across the room, but when she played. Man, when she sat down to play that piano he began as transfixed and immediately became transported. He found himself at a table near the stage with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Watching, absorbing the music as her voice filled the room like a warm fire on a cold night, bringing him comfort and the most peculiar feeling of being home.

When she sang, he felt like he was the only one in the room. 'I've Got You Under My Skin' could not have been a more accurate assessment of his current state. Her voice was like warm honey and velvet, so soft and sweet, a tactile sensation floating across his skin and leaving goosebumps behind. Watching her perform on the stage, just her and a piano, felt almost too personal, too intimate.

When she finished the song, he left without ever learning her name. His legs felt shaky on the walk home, like he'd been leveled by a kick from Thor. He felt strangely prickly, his skin oversensitive like static electricity just before an especially painful zap. One thing Steve could attest to with absolute certainty, though, was he would be back. Without question.

At night, after dinner, when everyone retired to whatever their evening plans were, Tony usually headed down to his workshop, Bruce back to his lab, Steve ducked out and headed down to the Velvet Rose.

The lounge after dark was a sight to behold. In the daytime it was just a nondescript bar with a retro feel, but at night it was an echo that resonated in his soul. Men in suits with slicked back hair, women in dresses with hats and gloves, everyone dressed to the nines. Couples eating, dancing, really, the only thing missing was the cigarette girls. Even the band on stage wore ties, their suit jackets hanging on the rack just off to the side as a nod to the hot Klieg lights. And there, center stage, she held court.

Wearing an azur satin dress that showcased her curves in razor sharp detail, he found himself mesmerized by her very presence. Not just her voice now, or her face even, but her. Her long curly hair hanging free and looking like it would be so soft to the touch, her full lips kissably red and sexy. God, everything about her looked touchable and he wanted to, so badly.

Some nights, when it wasn't too crowded, he'd sit at a table, off to the side. He'd bring his sketchbook with him and some pencils. It wasn't anything fancy, but the need to draw her, to allow the feelings that welled up in him to be free, had become imperative. And she drew those emotions from him with alarming ease.

Other nights, he just sat and nursed his beer as he took her in. He didn't do this as often though, because it felt off to him, a bit creepy he supposed, but he felt a need to be near her that he couldn't deny. And to be honest, he didn't feel like denying it, either.

Tonight though, after a long day of SHIELD briefings and seemingly endless training seminars, he'd put on his suit and set out with his charcoals and his sketchpad when his two worlds collided.

"Her name's Delilah."

The familiar voice startled him so badly Steve about jumped out of his skin. When he turned to look at Clint, the man was staring at the stage and easily as enraptured by the woman as he was. "I'm sorry?"

"The singer," he repeated. "The woman Phil says you're mooning over." He emphasized the last two words and rolled his eyes in Steve's direction. "Her name is Delilah. Delilah Ford from Schenectady."

He frowned at the archer, taking in the tie and his messy hair and his grin, and how effortlessly he fit into the overall scene. "You and Phil don't have to do a deep dive on her. I'm not 'mooning' over her." The lie tasted terrible on his tongue, but he was not going to have this conversation with him. So he hadn't learned her name yet, hadn't spoken to her at all. Just seeing her got him flustered in a way he'd prefer not to examine too closely.

His friend shrugged and swirled the cubes in his glass. "You disappear at night. Almost every night. Nat worries. Phil figured it was prudent to take a look." He paused to sip his whiskey, his sharp eyes never leaving Steve's face. "And I don't have to be a psychic to know you're crushing hard here. So why don't you tell me about it."

Steve put his sketchbook and pencils back in the satchel he'd brought with him. "So besides your best friend and your boyfriend, anyone else know? Bruce? Thor? Tony?" He didn't even attempt to hide his annoyance. "I didn't think my personal life needed team approval."

Clint shook his head. "Nah. Didn't see a need to mention it." He finished his drink and stood up. "I got curious as to where you go at night, so I followed. It's what I do. I'm not going to apologize for looking out for you. That said," he threw down a few bills and collected the suit jacket he'd likely borrowed from Phil, "you should talk to her."

He watched the archer disappear into the crowd and sighed, deeply. One of the things he appreciated about living with his ragtag ad hoc family was the way they looked out for each other. It was also one of the pitfalls. He sighed ruefully as the set ended. He should be getting along. Even though he didn't need a lot of sleep, he still needed some, especially if he was going to get up in the morning and go five rounds with Natasha. She never pulled punches.

He was almost to the bar when a hand on his arm stopped him. "Excuse me. Do I know you?"

He was tall, Delilah could tell that from the stage, but up close… Yeah, up close he was towered over her, and while the floor-length mermaid dress certainly called for heels, she was in flats. In his dark colored suit and coordinated tie with a full Windsor knot, he was literally blonde head and shoulders above the rest. Her 'mystery white boy' as she thought of him was pretty from a distance and damn near a work of art as she stood next to him. Shoulders for miles tapering down to a narrow waist, strong-looking arms, thick thighs and an ass… gracious. It was a wonder she didn't go up in flames on the spot.

It had been weeks, so many weeks since she saw him come in on for one of her afternoon practice sessions. Hell, he'd walked in and it had been hard to come out on stage. He was… perfect, honestly. An underwear model in a perfume ad at the front of Vanity Fair, perfect. Seeing him down there, sitting next to the stage watching her, only her, as she played and sang, she'd felt open, vulnerable, both of which she had no business feeling about a stranger.

Her dress, makeup, those were her armor, her shield against a world that tried to crush her daily, and he'd seen her without the protection of the mask. She'd seen him several more times at several more shows after that, but that first time was burned into her consciousness.

And maybe she'd imagined this moment once or twice, too. That was allowed, wasn't it?

His smile was shy, polite. He dipped his head, cheeks flushing. "No, I just have one of those faces."

She held out her hand. "Delilah Ford."

He straightened up immediately and folded his hand around hers, engulfing it completely. "Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you. You sing beautifully."

Now she was the one blushing. "Thank you, Steve."

He held a chair out for her from the table he'd just vacated, and honestly, she was grateful for the seat. She didn't use her cane when she performed, and damn did she hurt after a show. Normally she'd be backstage with ice packs and her meds, but when she saw him tonight, she just knew she had to meet him. It was only fair since he'd been coming to almost every performance-and even some of her practice sessions-for weeks now and hadn't said a word to her.

The bartender brought her over a club soda with lime and another beer for him, and she thanked him and toasted her new companion. "Cheers."

"Sláinte." They sipped and he smiled shyly. "It's… you don't hear this kind of music often anymore. Like ever." It was a tone of home that resonated so deeply within him; it bypassed his better sense.

Delilah nodded approvingly. "You don't and it's a shame. This is easily the highlight of my day. Get all dolled up, come out on stage, and do what I was born to do."

"You do it well." He let his bottom lip slip through his teeth in a flirty kind of grin that made her want to climb him like a tree.

"Thank you. So…" she took the lime wedge off the rim of her glass and squeezed it before taking a drink. "I, um... see you here quite a bit."

He ducked his head with a wide grin. "You noticed me, huh?"

Every woman in the building noticed when he came in, it was like a phone tree meeting a live wire. "You're kinda hard to miss." From her vantage point on the stage, she noticed a lot about him, not the least of which was that he barely drank, and the bartender said the strongest he ran was a bottle of beer. Just the one. Instead, he sat off to the side and… well. "So may I ask what it is you do?"

His blue eyes narrowed as he regarded her. "In terms of…?"

She shrugged and sipped. "In terms of here." She gestured to the area around them. "You come in every night, and I can tell you're enjoying the music but you're also doing... something. I'm curious. What is it?"

He grimaced as he slowly took his leather messenger bag off his shoulder. "I… that is, you're… very observant." Very deliberately he opened the case and pushed a closed notebook with a battered black cover across the table. "I draw."

"An artist? I love it!" Carefully she opened the book and found that not only could he draw, he was damn good at it. Pictures of faces with numerous expressions, languid figures in exquisite motion, and highly detailed scenes. She flipped through the images marveling at his skill. "These are beautiful."

"Thanks," he muttered against the lip of his beer bottle as he tipped it back, doing his best to ignore how exposed he felt.

The further back she got the more recent the pictures became. Pictures of the Velvet Rose sign, embellished in all its neon glory, pictures of her mic-chosen for its old school vibe, and then several sketches of her. Singing, smiling… with a flower in her hair like Billie Holliday. It was surprisingly flattering to be the subject of his artistic inclinations, personal in a way that made her cheeks, and the whole rest of her, flush with pleasure. "I-I don't know what to say."

Showing her had been a bad idea. Steve bit his lip as he collected his book and put it back in his bag. "Look, I-I'm sorry. I'm sure this is probably weird, and I don't want you to think I'm a stalker or anything. I just… your music… your voice… you..." Looking a bit helpless and forlorn, he sighed so deeply the flowers of the centerpiece on the table moved. "Sorry. I don't mean to be awkward. You're just so beautiful."

Delilah blinked at him, stunned into silence by his open admission. She was many things, but beautiful wasn't really one of them. Her skin has always been the wrong shade of brown, her hair too fluffy, her body too wide… In her whole life, she'd never been anyone's idea of beautiful. "I… Thank you?" What else could she say? He'd obviously meant it as a compliment, and the quality of his drawings showed he wasn't blind as a proverbial bat… maybe just… fancifully inclined? Either way, there was no way he meant-

"Aaaaaand, I just made it worse. Great." Steve rose, cheeks aggressively red as he blushed. "I'm sorry to bother you. Please forgive me." And then he turned and quickstepped through the crowd and out of the bar. At least he would have if not for the three large men in kevlar suits wearing helmets and carrying rifles muscling their way in, pushing back the patrons in their way.

"We are looking for Delilah Ford," the one in front announced loudly and the hushed crowd all turned and looked at her. Even though no one called her out specifically, they may as well have cleared a path and shone a spotlight.

Just when she was about to step forward, Steve inserted himself between her and them. "Why do you want her?"

"This doesn't concern you," the goon snarled, and even though she couldn't see through the face shield on the helmet, she could tell the moment their eyes met.

"It does if you don't have a warrant." Steve's voice was soft, like silk as he slowly took off his satchel and let it slowly slide down to the ground at his feet. The warning in his tone, however, was unmistakable. She didn't know what he planned to do against a bunch of guys with guns, but it appeared he wanted to defend her, crazy bastard.

One of the goons from the back row lunged like a barely leashed dog. "She needs to come with us."

Steve cocked his head to the side and considered the guy for a moment before looking back at her over his shoulder. Unsure as to what he expected from her, she just shrugged. And then, of all things, he winked at her. "Okay then."

What happened next was so fast, her eyes couldn't even track it. He had a chair in hand and smashed it into toothpicks on the first guy with one hand as he reached for the one in the back, and shoved him and his compadre into and through another table.

"Holy shit!" They were the only words her brain could process that her lips could form.

"You should be running," he replied tersely as the leader got up off the floor and shook off what would likely be a serious headache, some broken ribs, and a crapton of splinters.

Fuck. She looked behind her quickly and saw the emergency exit, it may as well have been a mile away. "I can't run," she muttered, but even as the words left her lips, she was inching her way back to the emergency exit. Her leg, the bad one, sent searing jolts of pain shooting up her back with every step as she tried to move faster to get away for the swarm of guys dressed in black pouring in through the door like army ants. And Steve, her champion, showed absolutely no signs of slowing down. He apparently was taking all comers. She refused to acknowledge the part of her that found that immeasurably hot.

When she got close enough, she saw one of the bouncers holding the door and motioning for her to follow him outside to the alley where she could disappear into the night. Her car was parked back there and as much as she wanted to wait for Steve, she knew that so long as she was there, everyone in the place was in danger. She was heading to the parking lot when hands reached out of the shadows and grabbed her from both sides.

Delilah fought immediately, as best she could, but she wasn't exactly dressed for brawling and she didn't have her cane with her.

"She's secure," one of the faceless goons said as he touched his ear and she could hear the melee in the bar settle down some. "Bring the other one if you can get him, but she's the one we want."

'The other one' was probably Steve, but considering she had no idea who these people were or what they wanted, she felt like pissing them off even more was not in her best interests.

"You should let me go. I'm not the person you want," she offered gamely as they began to shuffle/drag her down the alley to a waiting black van with the doors open. The engine was running and there were two or three more people inside that she could pick out of the darkness.

"Shut up or we'll gag you," was the only reply.

Figuring she didn't have to make this easy on them, she decided to let them drag her where they wanted as the deadest of weights, even though she hated ruining her dress. Scraped up legs or not, she was not getting in that vehicle. "I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding, but I'm not going with you. You know that, right?"

The goon on her right punched her then, closed fist smashed her in her face hard enough to whip her head to the side and make her ear ring. Her temperature spiked and she knew this whole scene was about to go pear-shaped with a body count. Fuck.

"I wish you hadn't done that." She spit on the ground by his shoes the taste of her blood light on her tongue but present nonetheless.

"Oh yeah?" he sneered, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her bicep as he yanked her up close. "Why's that?"

"Because then I would have let you live."

The pain that lived in her body, that was melded into every muscle and bone, flared, and everything she did to control it made her sweat. As her body temperature rose, her pulse throbbed in her ears and behind her eyes. She knew it was going to happen, the inevitable change. Her control was rapidly unspooling, the secret she'd worked so hard to keep hidden charging to the forefront, and all it took was one punch to the face to release it. White hot pain and rage fused, and suddenly everything around her washed white with a roar.

Oh, and there was screaming, so much screaming, and the smell of singed flesh and burnt hair. It was the kind of thing that had put her off ham forever. The two holding her were done, she knew that as she shook the bones of what was left of their hands from her arms as they turned to ash and flaked away. It was likely the ones in her immediate vicinity, out to about ten feet, were probably torched as well. It was beginning to look a great deal like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark around her, and there was nothing she could do about it.

In her other form, she slowly rose from the ground until she was floating about four feet above it. Every gun in the alley was now pointed at her, for all the good they would do. In this incarnation, she was bulletproof with consequences, and more than happy to demonstrate if they felt like trying her.

The emergency exit of the bar slammed open, drawing everyone's attention as a mussed and disheveled Steve stumbled out, followed by a redheaded woman in a black catsuit. His suit was a loss, the jacket gone and the sleeves ripped to about the elbow, the end of his tie sticking out of his pants pocket, but he had his satchel with him. Still, he looked surprisingly intact for a guy who'd just battled what was probably a whole platoon of paramilitary thugs. He was a tough guy, she'd give him that.

His eyes widened and his mouth hung open the moment he saw her. "What the-?"

"Started the party without us? Really, Cap? We've talked about this." Over the speakers, she heard the interrupting chastisements of Iron Man as he swooped down from the roof of the next building over and hovered above the scene at eye level with her.

Oh shit, 'Cap'? Iron Man? That meant Steve, her mystery white boy, was frickin' Captain America. "How is this my life?" she lamented softly as the guys with the guns seemed to settle on her as the larger threat.

"Federal agents! You're under arrest!" the goon in front shouted as he advanced on her, though his gun barrel wasn't exactly steady as he trained it on her and he didn't sound like he was too convinced. His convictions dipped further as she turned up the heat by pushing her aura out, causing the barrel to first turn red, then wilt right in front of him. The brick on the buildings on either side of the alley began to smoke a little and glow as she radiated, while the pavement underneath her grew sticky and melted.

"I hear they make medication for that," a voice from the top of the next building called with a smile. "Too bad about your penis extension." Delilah looked up just in time to watch the man shoot three arrows into the van they were planning to use to abduct her, taking out two tires and the driver.

"You're interfering with a federal investigation," the head goon shouted up to the archer as he threw down his now-useless rifle, but pulled his sidearm.

The man in question just smiled and drew back another arrow, this time aiming directly for him. "Imagine how little I give a fuck."

"Ooooookay." Iron Man eased forward with a hand up, both as a supplication and a weapon. "Everybody, Hawkeye, relax. Nobody else needs to die today. I'm sure we can figure this out."

"If you're the voice of reason, we're more fucked than I realized," the archer opined from his perch. He was a mouthy little bugger, but he wasn't wrong about them being screwed. So long as there were this many guns in play, it stood to be a very bad day for all involved.

The closer Iron Man got, the more concerned Delilah became, but she wasn't retreating an inch. Finally, she held up a hand. "Stop."

Everyone on the scene froze at the sound of her voice, even though she didn't yell. It was like her aura pulsed when she spoke, and the glowing bricks around her began to brighten in color and the dumpster behind her and off to the side began to smolder ominously.

"There's no need for this to go badly," Iron Man offered, hand still up and still advancing, albeit much more gingerly.

"Come any closer and you're a Hot Pocket," she warned, and that brought him to a halt.

"I beg your pardon." His arch tone said that if he had any pearls on, he would be clutching them.

"No offense." Above her, the man he'd called Hawkeye snorted. "It won't be on purpose, but the result will be the same. Please stay back."

To his credit, he took his hand back and pressed it to his chest in umbrage. "It's hard not to take that personally, not gonna lie."

"Apologies." She nodded to him then rose a bit further into air, drawing the beads of everyone with guns. "I'm not going with anyone," she calmly announced to assemblage, "and the very last thing you want to do is fire at me, unless you want to incinerate a city block." Bullets could impact her, and would hurt, but the only outcome would be even hotter energy output. The more they fired, the larger her burn radius would become.

"Delilah!" She heard Steve's voice behind her, calling her name as she turned to leave.

It was hard not to be a little sad. He had been a genuinely decent guy to her, but then, he was Captain America, so she expected no less. "Steve, I'm sorry you got dragged into this. I loved your drawings."