Charlotte Street, London, England

He was, of course, perfectly polite. He was always and forever perfectly polite. Even when he was clearly drowning in sorrow, he politely offered to escort her back to her hotel after the funeral reception. They talked about Peggy for the whole ride, his large frame only a little hunched over in the back of the black cab. His knee kept jostling hers and every time he apologized but didn't move it his leg.

Death makes us crave human connection, she thought. Steve more than most.

Under the perfect manners, the calm demeanor, she could still feel that essential loneliness that she remembered from when she was his "neighbor". She imagined it would always be there. He was a man out of time. Peggy had been one of his only tenuous connections to his old world and she was gone, and his obvious grief only amplified his solitude.

Her own grief felt heavier than she'd imagined. Peg been dying for a long time and Sharon thought she'd resigned herself to the looming loss. But she could feel a hollow place in her breastbone, a chill over her skin. She chafed her arms, craving a little warmth, craving contact…

She looked down and realized she hadn't moved her leg either.

He took her hand to help her out of the taxi and then paid for the cab, because of course he did. His hands were big and calloused and engulfed hers. Walking through the lobby, Sharon could feel the heat of his body through his somber suit and hers. They were still talking about Peggy, naturally.

"She bought me my first thigh holster."

"Practical."

"And stylish."

He smiled at her, that grin of his, and she smiled back, her eyes meeting his directly. Then she glanced away as she realized exactly what she was doing. She'd seen his face at the funeral, after she'd delivered that eulogy. He was not going to sign the Accords. Mission completed. She didn't need to do this, to bring up thigh holsters and walk a little too close.

But she ached here and now. And he was so warm and so beautiful and so kind, and they both missed Peg so much. And he was here… now.

She didn't need to do it. But she wanted to.

They paused at the bank of elevators, and she could practically feel his body humming under his Seville Row suit. He wanted, too. It didn't matter that it wasn't her that he wanted, not really. He wanted human connection, someone who shared his loss. He wanted Peggy.

She wanted Peg, too. She wanted her Aunt back. And even though she knew it was a bad idea, she wanted him. She wanted his big warm hands to slip the sorrow off her skin, she wanted the weight of his body to ground her in her grief. That would be enough, she thought. He thought it, too. She had a fleeting thought – I should have asked Sam to drive me to the hotel. That would be less complicated – before she let her guard down and accepted that she wants this… this. But there was something, some last wall between them. She looked a question at him.

"I've been meaning to ask. Before, when you were spying on me from across the hall—"

"You mean when I was doing my job?"

He nodded, conceding her point. Because he was always fair.

"Did Peggy know?"

Ah.

"She kept so many secrets. I didn't want her to have one from you."

"Sure," he said as some tension left his shoulders and they stared at each other.

The elevator dinged.

"Thanks for walking me back…" she tailed off suggestively, swaying towards him.

"Steve," Sam's voice interrupted. "There's something you've gotta see."

She could almost hear it pop, their little bubble of attraction mingled with grief and longing. The moment passed with a small regretful sigh.

He glanced at her with an apologetic grimace and waited for her to nod permission, because Sarah Rogers taught him to never just walk away from a lady, and then hurried after Sam, his long legs eating up the distance in easy strides. She took a second to admire the view. Tony must have given Steve the name of his personal tailor. No way did an off-the-rack suit fit fall that perfectly from those broad shoulders down to his narrow waist. He must draw the eye of every heterosexual woman –

She glanced around and noticed that, in fact, no one was watching Steve Rogers walk across the lobby. They were all glued to their phones or clustered around the TV screens.

Sharon hurried after the men, pulling her turned-off phone out of her bag. As the phone powered up, she divided her attention between the news on the TV at the bar and listening to Sam's sotto vocce explanation of what had happened in Vienna. Oh shit. She thumbed past the mounting voicemails – 24, now 25 – and went straight to the encrypted text app.

Bob Howard: You up to date?

Sharon Carter: Catching up as we speak.

BH: You're headed back to Berlin. Your task force is getting a new boss, a blowhard named Ross.

SC: Sec State?!

BH: No, a *different* blowhard named Ross. Everett Ross. No relation.

SC: Assignment?

BH: Give all due aid and comfort to Captain America and to the Task Force.

SC: In that order?

BH: In that order. There's a Quinjet waiting for you at Heathrow. The passenger manifest is for three people and assorted cargo.

SC: Names?

BH: Sharon Carter, Michael Jones, and John Howard. Agent Young will meet you there.

SC: What's Sec State Ross telling Blowhard Ross to do?

BH: Shoot to kill.

Sharon's head snapped up. Steve and Sam were conferring, not really paying attention to her and she had a minute to process the information.

If they caught Barnes, they'd have a handle on Steve. He'd do anything, sign anything, to help Bucky. If they killed Barnes, he'd… She didn't know what.

She buttonholed a hotel concierge, who was happy to help Captain America, his grandmother had fought in the war and had seen Captain Rogers once…. They got set up in a conference room on the second floor, one with a landline and a TV screen. It took her half an hour of phone calls to get fully up to speed, to make plans, to lay in contingencies.

Making sure the U.N. didn't get a short leash on Captain America was her first priority now. She looked up at Sam and Steve who were still riveted to the television.

"I've got to go to work."

Steve glanced over at her, his face devastated and confused. The tragedy in Lagos, the new lead on Bucky, Peggy's death, another new lead on Bucky – it was too much all at once, a trainwreck of emotions. And she knew that if Ross managed to kill Barnes, it would break Captain America.

All due aid and comfort.

"I'm catching a plane to Vienna," she smiled. "Want a ride?"

"I don't think—" Steve started.

"I've got a private quinjet and IDs for Michael Jones and Robert Howard with your pictures on them."

Once again, she saw the tension ease from his shoulders. Behind him, Sam gave her a sharp look and then, slowly, a grateful nod.

"Thank you. We'd love a ride."