Sacrifice

Chapter Two

"Yet, as only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night."

Dorothy Parker

The helicopter was waiting for Nick Fury outside his office before the sun had even risen. It's black body and the grey, iron bird on the side were lit up by the Potomac and the City of Washington D.C.. For a moment, the director stared at it. The last time he had to ride in a helicopter and Tony Stark was involved Manhattan almost blew up.

Hopefully it won't happen this time (the director, however, knew that hoping was useless. When Tony Stark was around something always blew up) but Fury didn't get his hopes up too much. Strapping himself in, he dialled Agent Romanoff again and listened as it went through to voicemail. Again. There was no bothering trying to contact Barton; if the Black Widow hadn't answered, neither would Hawkeye. Two peas in a pod that no one really had a handle on.

The United States passed below him—the White house standing out like a beacon. Fury flew onward, up state, seeing where the lights ended and the ocean began. That big stretch of blackness that it was like the world ended on the coastline. A ship would break it up every now and then, but the shadows of the sea eventually swallowed them.

Leaning back into his seat, the director tore his eyes away from the ocean and waited for New York to appear on the horizon.

Gleaming, creating its own constellations, the city did. One by one the glowing rows of windows appeared, rising higher and higher as if they all were a magical beanstalk—growing without stopping, touching the sky and creating the pathway to giants. Lady Liberty saluted him in the harbour, her green face lit up from all angles.

And there it was. Right smack in the middle of the city.

Stark tower.

It glowed brighter than the rest, the curving architecture white rather than the dim yellow—an after effect of the arc reactor technology for sure, as well a whole lot of LEDs. The large A stood out at the stop, lighting up the helicopter pad with just dimmed shadows until the entire thing was suddenly a red and gold target. JARVIS' way to welcome him, Fury guessed.

No one came out to greet him, but that wasn't a surprise. Tony made an effort to be as rude as possible to all SHIELD agents while being welcoming at the same time. Though, the second part might have been more Pepper and JARVIS than Tony himself. Fury walked down the pathway leading into the building after giving the pilot a glare that ordered the woman to stay behind and in her seat.

"Mr. Stark," He said immediately upon entry, spotting the billionaire with quite a few holographic screens hovering around him. Natasha was at one of the tables, Clint leaning over her shoulder while they both looked at a Starkpad. "What the hell is going on?"

"Uh," the inventor waved his hands and everything in front of him vanished—including, it looked like, a bunch of SHIELD files that none of the Avengers had accessed to. "Lounging about, having fun, what about you, Willy?" Stark grinned in that smarmy way he had, snapping his fingers and clapped his hands. "What did we do to get this truly disarming visit?"

Fury walked across the room until he and the billionaire were almost toe to toe. "I think you know, Mr. Stark," his one good eye widened just slightly, staring down the other man. He was a spy, he knew how to look for lies—and Tony Stark was lying. "For instance, why was your suit spotted in Brooklyn today—"

"I'll think you'll find," Stark crossed his arms over his chest, spine straightening, all humour vanishing from his face. "That I can go where ever I damn well please."

"—to the same place where a known assassin managed to possibly subdue a target." Fury tossed his phone to the billionaire and watched as the serious expression got tighter, more wound than he had ever seen it.

Stark scowled. "So they found him through this," he gritted out, hand clenching around the phone hosting a picture of one Captain Steve Rogers. "Who else knows?"

"Agent Hill," Fury frowned, watching as the genius started to pace back and forth on the carpet, fingers pressed against his forehead, eyes narrowed and flickering, reading something that the director couldn't even begin to imagine, let alone see.

"That means that someone with resources called this attack," Stark mused, hands running down his face before he spun to look at the spies at his table. "You, Barton!"

The archer looked up, glowering. "What?" he snapped.

"Go down to the lab, tell Bruce that we're looking for someone who probably doesn't have a budget and is a part of an organization like the FBI, CIA, anyone who can do people searches."

Snorting, Clint stood and left Natasha to fish through video feeds. "Yeah, cause that's gonna help—" The elevator doors cut off the rest of his sentence (and, most likely, the rest of his complaints).

Stark breathed out and brushed past Fury, still holding the Director's phone as he continued to pace, tapping one finger against his bottom lip, the other hand folded along his back.

"Just tell him, Stark," Natasha spoke up, not looking up from her screen until both men were staring at her. "We're going to need all the resources he's got."

The billionaire snickered, as if that was hilarious, but it slowly faded as her gaze never wavered, eyes never blinking. "Fine, you know what? Fine." He threw his hands up and turned to Fury. "We found Captain America, introduced him to a new century, got him an apartment, and he was shot at. Now we can't find him."

The words were spoken so quickly that Fury had to process them for a second—"You what?!"

"Found Captain America in the Arctic. God, keep up," Tony waved his hand and tossed the phone back to the other man. "He wanted to live on his own, though. Get his feet on the ground—"

"And you didn't inform SHIELD because?" Fury glared at the two of them, eye flickering between the spy and the billionaire. "You don't think we would have been able to give him legal papers? Housing?"

It was Natasha, however, that spoke up. "SHIELD would have been able to provide for him," she leaned back in her chair, hands folded across her lap, "But the council would have demanded that he go back into active service." For a moment, the redhead almost looked regretful, though not towards the director. "And Captain Rogers would have said yes, but he wouldn't have liked it."

"Itsy Bitsy is right," Tony nodded once, his body turned so he was looking out over central park and the island of Manhattan. "He would have hated it, but he still would have done it."

"Because he's a soldier," Fury concluded. "Orders are familiar."

"But orders are not what he needs," Natasha fast forward through some footage, finger pressed against the Starkpad. "The war happened only two months ago for him, he needs time to get back up on his feet." The muscles in her jaw tensed up, both hands waving at the chaos currently in front of her—papers, technology, and an empty coffee mug. "And then this happens."

The billionaire waved his hands and all the screens that had been hovering before him when Fury walked into the tower appeared again. They were SHIELD files, but also CIA, FBI, and other intelligence organizations. "Whoever found him was looking for him."

"I think I can help with that," Fury gritted out. "Every new recruit is given a test of sorts when they first join. A person search. As a joke, some people—" Tony opened his mouth to comment and the Director quickly cut him off, "Before I was the Director of SHIELD, decided that the search be of Captain America in Brooklyn." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly, thinking, pieces falling together. "Of course, the whole joke was that there wasn't someone with the name Steven Rogers living in Brooklyn. Recruits were supposed to get no results and feel like they failed."

Tony frowned, but his eyes were glinting. "That sounds like something SHIELD would do."

Resisting the urge to bare his teeth, Fury just scowled at the inventor. "Someone must have found him and reported it to their advisors, who would check the results and then report that to a higher up."

"And if that higher up doesn't, exactly, report to you?" The billionaire watched him. "What then?"

"Then, Mr. Stark, we have a whole other problem on our hands."

The leather felt amazing under Steve's hands; comfortable, slightly squishy, and surprisingly familiar when each gear shifted into place as the night passed him by. There was a map strung out across the passenger seat, a route highlighted in sharpie (he had found both in the glove box). Bright lights passed through the rear view mirror and the captain glanced up and saw Treasa laid across the back seats, her eyes closed, tail laying flat against her body.

Underneath his feet, the Honda rumbled. It wasn't old by his standards—automatics were just plain odd in his opinion—but the fact that it wasn't a brand new car meant that there was no GPS, no fancy radio.

No way to track him through the vehicle, if that was possible.

(It was the future, a lot of things were possible.)

In the morning, though, the owner would find it missing and report it, so he'd have to leave it someplace. Natasha had mentioned once that malls had security. If he left it in one of those parking lots there would be a greater chance of it being found before anyone else could take it for a joyride.

Steve snorted at that thought—on the run and he was thinking about the owner of the car. The shock must have hit him harder than he thought. One hand moved absently down, brushing the bandage along his ribs. The wound stung and had started to throb an hour ago when he had passed the third toll (no one told him about those—but then again, he had never expected himself to take a spontaneous road trip south).

God, he wanted a hamburger.

Or three.

Treasa huffed in the back seat, her nose twitching and Steve turned on the radio to distract himself from both the thoughts and the mindlessness of the road. He wasn't alone, though—there were other people driving alongside him in both larger and more expensive cars.

Like driving in Germany, Steve kept reminding himself. When the Howling Commandos had been stranded between Nazi soldiers and a city, he and Bucky had stolen a car and civilian clothing. No one stopped them—the car was expensive and they sang out loudly in German whenever they passed by anyone who even looked like they could be soldiers.

The secret was to act like you belonged. The secret was to get out alive through any means necessary—including stealing a member of the inner circle's car.

(To be quite honest none of them had realized who it belonged to—it was just red and expensive and looked like something that young people who had too much time on their hands would drive. Howard Stark had laughed himself silly when they returned with it.)

(No, no, don't think of Howard. Don't think of Peggy.)

Two hours left. He could think of that. Two hours left and four hours until sunrise. He'd drop the car off soon, Steve promised himself, looking at the signs on the side of the highway. Drop the car off, get some coffee, and then get back on the road.

Maybe he could head to Bu—

Steve's hands tightened viciously on the wheel.

Tires screeching, the soldier was glad no one else was on the road while he pulled off onto the next exit, skipping over three lanes and almost going over the grass. A sign for a 24-hour cafe lit up and he followed the directions—one right and a left—before turning off the car in the parking lot. Treasa whined, her head rising and he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

Calm down, he urged his rapidly beating heart. Calm, calm, I'm calm.

Something cold and wet pressed against the back of his neck. Treasa.

I'm calm, I'm calm, I'm fucking calm—

"Here's a song for all those late night drivers—"

Steve kicked the door open and didn't even make it to the curb, sliding down against the tiny Honda Civic, resting the back of his head against the white paint. His eyes closed, knees pulled up to his chest, and he heard rather than saw Treasa jump out of the car. Her warm body pressed up against him, nose burrowing between his arms until he was clinging to her, trying to even out his rapid gasps and still his trembling hands.

Something clicked against asphalt and Steve stilled, his side aching, thoughts whirling—but Treasa's tail wagged and she snuffled against his cheek before gently licking his nose. "Ugh," the captain leaned back, wiping the back of his hand across the wet spot. "That's gross—"

There was a woman standing next to him, Some dabs of powdered sugar decorated her long green apron. It covered her white shirt and black slacks, a name tag sitting on the top.

Jaquita.

She held a clear, plastic cup full of a drink that was a dark pink colour, green straw sticking out of it like a flag pole, clinking against the ice cubes. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up," the young woman smiled, her brown hair falling across her shoulders. The orange light made her skin look almost mahogany, wide, dark eyes seeming even darker by the light of the moon. "It's passion fruit tea with a shot of strawberry syrup."

Slowly, he accepted it and she slid down to sit next to him, moving the apron out of the way so it wouldn't get caught under her knees. "Thank you," Steve muttered and grunted when Treasa wiggled her way onto his lap, her tail wagging, muzzle resting on his shoulder. "You are a menace," he grunted, but scratched the back of her ears while she huffed and sniffed.

The tea was sweet and strong, bursting across his tongue with enough pow to make him cough in surprise.

Jaquita laughed. "My brother gets it a lot," she grinned, her eyes bright. "Especially after he, um..." she trailed off, shifting slightly. "Especially after one of his panic attacks."

Steve opened his mouth to say something—it would have probably been hurtful if not for the fact that Treasa pressed her paws into his thigh and he yelped, almost spilling the tea all over them both. She walked off his lap, huffing before she jumped back into the car.

Glaring after her, the soldier turned back to the woman sitting next to him. "You're, uh, brother?"

She nodded and he watched the tension practically ooze out of her body until her head was resting against the car as well. "He served for three tours."

Steve nodded and twisted the straw around in the cup before taking another drink. It was still as sweet, but he didn't feel the shock of it as he had before.

His heart wasn't pounding. His lungs felt at ease.

Steve pulled back and stared at the cup of tea. The entire thing was cooling, refreshing, and like diving into a pool on a blistering day.

"It's magical, isn't it?" Jaquita laughed. "My brother said that it always brings him back because the army would never give him something so disgustingly sweet."

Okay, yes, that was something that Steve could agree with. Granted, the only thing in the 40's that had been this sweet was sugar straight out of the bag—which he couldn't really afford, after all.

"Thank you," he said again when he finished off the drink and only a few rattling ice cubes were left.

The young woman waved her hand, smiling lightly and getting back to her feet, wiping off the back of her pants. "You're welcome," she said and then frowned when he grabbed his wallet. "No, no," Jaquita pushed his money back towards him. "It's on the house."

"But—"

She winked. "Next one won't be free, mister." And, before the soldier could do anything, she was already heading back inside.

Steve didn't know if he would ever be able to come back and visit but, as he tossed the cup into the recycling, the soldier memorized the name of the place, just in case. He got back into the car, watched Treasa settle back down on the seat, and pulled out of the parking lot. The highway stretched out before him and the soldier turned the radio up. Passion fruit ice tea with strawberry syrup sweet in his mouth.

Steve was at the next toll when he groaned, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, ignoring the poor person inside the window who was waiting for his money.

He'd forgotten to switch the car.

Natasha rubbed her fingers against her forehead, Fury and Stark still standing in the living room, tracking down possible agents in SHIELD who could have been a part of the attack. She, however, went through the camera footage a few more times, just in caused she missed anything.

There was no sign of Captain Rogers on any of them, not since he had gone for a jog. Standing up, the spy went to fill her mug with more coffee, ignoring the creamer and sugar on the counter. He was from the forties. How could someone from the forties be able to hide during the twenty-first century?

Her tone of thoughts weren't condescending, but rather confused—and a bit in awe. He had disappeared from under their noses, managed to avoid cameras, phones, everything since he had fled. Natasha leaned up against the counter, sipping at the bitter liquid and pulled a pen and notepad close, tapping the tip against her wrist.

The secret to finding someone was to figure out what they didn't have.

First. No credit or debit cards. Steve had understood the concept but hadn't wanted to deal with them until he had a full grasp on the century. Granted, she couldn't blame him for that; there were people even now who didn't understand them.

Second. Grew up during the depression. He knew what he needed and didn't need, where he could get it for cheap and where it was more costly. Going through the grocery store had been an eye opener—even without coupons he managed to cut the food bill in half. The poptart fiasco had been pretty hilarious; Tony realizing three months later that he was eating the cheaper store brand that had just been placed in old poptart boxes (she thought that a genius would read but, evidently, not).

Third. He was a soldier. He didn't need a car or a plane, he would just walk to where he wanted. Steve had told her the story about how he and four hundred men had walked thirty miles from a HYDRA base back to a United States military camp. Plus, everyone had seen him work out in the gym; how the super soldier had ran over fifty miles on the treadmill before slowing down.

They didn't know what else he could do. His secrets were locked up just as tight as hers or Clint's. Natasha tapped the pen against her bottom lip, biting the inside of her cheek.

Fourth. He liked art. There wasn't much else to say on that subject because she knew the art of disguises, of make-up. How to look a certain way, what to wear. Painting, drawing? The spy knew next to nothing on that.

Fifth...

Natasha bit the back of the pen, glancing over to where Tony and Fury were still conversing. Books, what could she remember from books? He was foolishly brave, confident, a genius at strategy. If she was Steve Rogers, where would she go?

Someplace familiar? No.

No, that's expected. He's running, hiding, confused, and possibly hurt. Plus, he had to think of Treasa. She had to get food, water, shelter. He couldn't just—

The spy froze, pen dropping from her mouth as she scrambled for the kitchen table and the image of Steve, stopping the search before it completed a fourth time.

Treasa. That was it, that was the secret. She had been looking in the wrong place this entire time—

Natasha sat back down in the wooden chair and pulled a picture off her phone of Steve laying across the couch, head on the headrest and grinning softly up at the camera. He was upside down, hair falling back across the black leather. His bohemian shepherd was on his chest, tongue lolling from her mouth, dark eyes wide. She looked happy, her paws on the captain's shoulder. It was a cute picture, one the spy had thought about saving for her phone background (her private phone, SHIELD agents weren't allowed to personalize their professional ones). Now it was uploaded and she sent a search—not for Steve's face, but for Treasa, her colour pattern, her looks, her breed.

Bitter coffee was hardly noticed as Natasha took another sip, typing out on the Starkpad, limiting the search to the east coast, starting in Maine and heading downward. The green bar showing how far the entire thing was to being completed inched along the black box. Fifteen percent. Twenty.

She took another sip of her coffee.

It was getting cold.

The green inched farther still, creeping forward—and at fifty-five percent, it stopped. The State of Maryland filled her screen and zooming in even farther.

Washington DC. A toll camera took a picture of a dog poking her head out the window. Bohemian shepherd in a 1993 white Honda Civic. It didn't get the driver's face, but that Patriot's hat was one that Pepper had jokingly shoved into a cart and the white t-shirt had Stark Industries in navy over the heart.

She followed the road, mapped out any places Steve could go. What did he hope to find there? Security? Help? Was it just a stopping point? Natasha closed down the program and stood back up, glancing over to where Tony and Fury were still talking. Her computer, she'd need that. A few guns, a bag full of clothes, and maybe one of Stark's cars—if she asked JARVIS nicely.

The redhead set her mug in the sink and grabbed her jacket off the chair already looking up the route that would take her from New York to Maryland on her phone.

It was paranoia, Steve knew, but habits were hard to break so he hid his duffle bag and shield up in a tree to fetch them later and about for another ten minutes, parking at the side of a sign that announced the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial. He tugged a New England Patriot hat down over his head and got out of the stolen car. Treasa followed him as he swung his backpack around his shoulders, settling on the grass, sniffing at signs as he unwound her leash.

He locked the car, snapped the leash to her collar (purely for everyone else's comfort as she trotted next to his heel anyway), and took off at a slow jog—just another person running in the early hours. Some people smiled at him and nodded in greeting, others looked past him, but he was just one of them, getting in his exercise during the morning before work. The map of DC he had gotten from the Capitol building's tourist centre was heavy in his pocket and he opened it after a mile in, leaning against a tree as the city started to wake up. It wasn't too difficult to find where he was compared to the blue circle he had drawn to make where his things were, and Steve set off, jogging towards the Lincoln Memorial and reflecting pool.

There still wasn't too many people in on the walks (the sun just rising over the trees) when he climbed up the ash tree and pulled his duffle bag and shield down. He had placed the vibranium in the circular, protection bag (not that it needed it) and started off through the city to look for breakfast, Treasa trotting along beside him. They found a place a bit off the beaten track, close enough to the tourist attractions that he could easily blend in with someone who had just arrived.

For the rest of the day, he toured and saw Abraham Lincoln sitting on the large, white throne, overlooking the reflection pool, stared up the towering, white obelisk, and walked the trail that lead to the Thomas Jefferson memorial. While Treasa napped for a couple of hours (she deserved it after the long night they had), Steve tossed bread to ducks and geese, handing off a few pieces to the children taking a break for lunch so that they could laugh and giggle at the birds.

He took a tour through the Whitehouse—after putting his bags back up in a tree to fetch them afterward while Treasa sat by, on guard—and listened to the history of the building and all the presidents he had slept through. Barack Obama's face was grinning and solemn, but the soldier smiled up at him anyway—Gale would have been ecstatic.

The entire city was beautiful; a mix of green and white, modern and old. He could feel at home here, Steve thought, sitting down on the grass in front of the capitol building. Treasa sat down beside him, sniffing at his pockets for treats until he fished one out.

A Starbucks beckoned for some early evening coffee, but he took one look at their prices and ducked into the smaller coffee shop a few blocks down. There was no sign declaring that dogs weren't allowed, but Steve poked his head through the door anyway to get the attention of a barista.

"Sorry, but do you allow dogs in here?"

The young man stared at him for a few seconds and shrugged. "We don't mind as long as they're not causing trouble."

"Great," Steve nodded and opened the door, leading the bohemian shepherd inside. "Thanks." He set down his bags at a table, got his dog to sit down beside them, and approached the counter. "Can I have three of the raspberry croissants and an espresso con parra," he dug through his wallet for cash and smiled when he was handed a paper bag. As he waited for his coffee, he set out Treasa's bowls and filled them with food and water from his water bottle.

Steve watched the night life of the city wake up outside as he waited for his coffee, nibbling on a croissant as the sun sunk and the moon rose. He flipped through the pages of the paper to check baseball news (another habit he had never managed to break), just passing time, eating his croissants as the espresso machine chugged behind the counter.

"Do you need anything else?" The barista asked, setting the mug down in front of the soldier.

"No, but thank you," Steve smiled at him and wrapped both hands around his coffee, looking down to see that Treasa had finished her food and was laying on the floor, chin resting on the side of his duffle bag. Her sides rose and fell, golden-brown eyes closed as she slept.

He would stay here for a bit longer, the captain figured, flipping through the newspaper to read about politics (even though he wasn't fully caught up enough, politicians were politicians). If Steve had learned anything during his time in the war, it was that sometimes the best hiding spot was in plain sight—unless someone saw you.

The captain saw her standing across the street just as he had finished the last of his third cup of coffee, typing away on her phone, dark sunglasses large against her face. Blue jeans, white top, leather jacket—she looked just like every other person walking down the sidewalk at dinner time; looking for a place to get a quick bite to eat.

Except her crimson hair.

Everything except her crimson hair and the fact that she glanced up, caught his eye, and stepped out onto the crosswalk. His hand tightened around his mug, eyes dropping back to the newspaper, but Steve couldn't read anything now. Natasha pushed open the door to the cafe and ordered something that sounded way too sugary and sweet before sitting down across from him, one leg crossed over the other.

"You're a hard man to find."

Steve folded the newspaper slowly and set it down beside his last croissant. "Normally," he said pleasantly, giving her a half smile even though his eyes were hard. "When someone leaves, they don't want to be found."

Natasha looked him over—the jogging pants, t-shirt, hat. "We can help you figure this out."

"But what if you're part of the problem?" He leaned forward, hands clasping the mug in front of him, tone deceptively kind even though his face couldn't be cut by a diamond knife, "What if I just wanted to vanish, start a new life, be someone... different."

"You can try to leave the ghosts behind," the redhead said, her voice soft as the barista set down her coffee in front of her. "But they'll always follow you."

Steve gripped his coffee just a bit tighter and forcibly loosened his hand when he heard the ceramic groan. "Like they do to you?" He frowned and looked away, out the window. "It's a new century—and a new place to start over."

"Someone shot at you."

"And they also thought I was dead," the Captain scowled. "That is, until you came here."

The redhead's face was unreadable. "No one followed me here."

"They didn't have to," Steve's eyes narrowed. "You're a friend of Tony Stark, your face is public, now—and I know how the press work. People know you're already gone. And if they don't know it's you, then they know it's one of Stark's cars." He pushed his chair back, gathered up the last croissant and put it back in the bag. "All your covers are blown."

She finished off the last of his coffee and grabbed his duffle bag before he could reach for it. "Then let me help you."

"Help?" Steve snorted, his voice loud enough that the barista glanced over. Treasa whined and the soldier took a deep breath, taking his bag from the spy. "We should talk about this somewhere else," he gritted out, walking around her and out the door. She followed, falling in step with him while the dog trotted between them, head down and brown eyes up, flickering between the two of them.

They turned down a few blocks in silence, the moon shining brightly overhead, other people walking by with their dogs, their cell phones, their briefcases. Some wore shoes that clicked against the pavement, others had clothes that whispered in a gentle breeze. It was only until they stopped at an intersection that the captain spoke again. "I woke up and everything was different," he murmured, staring straight ahead while Natasha glanced over at him. "The people, the technology, the world. Everything smells different, tastes different, and I was getting used to it."

The red hand turned into an emerald walking man and Steve stepped forward with the crowd onto the street. "Someone knew that I was moving into that apartment. They even knew the exact date."

"They were watching."

"Yes," the soldier turned them down another street, this one lined with large buildings, the fronts made of glass, while the sidewalk was big enough for an army, much less the few people walking down it now. The crowds of the city were gone—in the way that the business side had been replaced by the younger, more adventurous folk. Bars, clubs, dance halls—whatever they called it now. People never really did change, did they? "And they found out about me—"

Natasha stopped him, though. "That wasn't anyone's fault," she told him, steps echoing across the buildings. "A person search can be done in all the intelligence corporations. But we can't change that, now."

"No, we can't," Steve murmured and paused, frowning. The leash on his wrist was tugging against the back of his hand. "Treasa?" She had stopped walking, ears moving back and forth, eyes flickering up to the rooftops. The soldier stopped and watched her for a second, the spy turning to glance at him, frowning. "We have to go," he hissed. "Treasa, come."

Jerking, the bohemian shepherd obeyed, bounding forward as Steve pulled Natasha into a parking garage. The soldier released Treasa of the leash and folded it up sloppily, shoving it into his pocket. "This was such a stupid idea," Steve muttered, looking around the cold, grey interior and the thick, rectangular beams. Most of the spaces were empty, very few cars left behind and the whole area glowed orange under the dim lights and all three of them took off for the ramp. "You see what's happening?" He snapped at Natasha.

"Well, I don't exactly see, anything—"

"Very funny," The captain turned to her and saw something large and black out of the corner of his eye.

A very large, very intimidating, and going very fast SUV roared through the opening to the parking garage, headlights shining bright, just about blinding the group. Steve grabbed Natasha and Treasa around their waists and jumped, turning in mid air so the shield on his back hit the side of the pillar when he leapt out of the way. God, he groaned, just laying there for a second. That hadn't been the brightest idea; the hit vibrated all the way down to his toes.

Natasha rolled to her feet as rubber burned and tires squealed.

Treasa circled the soldier, her head low, facing outward, and snarled.

And Steve... Steve stood up. "Finally," His teeth were bared in what could have been a smile. "Someone to punch." He placed all the bags on the ground, unzipped the circular one, and hefted his shield up onto his arm. Vibranium sung, proud to be in the air again and slammed through the windshield, killing the driver instantly. The captain followed it, playing leap frog over the hood of the car—hands braced against the black paint even as the steel caved in just slightly—and swung his legs forward to kick the man in the passenger seat with both of his heels.

Something snapped—cartilage, bone, the soldier didn't care. He grabbed the muzzle of the gun that poked through from the back and ripped the gun—unfamiliar, but the captain was sure he could figure it out—from the man's hands. "Leave," Steve snarled, dropping the gun. "Me," he reached out, gasping both of the back passengers by the collars of their shirts and pulled them close enough that he could see their eyes widening behind their tinted glasses. "Alone!" Slamming their heads together, the soldier watched as they slumped, unconscious, into their seats.

Ripping his shield out from where it was lodged, Steve climbed back down the car, ignoring the broken glass. Natasha, who had both gun in her hands, looked him over, her eyes narrowed. "Did you get it all out of your system?"

Steve took a few deep breaths and lowered the shield. "Yes, fine, alright," the soldier looked back at the SUV once his heart had stopped pounding and his hands weren't clenched into fists. "That was a bit much."

"Just a bit."

"We should—" He was going to say take cover. Hide. Get away, because there were sirens in the distance. He was going to say it—and then pain blossomed in his shoulder. It spread like a wild fire, eating at him, burning in his veins.

It was like watching a movie in slow motion—how the super soldier's body folded in on itself, blood spreading across his shirt front, blue eyes wide in shock before his two hundred pound form hit the floor, Treasa scrambling to get out of the way so she wasn't crushed. Natasha dove back behind a pillar, guns up to her chest as her heart rate burst. The shield had clattered against the concrete, echoing through the garage.

Steve gasped, his hands scrambling against the floor, trying to push himself up. The spy glanced around the pillar and saw him coming. Silver arm glinting under the orange light, looking as though it was on fire. He held a rifle, black mask covering the lower half of his face, goggle-like glasses over his eyes.

He walked as if he had nowhere else to be.

He walked as if he owned the stage.

Natasha felt an old wound burn on her hip and then turned around the pillar and shot—one, two, three. The Winter Soldier—because she knew his name. Everyone like her knew who he was—dove for cover, lifting up the rifle in his flesh arm—

And was immediately defending himself against gleaming, white canines. Treasa, who had hidden herself in the shadows, snapped her teeth, lips pulled back, ears flat against her head. She looked wild with her brown eyes gleaming gold in the jack-o-lantern glow from above, her fur looking more black as if it was swallowing the light around it.

Her bite sliced through skin, claws digging into armour, bones cracking under her fangs while she snarled and growled.

The Winter Soldier howled like a beast and dropped the rifle, his wrist useless—torn open, broken, and bleeding. Treasa sprung off him when he hit the ground—forced down under her sudden weight—slinking back like her great, great ancestors, bloodied teeth gleaming against her pink gums.

He reached for the rifle with his metal arm and she barked, lunging forward again and grabbing him by the ankle, wrenching him away. Fabric was torn, blood spilled across the ground, and Natasha approached slowly, kicked the rifle away, under a nearby car, with the toe of her shoe.

A shot rang out and the redhead ducked instinctually, looking up to see two more men approaching. She scrambled behind a car, reloading both her guns before laying across the ground, aiming at knees from under the vehicle

Treasa yelped as the sole of a boot got her in the shoulder and she scrambled away, claws scratching against pavement. She turned in a half circle, regained her footing, and lunged forward ready to rip one of his feet completely off as Natasha shot out both men at the knees and heard their screams when they fell, clutching ruined legs.

The spy turned to where the shepherd had cornered the assassin, saw the glint of metal, the flash of a knife—

"No!" Vibranium screamed a battle cry, hitting the knife away, both it and the shield screeching across the ground before they came to a stop. Natasha looked back and saw Steve on his knees, bloodied arm outstretched, his eyes wide and glazed, before crumbling in on himself again, clutching his wounded shoulder. Treasa faltered, not expecting the disk and the Winter Soldier knocked her away with his metal arm and scrambled up to his feet.

"Freeze!" Natasha ordered, lifting both guns up again, and fired. Lead deflected across his metal arm and he ripped the pistol from its holster and shot three bullets at her. She dove, covering Treasa with her body and looked up—

The Winter Soldier was gone.

I used to love fight scenes and now I'm just sitting here for three days going "HOW TO FIGHT? WHAT?"

Yeah, this was a bit later than I thought it would be. It's here now, enjoy.

Please review, I'm off to take a nap, lovelies.

Gospel