The car ride to my apartment was quieter than I'd expected, as if as soon as I'd started rummaging through the duffel bag, Rogers had considered trying to have a conversation a lost cause. He wasn't wrong, but I wasn't trying to be rude and I think he knew it. I was checking out the goodies that Fury had given me, the kinds of guns, how many phones, how many flash drives, and checking the pockets for anything else he might have stashed out of sight. And just as I'd thought, he'd hidden several fake IDs and credit cards, ones for me and Rogers both. How thoughtful. As if no one would recognize Rogers on sight. Out of the corner of their eye. In a blizzard.

I gave Rogers the occasional direction, my head down most of the time, going purely on memory since I did drive back and forth damn near every day. I still wasn't all that happy that I hadn't gotten to drive, and I was starting to feel childish about it, but to be fair to me and my pettiness, I'd basically had my control stripped away from me with a single broken promise and I was grabbing at any ounce of control I could have.

Logically, I knew Rogers was right. Unlike literally all of my other charges, he had years of intense defensive driving under his belt, was more than capable of keeping his calm while being shot at, and could more than likely knock some heads in while he zipped around people. As his bodyguard, though, and as the person with a very special skillset, he needed me to be at the top of my game to keep him safe, which was easier to do if I wasn't also trying to do fancy moves with a steering wheel. Most people usually had more than one bodyguard, too, one of whom would drive, but we just had to be different.

I tugged at the belt of my work uniform of the day, which I'd idiotically forgotten to take off in the locker room. Okay, maybe not idiotically since I'd been on a time crunch and I was under more mental stress than I had been in a while, but metal buckles in your lower intestine did not make for fun travel when you were hunched over in your seat. Why did this have to happen on the day we ran training drills? At least the rest of the outfit wasn't too uncomfortable. A simple black shirt loose enough to hide an inner-pants holster and black cargo pants tucked into black combat boots.

I felt the car stop and looked up. We were sitting at a red light in Lake George, the small town I called home. It was home to about four thousand other people, too, was pretty close to the base, and rent didn't cost me my firstborn child like a bigger city would. That meant I got to spend my hard-earned wages on fun things like books rather than on a fuckton of gas. Plus, I got to sleep in a little.

The place was historic, with Fort Ticonderoga of Revolutionary War fame sitting right on the lake, and not too far away was Saratoga Springs, an even smaller town where a Revolutionary War battle had taken place. Tucked away in the mountains and surrounded by beautiful trees, the place was an incredible spot to live. It was also a fucking tourist trap, but hey, every town has its faults. And I had the feeling that if we'd had the luxury, Captain Rogers would be right there among the tourists, eating up every drop of information he could get. And hey, at least it wasn't a big city. I'd never really been a big fan of them, and I'd hated that S.H.I.E.L.D. had operated out of D.C. That was one plus side to the Hydra infestation, I guessed: I could finally be in my element and not surrounded by smog and a never-ending parade of morons. Yes, the parade of morons had definitely lessened in length since I'd moved. Oh, happy day.

Rogers looked at me, wordlessly asking where to go next, and I directed him to a brick apartment building. I motioned for Rogers to stay where he was as I opened my door, so I could actually start doing my job properly and look around for anyone suspicious before he got out. I didn't think anyone followed us, but these are the things you have to do, whether you think you've been followed or not. He did as he was told, and only opened his door when I gave him a thumbs up. Keeping my head up so I could see out the windows, I grabbed my duffel bag of guns and my personal bag, backed out, and closed the door so Rogers could lock the car.

Well, I thought he was going to lock the car. Instead he grabbed his own bags from the back seat, just like I had, then hit the button on the fob until the car beeped. Huh. Seems like he was paranoid, as well. Okay, well, maybe he wasn't paranoid since he didn't know this area. Or maybe he was. Maybe I was thinking too much and should start moving.

I led him toward the front door of the building, digging into my front pocket for the apartment keys. I found them and opened the door for him, seeing as he hadn't yet flung one of the massive bags over his shoulder like it was an unconscious human and therefore had his hands full. He thanked me as he walked through, his shoulders almost seeming like they met the doorframes even though he turned to the side a little to make room for the bags. Jesus, his shoulders could probably touch the frames of a barn door! Why the hell was I protecting him when he could rip me in half?! I demanded to speak to management! Again. Even though I would be ignored. Again.

I walked through the doorway, finding him standing in the middle of our small foyer, taking up half of the space and looking up at the ceiling as if he could see through it.

"What floor do you live on?" he asked.

"Fifth floor," I said, turning toward the stairwell. "And pray no one comes out of their apartment. These stairwells were barely made for two skinny people to walk side by side. I don't think people are going to be able to squeeze around you and those duffel bags."

He turned to look at me, eyebrows high as he flicked his eyes between the bags in my hand and my face. "And they can make it past you?"

"I am skinny people," I replied. "Skinny people with skinny bags of guns. C'mon."

I turned away from a blossoming half-smile and regretted it almost immediately. He had such a lovely smile that it seemed almost like a crime to miss out on it, but we were burning daylight on finding his friend.

I led the way up the stairs to my apartment, which was settled in the back-right corner of the building on the right side of the hall. The view from my limited number of windows consisted of an alleyway, a fire escape I could wall scale to, and the tops of tourist shops. I'd handpicked this apartment for the sole reason that it was extremely difficult to shoot at me without renting some sort of hovercraft. Let's hear it for paranoia. Once we reached my apartment, I unlocked the door and went inside to make sure no one had tripped any of my anti-burglar systems, leaving Rogers to fend for himself in the hallway for a second.

"It's clear. You can come in," I called.

Rogers walked into the room and closed the door like everything he touched, including the floor, was made of glass. He was treating it with a reverence, clearly taking it to heart when I'd told him that this was my safe space and that I pretty much hated bringing him here. It won him major points in my book.

As safe spaces went, it wasn't much. It was a small, one-bedroom apartment with grotesque white walls that I'd been dying to paint ever since I'd moved in. I'd done the best I could with decorating, but I wasn't exactly Martha Stewart. A black couch with dark red pillows sat in the middle of my meager living room across from a small flat screen television. The television and DVD player were propped up on short dark wood entertainment center, an acoustic guitar carefully nestled in the corner made by the wood and the wall. A matching dark wood coffee table sat in between the television and the couch and was loaded down with entertainment magazines that I hadn't gotten around to throwing away. A kitchenette was off to the right of the door and had the essentials: a coffee maker, a sink, a fridge, a stove, minimal counter space, and a few cabinets and drawers. A semi-fancy dark wood shelving unit, complete with three drawers at the bottom, was pressed against the wall next to the kitchenette. It was covered in assorted knick-knacks that I'd collected over the years. The drawers were filled with books and DVDs. I'd purchased some framed paintings to give the walls the pop of color that they would never have otherwise had. They were mostly abstract, with bright colors that contrasted and complimented the décor beautifully. Okay, so maybe I was Martha Stewart, but something told me she wouldn't have chosen all abstract paintings. Oh well.

My room was the only part of the apartment that wasn't fancy in the least. That was okay, though, because it was the safest part of my safe haven and wasn't meant for guests like the rest of my apartment was. It was covered from floor to ceiling in pop culture and rock memorabilia, with books taking over my nightstand to the point that only a small corner was visible, and that was just so I didn't knock them over when I turned the lamp on and off. I was glad I had sprung for decent furniture, otherwise the nightstand would have broken in half by now. I didn't have room for a bookshelf, so books were stacked in tall piles in the corner by the bed. Shelves held up assorted geeky knickknacks and framed posters and autographs hung in an artful way on the walls. My queen-sized bed followed the same theme as the couch, only my comforter was dark red, and my sheets and pillows were black. A small closet was nestled into the right wall. The closet was my ultimate destination today, no matter how much I wanted it to be my bed.

"Have a seat" I said as I dropped my goodie bag just behind the couch. I slipped past Rogers to lock the door and turned back around to find that he hadn't moved. Instead, his eyes were taking in my home, and it made me feel naked, and not in the good way.

"Or not," I muttered to myself.

I moved past him to get to my bedroom, begrudgingly leaving the door open so I could keep an eye on him. I didn't want him looking into my sanctuary, but I also needed to see what he was doing. It wasn't like anyone could see him since my windows were covered with black-out curtains that kept the sun out and kept people from seeing into my apartment, but you never could tell how crafty assassins would get. They might rent out a firetruck and use the ladder to stage an assault just to spite the good guys, seeing as hovercrafts were too conspicuous. Maybe there was such a thing as too paranoid, but if there was, I didn't much care to know about it. Regardless of how paranoid I wasn't, we were in complete privacy. The moment I realized that, I started to feel awkward. I felt even more awkward having my bedroom door open and having my stuff on display.

I made quick work of grabbing clothes, both civilian comfort and undercover chic, as well as grabbing a custom-made holster I used for fancy dresses and skirts. I'd managed to stuff an elegant dress in my bag, just in case we got to have some Mr. Bond-type fun, but I doubted we would get to play craps in an upscale casino on this mission. For shame. There were some delightfully fun knives in my gym bag, so I tossed those and a couple of holsters in my duffel, too, tossing the open gym bag next to my laundry basket so it could breathe until I got back. Moving quickly, I slipped into my sparsely, yet pleasantly decorated black and white bathroom to grab my makeup bag and my go-bag of bathroom essentials, stopping for a moment to give myself a once over in the mirror. My straight black hair looked better than I thought it would, what with all my running around and whipping my head this way and that. My eyes, though, candy-apple green with gold around the iris and rimmed with thick, black lashes, looked a little too harried for my comfort. My lips were full, but in that Megan-Fox-pre-lip-injection way rather than the Angelina Jolie way, and looked downright pouty right now. Jesus, my subconscious had to get it together. I didn't have the luxury of pouting, not on my schedule. I zipped out of the bathroom and tossed my bathroom stuff on my pile of going-away crap.

Just as I zipped up my newly packed giant duffel bag, the only kind of travel bag any agent uses, I heard Rogers' voice rumble in from the other room. "These are interesting."

I hauled the monstrosity up and awkwardly waddle-walked into my living room to find Rogers standing in front of my shelving unit, staring at several clay figurines. His large, pale hand hovered just over the blue, opalescent tail of a mermaid, his fingers so curious to see of the texture was as smooth as it looked. Her skin was painted a mocha color, so lifelike that you'd think it'd be warm to the touch. Real hair, dark and curly with golden highlights, modestly hid small breasts. A seaweed crown woven with pearls and shells sat atop the mermaid's head, and impossibly green eyes stared out of a round, beautiful face.

Beside her was a handmade phoenix. The clay was a mix of different shades of orange, red, and yellow, and wasn't at all painted. It was meant to be more cutesy than realistic. The black beak screeched a cry to the ceiling, multihued wings spread open as if the bird were about to take flight. while five long, thin clay tail feathers curled around its feet. There were a couple more figures like those two scattered around the shelving unit, but those were the two that Rogers seemed to be focusing on. Probably because they were right next to each other. Lucky for me, it seemed that he'd bypassed looking in to my room. But of course, he would do that. Moral compass and all. It was just my luck that he'd picked the worst possible items in the room to focus on.

I set the bag down next to the pile behind the couch and stood next to the first Avenger. My arms crossed over my stomach as I, too, studied the figurines. Well, I pretended. I was much more focused on getting my throat to open back up and keep my body language from betraying me.

When I didn't say anything, Rogers added, "They're beautiful. Where'd you get them?"

"My sister made them for me," I stated, my eyes staying on the figurines. Oh good. My voice managed to not shake. "She was an art major, and those were some of her birthday gifts to me."

"She's talented," Rogers said.

I could feel the weight of his gaze on the side of my face. I looked up and found him giving me a genuine smile. Man, he really was a nice guy. It was almost unnerving. It said something about the people I hung out with that I found his kindness to be unnerving. Anyway, he was being nice, so I figured I could return the favor. I was a nice person. Sometimes.

"Thank you," I said with a smile, some of it real. "She'd flip her shit if she heard that coming from you."

His smile faltered and went from sincere to polite. Something told me he wasn't exactly happy about his celebrity status. Call it a hunch. Or he could see right through me.

"Is she a um…a fan?" he asked, seemingly struggling for a second to find the right word.

"Not necessarily," I shrugged, trying my best to not make it tight and awkward. "You're just kind of world-famous, and she'd flip her shit when even local talents gave her compliments on her work. She felt like she was that much closer to getting her big break when stuff like that would happen."

"Has she gotten her big break yet?" he asked.

"No," I replied, letting myself sound only a fraction of how disappointed I felt.

"Well, she shouldn't be too far from it if all of her art is this good," Rogers said.

He motioned toward the figurines as he spoke and offered me another genuine smile. I nodded and smiled back, not entirely sure what to say. He would find out soon, as soon as he read my file, so why was I lying to him? Maybe because it felt, for even a split second, like she was still in my life? I didn't know. All I knew was he was talking to me so I should respond. I went for the appreciative-agreeing route to his kindness, as it seemed like the best option.

"Yeah, she'll get there someday," I said. "Thanks, again."

"You're welcome."

I moved away from him, my arms still folded over my stomach. I forced them to my sides as I moved in to the kitchen. Open body language was the key to getting him to get along with me. Or, one of the keys, at least. He wouldn't trust me or like me if I seemed closed off. I mean, I was closed off, but I could at least not seem like it. We were getting along just fine right now, but if I shut him out or acted like I was, none of this would go very well.

I didn't have much time to ponder on how to get out of my own way when it came to getting Rogers to trust me more because a rapid knock sounded at my front door. My hand instantly lifted my shirt and went to the gun in my inner-pants holster in a knee jerk reaction that showed exactly how uncomfortable I was. My head swiveled to make sure that Rogers was okay, and I found that he, too, looked like he was ready to take on whoever was at the door. We didn't have to wait long to find out who it was. A soprano voice, thick with worry, called through the wood.

"Dahlia? Dahlia, are you in there? Are you alright, dear?"

"Shit," I whispered, with feeling.

As quietly as I could, I pulled the gun from its holster, padded over to the door, and looked through the peephole. It was my landlord. Thankfully, it didn't look like anyone was with her, and she definitely wasn't a good enough actress to fake it if someone was hunching and had a gun to her back. I put my gun back in the holster, fluttered my shirt around my waist to cover the butt of the gun better, and turned to Rogers. The tension eased out of his body bit by bit when he saw that I was no longer ready to fire through the door and asked me what was going on with his facial expressions alone. He was really good at that.

"We're dating," I mouthed at him.

His blue eyes widened in surprise and he mouthed back, "What?"

I threw a look over my shoulder at the door and quietly moved back toward Rogers, daring to get uncomfortably close to him so I could whisper low enough that my landlord wouldn't hear me. Looking up at him from that close was going to give me a crick in my neck if I wasn't careful, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. For several reasons. Most of which I refused to think about.

"Please," I said, putting all the desperation I had into that one word, flooding my green and gold eyes with my plea, "just do me a favor and pretend that we're dating. I will owe you big time, just please do this for me. Help me get her off of my back. I'll explain later, I promise, just please, help me out here."

I don't know if it was me saying please multiple times or the fact that I probably looked like a drowning woman in desperate need of help, but after a couple of heartbeats, he nodded.

"Okay," he said.

I had to catch myself from sagging against him in relief. My hands reached forward anyway to touch either side of his hard waist, a sock-melting grin spreading across my face, and I swear I saw his eyes widen again, his pupils dilating in the shadow we'd created. I didn't blame him. I'd gone from distant and moody to touching him and giddy in less than two seconds and all it took was him pretending to date me. Hell, even I was surprised by my mood swing. When you're close to one emotion, you're close to them all, I guess, but dammit, this was big! If he knew the whole story, he wouldn't be surprised at all.

"I cannot thank you enough for this," I whispered. "Just let me do the talking. If you have to say something, stick to half-truths because you're not technically lying. It's also easier to remember if she asks more questions. Okay?"

"What did I just get myself into?" he asked, ducking his head low so I could hear him better. It also put his face way closer to my face than I had intended. I dutifully ignored that, hard as it was, and smiled up at him, and I saw his eyes dilate again. It had to be the low light. Right? I opened my mouth to answer him when the rapid knocking turned into a frantic pounding.

"Dahlia?! Oh, Dahlia! Are you alright?! I'm going to call the police!"

Oh shit. "I'll be right there!"

I removed my fingers from their barely-there spot on Rogers' impossibly thin waist and carefully walked back over to the door, my hand going back to my gun over my shirt. You can never be too careful, right? Definitely. Unlocking the door, I opened it a crack to make sure she really was alone. She was, thank the gods, so I stepped back and let the harried older woman in.

Marcia Ferdinand was a slightly overweight woman in her seventies, her curly grey hair cut short and clearly styled with those old plastic rollers. Every time I saw her, she was in a clean pressed shirt and pair of slacks with nice yet cheap jewelry on. Today was no exception, only right now the curls looked a little limp and her blue shirt looked a little rumpled at the collar.

"Sorry about that, Mrs. Ferdinand," I said as she put a hand to her cheek as if to calm herself.

"I've told you, dear," she said, shaking her head free of worry now that she saw I was okay. "Call me Marcia."

"Sorry, Marcia. You know how I forget sometimes," I replied with an apologetic smile.

"With how much you work, dear, I don't blame you at all for forgetting," she said, patting my arm with a plump hand.

Now that'd she'd regained a bit of her composure, she apparently felt the need to talk. I knew she would. She always did.

"When I saw that black car parked in your spot, I got so worried," she said as she moved past me into my apartment. I closed and locked the door behind her, trying to not roll my eyes at her overprotectiveness. We'd done background checks on her and everyone else in the building. She was squeaky clean, but she was a nosy old broad and I didn't know how to get her to let us go without making her cry, because she was also very delicate. "You're not usually home so earl- Oh. Hello."

I turned from sliding in the chain lock to see Marcia stopped dead in her tracks five feet behind me, and I could almost hear the giant grin blooming on her face. I moved in front of her, placing myself not exactly between her and Rogers, but definitely in a position to get myself there as I was pretty sure she was ready to launch herself at him for a hug. Her growing smile somehow wasn't losing momentum and I was afraid her lips were about to touch her ears in a nightmare scenario that no one wanted to see.

"And who is this?" she asked, her sweet voice gaining a little lilt and a lot of curiosity.

"Marcia Ferdinand," I said, taking her elbow and gently pulling her forward so I could control where she did and didn't go, "this is my boyfriend Steve. Steve, this is Marcia, my landlord turned honorary grandmother."

Dammit, I should have come up with a fake name for him, but I was working on the fly and, to me, Rogers was his name. I'd be better at this later.

He stepped forward and held out a hand to Marcia. She graciously took it, exchanging little glances between me and him as she let her hand fall noodle-limp in his. I stepped next to Rogers to make it easier for her to gawk at us. I didn't want her hurting her neck.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Ferdinand," he said, a charming smile gracing his lips.

"Marcia, please," she insisted. "It's nice to meet you too, Steve. Dahlia hasn't told me she's had any gentleman suitors."

"We've been trying to keep it under wraps for now," I explained. My hand went to his bicep in as loving a gesture as I could manage. He pulled his hand away from Marcia and smiled down at me, and it looked genuine, like he really did find me attractive. Wow, he was better at selling this than I was. I owed him a huge favor.

"Are you a cop, too?" Marcia asked him. "Do they make you wear those ridiculous new uniforms, too?"

She meant the catsuit the women occasionally trained in, which was completely impractical at every level if you asked me, especially if you had to use the bathroom. I definitely didn't blame her for thinking the uniform was ridiculous. I did blame her for being naïve enough to think that it was a cop uniform, even if I had told her it was for a special forces unit. But hey, as long as she believed me, she wouldn't be in danger. In the end, it all worked out.

He looked at her, eyes filled with good cheer as she moaned about the impracticality of my uniform. Damn, he was a good liar. Fuck half-truths, he could probably convince someone the sky was orange.

"I'm military," he replied.

"Oh," she said, as if that explained everything. "My husband was in the military. He was the same way. 'We have to keep it a secret for now, Marcia. Our families won't like this, Marcia. My military career is just starting, Marcia.' I felt like I was on the Brady Bunch!"

She let out a laugh at her own joke and I laughed with her. Poor Rogers didn't get it, so he didn't laugh. I knocked my ankle against his and he got the hint to fake it like a porn star. Well, maybe not like a porn star, but he knew that he had to at least fake it. He chuckled so it didn't sound forced.

"Yeah, we're just getting a feel for it for now, and then we'll let everyone know. Please keep this just between us, Marcia," I said, laughter still glinting in my eyes. "Don't even tell Bruce yet. I really don't want to jinx a good thing."

"I understand, dear. I won't tell a soul," she said. She sliced her hand through the air is if she were getting ready to make a solemn vow on her honor.

"Thank you," I said. "That really means a lot to us."

I smiled and rested my head on Rogers' shoulder, playing the part of the loving girlfriend with everything I had. It wasn't too intimate a gesture, or at least I hoped it wasn't, but judging by how the Captain's muscles suddenly tensed, I'd say he thought it was a little too intimate for his liking. I really didn't want to get too intimate with Rogers after knowing him for less than two hours. Hell, I was surprised he'd even agreed to do this for me seeing as he didn't know me from Adam, and I was even more surprised he was playing along so perfectly. Maybe he trusted me a little already? Or this was a test and he was seeing how far I was willing to drag him into the mud for my own personal gain. Or I was reading too much into shit.

Marcia's eyes scanned the room like they usually did. It was her way of trying to make sure everything was up to code. She did it to everyone and I appreciated the effort on her part, since It was part of her job, but it did make me slightly paranoid, like she was casing my apartment. She hadn't sprung any traps on me yet, though, so I tried to not think too much of it. Tried was the main word there. Finally, her eyes settled on the bags on the floor behind the couch.

"Are you going somewhere? Is that why you're home early? I was so worried…" she started.

"I'm okay, Marcia," I said, cutting her off before she could continue her rant about the mysterious black car in my spot. Marcia had a rule that only residents could park in their assigned spots and that guests absolutely must use the guest parking. There were no loopholes to the rule, not even carpooling. I didn't know why. The woman was just anal about her parking spots, apparently so much so that she watched them like a hawk, because I didn't expect her to be on top of us so quickly. "We're actually going on vacation and I had to come home early to pack."

"Oh, good," she said, calming down almost instantly. "Where are you two lovebirds off to?"

"We're taking a road trip to Tennessee. It's lovely there this time of year and I wanted to show Steve Cades Cove. He's a huge history buff."

"Oh, really?" Marcia asked, her grey eyes lighting up in her wrinkled face. "What era do you study most?"

"America between the early 1900s and World War II," Rogers answered.

"That is a fascinating time period," Marcia said. "I used to love those 1920s flapper dresses when I was younger. All of the beads made them look so elegant. Do you know much about the prohibition?"

I moved forward then. We were wasting valuable time and I wasn't sure how long I could ask Rogers to do this. It wasn't fair to subject him to an overbearing grandmother figure who desperately wanted her adopted grandkid to get hitched. My hands went to Marcia's shoulders and I carefully turned her toward the door.

"Now, now. Don't load the boyfriend down with questions, Marcia. You'll scare him away," I teased. I threw a glance over my shoulder at Rogers, one that held all sorts of heat, passion, and newly blossoming love before turning a tamed version of that same look to Marcia. "And I really like this one. A lot."

Was it just me or had the good Captain looked like he'd swallowed his own tongue and was trying to be discreet about it before I'd turned away? It had to be just me. Had I eaten yet today? I could be having hunger hallucinations. Were those a thing? Let's pretend they were.

"Of course. How rude of me. I'll leave you two alone to get ready for your trip," she said. She turned out of my hands as she unlocked the door. "It was nice to meet you, Steve. You have a wonderful young woman on your hands here."

"I'm starting to get that feeling, Marcia," Rogers said, startling me. It took everything I had to not snap my head back around and stare at him. Instead I kept looking forward as Marcia exited my apartment and stood in front of the doorway.

"I want an invitation to the wedding," she said through the narrowing crack.

I gave her a warm, yet slightly annoyed smile that told her she knew better and said, "Goodbye, Marcia."

The door clicked closed and I locked it once again. I stood by the door, holding my breath as I waited for her footsteps to recede. When she was far enough away, I slumped against the wood and let out a heavy sigh.

"I owe you, big time," I said without turning around. "You just saved me at least six months of nagging."

"Find Bucky and we'll call it even," Rogers said, his tone back to normal. He bounced back fast, but I guess you had to when things were constantly being thrown at you, literally and figuratively. I guess having target-lock on Barnes also helped. Speaking of Barnes, what did he just say?!

I turned to stare at him. Me finding his missing best friend was akin to him helping me get an old woman off of my back? Somehow, I seriously doubted that.

"Something tells me I'll owe you after I find him," I said, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. The next thought I had came spilling from my mouth without running it past my brain first. "Why'd you agree to help me?"

Great, Dani. Question his reasons for doing good things. That'll make him like you more, and it definitely won't make him question whether or not to help you in the future. Moron. Rogers just looked at me and shrugged his massive shoulders. I waited for the seams to pop, but by some feat of magic, they didn't. Kind of disappointing, but on the other hand, this was weird enough already and I didn't need him changing shirts in my apartment.

"You needed help, and I was here to help you. It's what I do. It's what I've always done," he replied.

"Ah. Ask a stupid question," I said.

I stood there at my door, staring up at him and suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. That was happening too frequently for my liking, that awkwardness shit. Had I really just asked him to do that for me? Had I really played the cutesy girlfriend? Had I actually kind of liked it a little? Unfortunately, yes to all of the above. Rogers must have felt that awkwardness too because he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. His hands went to his belt as his eyes looked over the rest of my apartment. And then he looked at me and said something completely unexpected.

"Dahlia?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed. The tension had been too strong and the relief too great. Oddly enough, or perhaps not so oddly at all, I felt a little closer to him after this. Maybe it was a damsel-in-distress complex grabbing hold of me, but he'd just saved my ass by letting me flirt with him, he was being nice, and he was making jokes. I felt like maybe I could ease up on my spines a little, even if it was really hard to control some of them.

"Yeah," I nodded. "Dahlia Black. It's my super cool fake persona that helped me get this apartment."

"Dahlia has far more patience than Dani does," Rogers teased.

"Only because neither of them want to get kicked out of their apartment for being a bitch," I said with a smile. I jabbed my thumb behind me toward the closed door and asked, "Anyway, you ready to hit the road?"

"That sounds like a good plan. The sooner we find Bucky, the sooner you can start searching for a real boyfriend," Rogers said, smiling at me as he bent to pick up his duffels.

"Nah," I said, walking over to grab my bags as well, gathering the handles as I spoke. "Most men can't handle me. You can only be so blunt with someone before they get pissed and leave."

"McIntosh seems to like you," Rogers pointed out.

"McIntosh is one in a billion and I still piss him off regularly. You men are so fragile," I joked, straightening up.

Rogers gave me one of those "oh, really?" looks and I raised my eyebrows at him in challenge, a smirk quirking up one side of my mouth.

"I could've handled my landlord better than that," he said.

"Really? Is your landlord also an overbearing old woman in her seventies?" I asked. I gasped in fake, overexaggerated realization, my eyes going wide as I gaped up at him. "Captain! Are you looking to date women in your age range? After we already planned to go to Tennessee? You might as well have put a ring on it and walked me over the threshold but now you're saying you're looking elsewhere?"

"Okay," he said in good-natured acquiescence, looking away in surrender.

"Ohhohoho, you caved fast! I was expecting more of a fight, but damn, sir!" I laughed. Before he could even finish giving me the look of mild annoyance that people usually gave me after I teased them, I turned around and added "Okay, I've changed my mind. This is gonna be a fun trip! Let's go!"