Insomnia
Authors note
Off and on throughout my life, I've dealt with bouts of insomnia, especially in my college years. Stress and weird schedules probably contributed but when it hits, it can last for weeks, and I tried everything from herbal teas to eating five bananas in a row for the potassium (don't do this by the way, it's not pretty) to meditation to listening to my "I can't sleep playlist" which I still do. One of my favorite books is The Insomniac's Handbook by Alain Stella (ISBN 9780789305886) not necessarily for the stories about insomnia or even the remedies, some of which do work, but because of the lovely black and white pictures throughout the book, all taken at night, depicting the world after dark when most people are asleep but that insomniacs get to see night after night. It's quiet, dark, still and usually peaceful, but frustrating. It's familiar to me. Then I discovered that after midnight with everyone else asleep is a great time to write! Entire novels and novel-length fanfics have made their way out of my head and into the world on nights the Sandman skips my house. Invariably he always returns, usually when the story of the hour has finally been finished, or whatever stress has been dealt with, but until then, I've spent many a late hour reading, writing, sipping tea and staring at the streetlights outside my window. Needless to say, this one was written in the hours after midnight. That's probably why it's so disjointed, but I hope you enjoy and sweet dreams to you!
The full moon rose high over Brooklyn, casting its pale light onto the darkened streets bellow, peppered with the occasional yellow glow of a streetlight. The wind tossed up the occasional swirl, blowing a discarded newspaper down an alley where a stray cat darted between buildings. It was late September, and the air was just warm enough to make a jacket unnecessary, but cool enough to leave a window open if you wanted to. It made the night bearable to the homeless man sleeping on the park bench, and the senior counter clerk at the corner newsstand with only a canvas protecting him and his wares from the elements, snoozing on his left hand as a small television beneath the counter droned away at an infomercial. The streetlights cast hazy circles of light in the darkness down on the pavement, and only the occasional car or pedestrian broke the silence of the neighborhood streets. It was true that New York City never slept, and Times Square was undoubtedly lit up and jumping with people at this hour, but the low income/middle class Brooklyn neighborhood was mostly silent except for the occasional bar that was still open on a corner. At this hour, most of the city was indeed asleep, and the darkened buildings further away from the city's hub testified to that, with only the occasional security light visible through a window.
Behind one darkened window, high up on the fifth floor of a building that had once been a large house, now subdivided into apartments, Sharon Carter sighed and allowed her eyes to open, even though she had vowed an hour ago that she would not open them unless trouble was coming through the door or window. She had to get some sleep tonight, damnit. This was getting ridiculous. Every night this week and last, insomnia had been kicking her ass like the flu, each night getting progressively worse. At first, it had simply taken about an hour or two of tossing and turning before she had finally dropped off to sleep. Then it became three hours. Then she started waking up several times during the night. The previous two nights, she had only gotten to sleep around 3am and woken up three or four hours later, thoroughly exhausted and unrested, relying more and more on coffee to be functional during the day. Now, here she was, wide awake, but with burning, tired eyes, and it didn't look like she'd be getting to sleep at all tonight.
Insomnia was no stranger to her, sadly. It had started just before her teens hit, not long after her father had died, and right about the time her mother had resumed missionary work in South America and had left her with relatives, namely her Aunt Peggy who had also suffered from bouts of sleeplessness, especially after her husband had died. More than once, Sharon had wandered down the stairs at 1am to find her great-aunt in her favorite chair, with the television tuned to whatever station was playing reruns of old television shows and movies. Thanks to Peggy, by the age of 14, Sharon had developed a love for Ozzie and Harriett, I Love Lucy and Fred Astaire movies. Peggy also never told her to go back to bed, that she had school in the morning. Often Sharon would fall asleep in the chair beside Peggy's, which had once been her great-uncle's, and woken the next morning, bleary but awake, just as rested as if she had been in her bed. Throughout her teens, she had developed coping strategies that seemed to help, including snagging an old black and white television from the basement for her bedroom and watching infomercials and old movies until she fell asleep. Naturally, some psychologist or health specialist had warned her that TV was likely making insomnia worse and she shouldn't have one in her room at all. But the insomnia never lasted too long, and once school was out, assignments turned in or missions completed, she always managed to get back into normal sleep patterns. During her stint at SHEILD Academy, she had taken up knitting as a means of decompressing and stress relief. Nearly everyone in her dorm had gotten done oddball creation of hers, from winter hats that had blue snowflakes and the words "It's fucking cold" woven into the brim, to scarves made from leftover yarn of every color, to amigurumi knitted creatures and figurines. A knitted Frankenstein had sat on her windowsill for months. But she had put knitting aside years ago, only recently taking it up again when the insomnia returned, which had been not long after she had been obliged to run from the CIA and the inquisition undoubtedly waiting for her back at the office after she had returned Steve Rogers' gear to him in Berlin, thus effectively helping him escape.
She was chalking this bout of insomnia up to the simple fact that she didn't have enough to keep her busy. If she wasn't busy planning and executing dangerous intelligence gathering missions, keeping an eye on a 100 year old super soldier living next door, or investigating bombings of the U.N., there wasn't enough to exhaust her physically and mentally throughout the day and she ended up wide awake all night. The last 2 years had been a maelstrom of upheaval in her life, as she had gone from capable, well respected intelligence officer in SHEILD to a rootless agent nobody trusted once SHEILD fell, being grudgingly accepted by the CIA despite her overwhelming qualifications, then giving all of that up to help Steve Rogers. All of her life, all she ever wanted to be was an intelligence officer like her Aunt Peggy. She had listened for hours as her aunt recounted what she had been allowed to of her career in espionage and SHEILD, vowing to join SHEILD herself as soon as she could. She had done so and excelled at the Academy, moving in to various departments throughout the organization, earning a name for herself as Agent 13. She had friends, a career, and a future. Then they had learned that Hydra had infected it pretty much from the beginning, and the battle at the Triskelion and other SHEILD facilities, followed by the downfall of the agency and death of Nick Fury, and then followed by the overall distrust of the public and the rest of the country, had left her reeling. Her entire world had fallen, people she had thought were friends were enemies, actual friends were dead or on the run, and her aunt was dying of dementia. Captain Rogers, whom she had been shadowing and protecting for nearly 2 years, was cold and angry at her when she had blown her cover to help him and Fury against the Winter Soldier, and she would not see him for two years after. She had been equally coldly and begrudgingly accepted at the CIA, where agents with half her experience and understanding of espionage had talked down to her about how to do the job and left her out of the loop, until Everett Ross had asked for her specifically for his team stationed in Berlin, where she excelled, away from the distrustful eyes of American-stationed CIA agents.
Then she had thrown it all away to help Rogers, only two days after her beloved aunt's funeral, and had been on the run from the CIA ever since, knowing she'd be bound for the Raft if the CIA ever got a hold of her. Granted, she hadn't been wrong to sneak Rogers and Wilson's gear out of the locker and give it back to them. Barnes had been innocent of the bombing of which he was accused, and the death of King T'Chaka. Zemo had been behind everything, and they had believed he had intended to unleash the other Winter Soldiers. Ross wasn't listening, Stark wouldn't listen, and time was ticking. She had absolutely no regrets for assisting Steve Rogers, who, although he himself was now a fugitive along with everyone he had freed from the Raft, had been thoroughly vindicated when T'Challa had brought Zemo in and described how Stark had more or less gone apeshit over the deaths of his parents and had opened up on Rogers, attempting to kill him and Barnes. She later heard Natasha Romanoff was also on the run for turning on Stark and helping Rogers, which meant there was another old friend of Sharon's a wanted fugitive and uncertain if she was captured or even still alive.
So now, she had no job, no friends, no confidantes, no direction, her talents and training were being wasted while she posed as a waitress at a corner café not far away, holed up in a studio rental in Brooklyn on the off-chance hope that Steve Rogers might wander back here to his childhood neighborhood, though really she had no idea where he was or even if he and the other Avengers who had stood with him were still alive, and even if they were, chances were none of them would care much for her joining up with them even if she knew how to contact any of them, and she had no future plans for herself. Now she couldn't sleep.
With a sigh, she sat up and turned on the nightstand light, illuminating the darkened room with a soft glow. She glanced around her dwelling. It could barely even be called an apartment, as it was more akin to a hotel room. When the building had been divided up into apartments, this particular space had been left over and not large enough for a full sized apartment, so it had been redone as a studio. When entering the space, one found himself in a narrow hallway with a bathroom on the left and a closet with a sliding mirrored door on the right. The bathroom had black and white checkered tile on the walls and floor, with an old claw foot bathtub that was actually great for soaking in lavender Epsom salt with scented candles nearby right before bed in hopes of staving off sleeplessness. The ancient toilet still used a chain pull to flush and the porcelain standing sink probably belonged in flea market with fixtures that had been in place since the Eisenhower administration. Coming into the main room, there was a small kitchenette on the right with a hot plate, microwave and small sink and dorm fridge, right next to a TV stand with a small flatscreen. In another corner was a rickety writing desk where her computer and electronics were charging, and the queen sized bed took up most of the room, aside from a small puffy easy chair in the last corner.
Sharon had done whatever she could to make the bed comfy. The pillows were new and a mix of the right blend of firm and soft, and a Tempurpedic memory foam mattress cover laid on the top, covered by 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. None of it mattered. Comfort didn't seem to be a factor in her restlessness. She swung up out of the bed and double checked the large picture window that overlooked the dim street below, and then the door that opened out into the hallway. Both were secure and the portable laser grid security system of Stark design that would Taser anyone who came in contact with the grid overlaying the door and window was firmly engaged. The window was also bulletproof now, thanks to an aerosol spray material, also of Stark design that, when sprayed and left to dry for 12 hours, rendered any normal window glass virtually bulletproof to anything less powerful than an elephant gun. Fear of ambush shouldn't be keeping her awake, although caution and wariness was just a normal part of her life now, constantly looking over her shoulder.
She wandered over to the kitchenette and took down a mug, filled it with water, then popped it in the microwave. While it heated, she took down a box labeled "Yellow & Blue" by Harney Teas. It was a blend of lavender and chamomile that never failed to knock her cousin Kathy out. Sometimes it worked. She let the tea steep and added some honey while munching on her last banana for the potassium. She had already tried warm milk with honey earlier with no effect. And counting sheep was cliché and had also never worked. She had taken to knitting them instead, which caused her eyes to tire and close. She currently had 9 knitted sheep perched on her headboard. Yoga breathing helped sometimes but only if she was already sleepy which she wasn't. She took the tea back to bed and sat against the headboard, grabbing the TV remote and flipping channels. Casablanca was on. She rolled her eyes. She was not a fan of this movie. Not that she had anything against Humphrey Bogart, she just hated the premise. She rather enjoyed The African Queen. But Sharon had a tendency to hate movies that other people enjoyed. Like Its a Wonderful Life. While everyone else around her at Christmas time watched that movie crying with happiness when Clarence got his wings and all the townsfolk showed up to help George, Sharon was pointing out that the bad guy still got away with theft, the idiot uncle was still employed by the struggling bank and would probably mess up bad again, the Baileys had created a housing bubble by loaning money to people for houses they couldn't afford to repay on, and George was still going to jail because a lot of money was still unaccounted for and the cops didn't care if all your buddies donated to make up for it. Casablanca Sharon didn't like because of the lack of happy ending. Call her soft if you must, but life was full of enough unfairness and sadness. If she was going to be entertained by passively watching a movie, she liked things to work out in the end, better than her own life was working out. In the end, Ingrid Bergman goes back to her husband as she should, leaving Bogart's character alone as before. Everyone did the right thing and ended up miserable. The dialogue was good, but to Sharon, the film lacked substance and gratification. In other words, it should put her right to sleep. She tossed the remote aside and downed her tea. Then she grabbed up the small circular knitting needles on her nightstand along with the bell of soft thin yarn she was working into a baby sized hat. She was making several to donate to the nearby hospital for NICU babies.
She stared at the TV as Bogart and Bergman rolled through their doomed love affair and she found herself disliking the movie even more. Maybe it was the fact that she herself had done the right thing and had to walk away from a good man herself because it was "the right thing to do." She shook her head, irritated with herself. She had certainly never been the kind of woman who pined for a man, and certainly never had been one to throw away everything she had ever worked for in her life for one. In fact, when she was younger, and to a certain extent now, she had a little bit of impatience or even contempt for women like that. She had been raised from a very young age by both her parents and her great aunt to be strong and capable and to work for what she wanted, never letting anyone stand in her way or tell her no because she was a girl or for any other reason. Most of the last decade for her had been full of speed bumps, which had included becoming a capable intelligence officer for SHIELD, and then, after SHIELD had fallen so suddenly and thoroughly, working her way through the suspicion and distrust of the CIA. It had not been as much fun working for the CIA as it had been for SHIELD, but working on counterterrorism had given her a new sense of purpose, especially after seeing so many news reports of what terrorist groups were doing two families and civilians minding their own business. It made her feel somehow content with her life after everything that happened, to know that she had thwarted or been involved in stopping any number of attacks across the world. Compare to the work she had done for SHIELD, it had been a bit mind numbing, but fulfilling.
Now she didn't even have that.
There was apparently a warrant out for her arrest, which had made her a little nervous about staying in one place for too long, or poking her head out the door to often, but she also knew that hiding in a hole for the rest of her life was not an option. She had no intention of staying here in the long term, and certainly not working as a waitress, this was only a stopping point until she could figure out what she wanted to do with herself that wasn't going to land her on the Raft. She had actually been mulling around some ideas about how to utilize her intelligence skills as a freelancer. She wouldn't be the first SHIELD agent to do this. Making use of a private server and chat room, she had contacted her old roommate Barbara Morse, whom everyone had called Bobbi, and had been surprised to hear that she was once again back with her ex-husband Lance Hunter, but that they had been disavowed by the reformed SHIELD following a failed mission as a means to save their lives, as they were slated for execution in Russian prison. The result of this was that neither one of them could ever be seen working for SHIELD again, but neither Bobbi nor Hunter, like Sharon, were prone to just sitting back and not having a hand in the global intelligence game they had all been taught play. They had set up a home somewhere that Bobbi had not indicated the location of, and were working from there as freelancers looking for Hydra stragglers or any new miscreants that might crop up here and there. Phil Coulson had generously set them up with some funds that had been funneled through several front companies that allowed them the ability to travel and get equipment with relative ease. Sharon had thought somewhat about asking to join up with them, although she would feel a bit like a third wheel.
Decades ago, Howard Stark had put several of his invention patents in her aunt Peggy's name; nothing major, just simply things like a new process for refining tungsten or, usually some sort of industrial thing that Stark owned the patent for and had to be licensed any time it was used, but was so efficient that everyone used it. He had put five patents in Peggy's name with the result that the Carters were quite comfortable most of their lives. They weren't billionaires the way the Starks were, for Howard had kept all the good stuff for himself and his family, and rightfully so, but it also meant that the Carters had never really wanted for anything. They had a nice estate in Virginia, and although they didn't have many fancy things, they could have had them if they wanted them. Nobody with the last name Carter who was connected to Peggy had ever had to pay for university, for example. After Peggy's own children had grown, she had put a few of the patents in their names, and one for Sharon and her mother after Sharon's father had died, keeping one for herself to provide for her needs in her old age. When she had died, Sharon had found out that she had left that particular patent Sharon, and it generated a generous amount of money every year, so that she would never actually need to work if she wanted, and would likely provide for living arrangements and several nice extras. So it was nice knowing that was an option.
The problem was, for the first time in her life, she didn't really know where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do. She figured that the best option would be to set up shop with Bobbi and Hunter, or nearby, and continue to work in counter terrorism, but on her own. She had not allowed herself the idea of hooking up with Steve Rogers and the Avengers who had followed him, who the news media were already calling the "Shadow Avengers." Speculation ran high on the 24 hour news networks when little else was going on in the world about where the group might have gone. She had jokingly told Steve once that everyone thought the Winter Soldier went to their gym, and now, it seemed that everyone thought Scarlet Witch went to their Starbucks or was staying at their hotel with some unidentified guy. She couldn't help but wonder, though, where they had gone. She wasn't aware if Steve Rogers had any financial resources such as she had, or any of the others for that matter. They were also the most recognizable people in the world at the moment. Where could they go where a camera on a street or over an ATM would not see them?
It had been her job to study and understand Steve Rogers when she had been looking after him for SHIELD. She had read every scrap of material that had ever had his name written on it, and drawn from a wealth of information she had gotten from her aunt's stories, to say nothing of her own observations of the man following him around and heading off crazy fan girls he never knew were following him. Knowing him the way she thought she know him, she highly doubted that they were in any kind of urbanized area. Even if Steve was not completely up to speed about modern technology and extent to where eyes were watching, she knew Sam likely would be. Or Clint Barton for that matter. If she had to take a bet, she expected that they were holed up in a cabin in the woods somewhere. On the other hand, that wasn't what she herself was doing. In fact she was basically hiding in plain sight. She went out every day with a new wig on, and made use of a special sort of topical facial cream made from bee venom that caused her cheeks and chin to swell slightly. It would be enough to fool the regular cheap cameras usually employed by cities and banks that could be tapped to try and find her, but they would not fool stronger facial recognition programs like the ones utilized by the CIA or the FBI. She had come to Brooklyn hoping to hear word of Steve Rogers and because she really had nowhere else to go. But she knew that, for the reason of possibly being recognized, she was going to have to leave in the next week or two, for she had already been here a couple of months, which was longer than she intended.
Her eyes were incredibly tired from focusing on the TV and then back down to the little hat she was making. But they did not want to close. With a sigh, she dropped the knitting and rubbed her eyes, noting how sore her fingers were feeling, and then finished off the hat and tossed it aside on her nightstand. Not even knitting and Humphrey Bogart movies were making her sleepy enough to actually fall asleep, although it seemed her entire body and certainly her eyes were starting to get on board. She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes, and was surprised to feel the sharp sting of tears forming under her eyelids. What on earth was she crying for?
Because she was lonely, she realized.
Even though the life of a spy was somewhat solitary existence, she never felt unneeded or unwanted. Through her years at SHIELD, then the CIA, even though there might have been suspicions directed towards her, she still had people to talk to, a mission to fulfill, and a purpose for living, which had included the year she had spent training to become what she was. She had never, in her life, been without a goal or direction or colleagues to share it with. And if those times might have to come in between assignments, there was always Peggy. And even though she was an adjunct member of Peggy's family, her cousins always had room for her at their table. Now she couldn't even call her mother without risking being found and thrown into some remote prison never to be heard from again. It was for this reason that she had told her cousins and the rest of the family that she was going underground and to not expect to hear from her for a while. And then Peggy was gone. She had not really even had time to mourn her aunt. On top of all that, she had to admit that she had basically upended her life for Steve Rogers, without any real assurance that he would have done the same for her or felt towards her the way she felt towards him, as much as she tried to deny that as well. It was enough to upset anyone, maybe even Natasha Romanoff, although she strongly doubted that.
Angrily rubbing the tears away, she grabbed the remote for the TV and flipped channels until she saw that one station was in the middle of an I Love Lucy episode. She settled in, prepare to watch the episode she had seen at least five times in her life already, when there came a soft knock at the door. At first she wasn't even sure she had heard anything. But then after a minute or two, the soft knock came again. Most people would turn off the TV at this point but she left where it was to not indicate to whoever was outside that she had heard anything, carefully and silently swung her feet to the floor, and snagged the gun that she kept under the side pillow next to her head. She grabbed her phone and quickly tapped the application that brought up video feed to the cameras she had hidden in the hallway and all around the building. She fully expected to see CIA agents taking a position around the building and at strategic locations to surround her, for she was rather surprised they have not found her yet.
That was why she received the surprise of her life to see the lone figure standing just outside her door, hunched over with a stocking cap pulled down over his ears and attempting to hide his stature by slouching, but she had not spent nearly 2 years following that form through crowds to the point where she could pick him out in a room of at least 100 people easily to be fooled by that. She knew that frame, even hidden under the heavy jacket he was wearing, knew the sound of his voice when he spoke, and knew the cadence of his footsteps coming down the hall, which she had apparently not heard approaching. She must really be tired to have missed footsteps in the hall. Even so, she was still suspicious, for she had heard that Natasha Romanoff had impersonated a member of the Security Council using an experimental digital mask, and she had known of SHIELD experiments in cybernetic masks that could be worn over a person's head that would give them the appearance of someone else so completely that even close family had not known the difference. She had no idea if that's what she would encounter when she open the door, for she was certainly going to open it, but she had to verify who it really was on the other side of the door.
Slowly, with her fingers still tightening around the grip of her pistol, she opened the door and faced Steve Rogers. His eyes focused on her for a brief moment, and then he smiled when he recognized her.
Hey Sharon, he said, rubbing his stubbly chin with a smile.
She didn't answer, but instead, brushed her hair back from her ear on her left side. At his grin and nod, grabbed the front of his coat and yanked him through her doorway, closing it behind him before anyone noticed him standing in the hallway. He seemed surprised, but said nothing when she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He hugged her back. She didn't let him go right away, instead using the moment to surreptitiously feel for any type of disguises like the electronic mask, or anything else that might indicate that he was not who she thought he was. But she felt nothing except him, and his rubbing of his chin had been the secret symbol they had agreed upon at her aunt's funeral when they had gone out for coffee after, as her brushing her hair back had been her symbol. She had been well aware of the advances in disguise technology at that point, and had clued him in on the need for a secret sign in person and a code phrase on the phone. Plus, his scent was familiar, from all the time she had snuck into his apartment to check on the bugs that Fury had insisted that she plant, although she would never admit to going through his underwear drawers. It was really him. She could barely believe it. They broke apart slowly and stared at each other.
She finally broke the silence. "OK, I admit, I'm curious. Just how the hell did you find me?"
He shrugged. "Let's just say I had a lot of help. From people who have technology more advanced than Tony Stark. I wouldn't have believed it either unless I had seen it myself, which I have. They knew how to find you, at least when I asked."
She raised an eyebrow. People with technology more advanced than Stark? "Am I going to get to meet these people anytime soon?"
"I suppose if you'd like to," he said.
She suddenly became aware of the fact that it was nearly 1 o'clock in the morning, and they were still standing in her entrance way, with him wearing his jacket in off the street. She made an attempt at remembering her manners by taking his coat and hanging it on the hook on the door, then directing him to the easy chair on the side of the bed. He sank into it gratefully, looking a little tired for the first time since she had ever known him.
She sat on the bed on the side nearest to the easy chair. "How long is it been since you got any sleep?"
"About two days," he admitted. "I'm sure I'll get to tell you the full story of why that is, but not right now." Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes for a moment, then he opened them in time to see her stuffing the pistol between the box spring and mattress. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She was a spy after all. She probably had gone to check her mailbox holding her pistol. They sat silently for a few minutes, just letting the noise from the television fill the room.
"So," he started hesitantly, "why Brooklyn?"
She shrugged. "It's as good a place as any. And I thought…maybe…you might turn up here. It's your home after all…"
His eyes widened a little. "You came here looking for me?"
"Waiting more like," she said.
"And if I didn't turn up?" he asked.
"Leave some sort of clue for you, then head out into the wild blue yonder," she said. "The Cayman Islands are nice this time of year. Sunny beaches. Mai tais. Cute cabana boys. After that, maybe see about putting my skill set to good use making life miserable for international miscreants, on the freelance, of course. Kind of like what I assume you're doing right now?"
He had stopped paying attention at her mention of sunny beaches, having immediately pictured her in a bikini in a hammock under a palm tree, and was in the process of mentally shaking himself out of it in time to answer her question.
"What..? Uh, yeah," he said, wincing at his sudden inability to form words. "Yeah we are. Like you say, your legal status doesn't dissuade criminals from going on about their business. None of us were ever the type to sit around and watch it all unfold on TV and hope someone else handles it."
Sharon smiled as his recovery, but only nodded. "They're calling you the Shadow Avengers."
"Outlaws is more like it," Steve grumbled.
She looked at him with sympathy. "I wish I could make it easier for you, and at the risk of stating the obvious, this is probably something Natasha could have told you, but, we're just tools to the governments we serve. Something to be used to achieve a purpose, and when we're no longer needed, something to be disavowed and tossed aside, or worse, gotten rid of. She..Peggy…she, well, that's what she said to me before I went into SHEILD. She gave me the down and ugly truth of working in intelligence. She was right. But you have to love it to want to do it at all. She also always said to have a contingency plan your employers never know about."
Steve had looked up at Peggy's name, but sadly nodded and looked away. Peggy had always been a realist. It made sense that she would have ensured her niece had done the same, gone into the same line of work with her eyes wide open.
"And your contingency plan was…?" he asked.
"Which one?" she quipped.
He smirked at her but said nothing, knowing she probably wouldn't share anyway.
"So," she said slowly, "I assume you're here looking for me for a reason?"
"Merely wondering if your contingency plan might somehow intersect with my own," he said evenly.
Her eyebrows raised into her hairline. "That's an interesting way of putting it. You wanted to…what exactly? Ask me to join the Shadow Avengers?"
He frowned. "I'm not sure I like that name. It makes us sound less than noble. We aren't criminals per se. We're just a group of people who have the ability to right wrongs who don't want to have to sign permission slips and rely on corrupt government officials giving us the go-ahead before heading out to rescue people who need rescuing."
"Some might call that vigilantism. Although for the record, I agree with you," she said.
"You do?" he asked.
"You sound surprised," she said. "For the record, I agreed with your refusal to sign the Accords. You and Rhodes and Wilson are still registered as active duty military personnel. US servicemen are not allowed to swear fealty to a foreign governing body of any kind, which is essentially what the Accords wanted you all to do, agree to the authority of non-American authorities not elected by the people of the USA, even if it's the UN. To do so, you'd have all had to give up your military commissions, which I don't think Rhodes ever did. He may have committed treason by signing the Accords."
He looked shocked. "I, uh…never thought of that. And I wouldn't call Rhodey a traitor to the country."
"Oh no, he isn't," she said quickly. "In his heart, he's still a Colonel in the US Air Force. He's loyal to America. I just don't know if what he did was legal. On the other hand, I do agree that the Avengers need some oversight. This was not a problem when SHEILD was overseeing you guys, even though SHEILD was infected with Hydra the whole time, something I prefer not to dwell on. I'd personally like to think that nothing I did or missions I went on benefitted Hydra in any way, though they probably did. But I doubt the UN is the governing body that needs to oversee the Avengers. Not after they ordered a nuke strike on the island of Manhattan. The easiest thing to do would be to naturalize ever non-American member of the team and turn you guys over to the Pentagon. But it might be a little late for that."
Steve closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was the middle of the night and she should be sound asleep. Instead, she was causing his mind to blow a fuse with problems he hadn't even considered. This was usually the kind of stuff Natasha threw at him, only he had no idea where she was since she had left Stark's compound.
"Sorry," she said sympathetically. "I guess that's a lot to consider at one in the morning. And if I haven't changed your mind, my answer is yes. I'd like to join up with you" (In more ways than you can imagine) whispered the nagging voice in her head, which she shook and stamped down. As enjoyable as THAT thought was, she had probably already scared him enough for one night.
But then he looked up and smiled at her, which caused her to momentarily forget to breathe for about five seconds. Damn, the man was hot. "I'm glad to hear that," he said. "Normally women frown on men showing up at their door this late at night with oddball requests. Or they did in my day."
"Depends on the man," she said, stifling a yawn. He noticed.
"You should, uh, maybe get some sleep," he said. "I didn't mean to drop in in the middle of the night, but it was the only time I could be sure no one would be watching for me too closely."
She smiled. "I've been keeping a close eye out. And what about you? You planning on getting any sleep?"
He stretched his legs out in the chair. "This is good right here. If you don't have any objection, we can see about getting you out of here before the sun comes all the way up in a few hours. If there's anything you want to bring..."
"Nothing that won't fit in backpack. Spy lessons learned early. Always be able to run at any moment and don't be too attached to your furniture." She stretched out on her back and looked over at him. "You know that chair isn't comfortable. Go stretch out on the other side of the bed."
He went instantly red. "Oh…I…uh…well. Really, I don't mind…"
She bit back a laugh. "You're adorable. Really. I don't worry about my virtue or anything. You're probably the one guy I'd trust to keep his hands to himself. Though Nat always said it was the quiet ones you have to watch out for."
To her relief, he laughed. "Not sure whether to be flattered or insulted."
"You can be both. Go on, go lie down." She made a show of pulling the covers up and closing her eyes.
Steve hesitated. And for a minute she expected him to flat out refuse. Then he got up, walked around to the other side of the bed, lay down and stretched out over the covers. She thought she'd be up all night, hyper aware of him less than half a foot away from her. But to her surprise, she found herself becoming instantly drowsy, the insomnia finally fading, knowing he was nearby. Her breathing evened out and slowed, her eyes closed and she felt herself drifting off. At some point, before she fell completely asleep, she became aware of his arm draping over her gently as he snored lightly into her ear. She sighed with a smile. He probably didn't even know he was cuddling with her in his sleep. She wiggled back against him, inhaling his scent as she finally succumbed to sleep. Steve smiled slightly, not quite asleep, feeling her back against his chest. He could certainly get used to this. Maybe, once he got her to Wakanda, he would have more of a chance. He buried his nose in her hair and drifted off, as the night continued on, until the soft sounds of birds singing signaled that dawn was coming.
Insomnia Playlist
Apurimac by Cusco
Clocks by Coldplay
Drive by The Cars
The Highwayman by The Highwaymen
Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty
Don't you know what the night can do by Steve Winwood
Nightshift by The Commodores
Across the Universe by The Beatles
Self-Control by Laura Brannigan
Alone by Heart
Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues
Fly me to the moon by Frank Sinatra
In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins
Moon River by Frank Sinatra
Midnight in the Desert by Crystal Gayle
Some velvet morning by Nancy Sinatra
Broken Wings by Mr. Mister
Tossin and turning by Bobby Lewis
Another Sleepless Night by Anne Murray
Dream Weaver by Gary Wright
Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes
Sweet Dreams by Eurythmics
Dream a little dream by The Mamas and the Papas
All I have to do is Dream by The Everly Brothers
I drove all night by Cyndi Lauper
Sunglasses at night by Corey Hart
The sound of silence by Simon and Garfunkel
Hard days' night by The Beatles
Porcelain by Moby
Everloving by Moby
Inside by Moby
All night long by Lionel Richie
Claire de Lune by Debussy
Your wildest dreams by The Moody Blues
Even the Nights are better by Air Supply
Closing Time by Semisonic
In the wee small hours of morning by Frank Sinatra
Here comes the sun by The Beatles