Chapter Four: Surveillance
The first two times Fury called her, she didn't even pick up. It was his fault really. After her last op, he'd demanded that she take at least a week off before doing anything spy related. The fact that she'd only argued with him for maybe thirty minutes was a better gauge of how tired Natasha was then those dark patches under her eyes. Fury told her that he didn't care what the hell she was doing in Montreal, as long as it had nothing to do with SHIELD. Now that he needed her, she was apparently determined to follow those orders to the letter. So he asked Barton to send her a text and when she finally called Fury quickly discovers he has a fight on his hands. As things turned out she wasn't pissed because he called her, it was because he'd forced her to go in the first place. Not that she wants anything to do with Cap.
"Why don't you ask Coulson?" She muttered, and he hears ice clinking in a glass, which sounds like a damned good idea right now.
"He's too close to the situation," Fury grunts back, rubbing his forehead.
"Would you stop with that bullshit," she retorts, clearly irritated. "You should have given this to Phil the moment you knew it was him. I can pretty much guarantee things would have gone better."
"I'm really not interested in talking about what went wrong," Fury huffs after taking a deep breath.
"I really don't have that much time."
"Natasha," he growls, but all that warning elicits is a soft chuckle.
"If I were you, I'd try something different than your usually crap. You're the one who screwed this up Nicky."
Fury bit down on his response. She's trying to push his buttons now and he's not going to give her the satisfaction. If he has to eat a little crow to get her help, he'll gladly reach for the salt and pepper. In the end Natasha tells him that she will think about and asked for a summary of everything that's happened since they chiseled Cap out of the ice. Two hours after that she texts him an affirmative and he smiles. Then his phone beeps again and Fury ends up feeling faintly relieved as he pages through the list of her demands.
Number one is every piece of information SHIELD has on Captain America. That's really not a problem, since Natasha already knows the biggest secret concerning Steve Rogers' activities during the war. She knows about the Tesseract. Probably had long before she ever came to SHIELD. That means he doesn't really have to explain why this is so important. Until the day they found Rogers in the ice, SHIELD had complete control over anyone who knew anything at all about the damned thing. Now that Captain America is back from his frozen prison, that's simply not true any more. Once his existence becomes public knowledge the string of lies that had kept the Tesseract a secret for so long was going to unravel. Before then, Steve Rogers had to be convinced that it was better for the world that the source of the Red Skull's power be kept a secret. Beyond anything else, this was the reason why Nick Fury was obsessed with getting Cap integrated into the 21st century in general, and with SHIELD in particular.
Phil Coulson was her second demand. She's been back at SHIELD for nearly five hours when he joins her, not quite able to disguise his glee. Obviously he'd already talked to Fury, who still thinks that Phil is the wrong person for this, but no one knows the ins and outs of the Cap story better then him. That's the upside of being obsessed. The moment she'd been asked to do this Natasha had decided she had to have Coulson. The huge stack of documents delivered from the archive just confirmed that. No one at SHIELD knew more about Rogers then he did, and right now she wanted that knowledge at her disposal, along with a man who's judgment she respects.
"So what's the play Tasha?" He asks with a smirk, needling her with that ridiculous nickname that he stole from Barton.
It's so familiar that she nearly smiles despite the irritation, because it serves as another reminder of how badly it could have gone for her if the second person she'd met at SHIELD had not been Phil Coulson. In the normal course of their work Natasha executes his plans, and both of them are good with that, mainly because Coulson doesn't have an ego that bruises when she decides to follow her instincts and ditches whatever it was he wanted her to do. It's that quality that allows him to take the role reversal in the present situation without batting an eye.
"You tell me Phil," she retorts, gesturing to the screen in front her, where the object of their little op is displayed in living color. And she can't help the chuckle that escapes at the look on Coulson's face when he realizes who she is spying on.
The third thing that Natasha had demanded from Fury (or the fourth, after reimbursement for the rest of her vacation) was video surveillance on Captain America. At first Fury refused, and she was about to step into a cab outside SHIELD headquarters before he finally called her and agrees. She spent the next five hours observing Rogers with cameras situated in each room of his residence.
According to SHIELD, Steve Rogers was supposed to be the perfect soldier. He took orders without complaint, never talked back to his superiors, and did exactly as he was told. It didn't take long to realize that she wasn't seeing that in him. The man she'd been watching didn't look like someone waiting for his next order, as much as a man who is caught behind enemy lines. Most of the time he was either pacing back and forth across the main room or sitting on the largest couch, staring out the window. It's all pretty boring, which is the essence of expertly done surveillance. The only exception to this was when he stripped his shirt off to do calisthenics.
Mostly he does sit-ups or push-ups. Hundreds of them. Very rapidly and with seemingly no effort at all. According to his profile, the serum had heightened his speed, strength, and powers of endurance considerably beyond that of normal human capabilities. What isn't in the file was that it also transformed him into a perfect physical specimen. Rogers had the kind of body that women (and some men) dream of but never ever get a chance to see. Natasha considers herself something of a connoisseur of the male (and female) form, and she's never seen a physique that could compare with his. She has to wonder if Coulson feels the same way, given how he's staring at the screen.
"Damn it Phil," she mutters with a smirk, "would you stop drooling."
"Why the surveillance?" He asks, dragging his gaze from the monitor to her.
"Recon. I need to know if he's pissed off or just annoyed. How well he sleeps and whether he eats. How he feels about being kept here and if he plans to do something about it." She paused to study his reaction. "I told Fury that you could approach this like a professional."
"So this isn't a suicide watch? You're not worried about the kill pill they found."
"Not really," she answered in a derisive tone of voice. "Considering what he was up against, I'd ask for one if I were in his place."
While Natasha isn't as knowledgeable as Coulson, she knows enough about Hydra to be sure that be taken captive by them would not be acceptable. Torture wasn't just a means of extracting information for people like them. It was entertainment. To her the cyanide is a perfectly rational precaution, one that she would certainly she would ask for herself if there any possibility she might encounter the people she used to work for. One of the few certainties that Natasha had fixed in her mind was that she would never allow herself to fall into their hands again.
"So what have you learned so far?" He asks, looking at the monitor once more.
"I'm not sure yet," she answers.
She turns her attention back to Rogers. He's sitting on the couch again, eyes focused on some sheets of paper spread out in front of him There was a tension in his body, like a coiled spring waiting for the right moment to release, while his face has assumed a mask of supreme indifference to his circumstance. Maria's account of her confrontation with him made it clear that he didn't trust SHIELD and didn't really accept their authority. Natasha had to wonder if it was something deeper then that.
"How many ops did Rogers run against Hydra?" She asked softly, her hands carefully folded on the desk in front of her.
"According to the official records it was seven."
"I don't think so. I see too much experience for that."
"Like I said, that's according to the official record. Supposedly there were other operations directed against Hydra's infrastructure; eliminating supplies, destroying equipment depots, ambushing weapons convoys. Killing scientists who worked for Hydra where ever they could be found. Certainly Captain Rogers and his men were heavily involved."
"Then why wasn't any of it included in this so called official history?
"No one really knows," Coulson answered with a shrug. "We're not even sure who prepared it."
"Margret Carter?"
"That's my guess Natasha. There was no one person named, but I think it's safe to assume that along with the suppression of any information concerning Hydra, that she was responsible for this as well."
She looked at the screen again. He was still staring at the papers. Natasha tapped out a command, and the camera zoomed in on them. It was a surprisingly detailed map of all the places he'd visited inside SHIELD headquarters since he had regained consciousness. Every room he'd been in, every door he had passed; all done to scale. There was even a separate drawing of the area immediately around the elevator, which was the only possible route to the ground floor from his location.
"Fuck," Coulson grunted behind her. "What is he trying to do?"
"Planning an escape."
"Where would he go?"
"I'm sure he has no idea Phil, which is probably why he actually hasn't done anything yet."
"But why?"
Natasha is about to answer that she is sure she doesn't know, but suddenly she does. Damn but they were all idiots. "What was Rogers doing seventy-two hours ago?" She demands angrily.
"He was sleeping in the recovery room," Coulson answers, after glancing at his notes.
"No Phil, he was assaulting the last Hydra base. He was killing the Red Skull. He was crashing a plane into the ice." Coulson shoots a glance at the monitor, then turns his head and stares at her clearly confused. Maybe Fury is right she thinks. Maybe he can't distance himself.
"Think about what happened to him. When he put that plane into a dive, Rogers knew he was going to die. Then he suddenly wakes up with people he doesn't know telling him he's jumped seventy years into the future."
"What are you telling me, that he doesn't believe us?"
"Would you?"
"Tasha, he was outside."
"For twenty minutes," she sneered, clearly angry. "They should be taking him out for a couple of hours each day." Natasha took a deep breath. It wasn't that she was upset on account of Rogers. Stupidity always pissed her off. "He may believe it consciously Phil, but I see a man who has not fully accepted his situation. A man who is still in the mission."
"How do we change that?"
"That's simple. How do you know when an op in finished?"
Coulson furrows his brow for several seconds. Then he looks at his partner and grins.
He wakes up screaming Peggy's name, to the sound of splintering wood. There are nightstands on either side of his bed, two small tables really, with one drawer apiece. The one by the right side is in pieces. Steve looks at his hand and then back to the scraps of wood on the floor. He took a few deep breaths, and buries his face in his hands. Just moments before, he'd been in the plane, fighting the Skull again in his dreams, just like it was seventy-two hours in the past, seventy years ago. Only this time the bastard is winning, slamming hammer blows into his chest and face, knocking Steve back into the cube. As soon as he touches it his body begins to disintegrate, pieces of him leaking into a sky that's splashed with color molded into fantastic shapes, smeared across the heavens. He can hear Schmidt laughing, but when he looks it's not the crazy German he sees, it's Peggy. She begs him to stay in a quiet voice that he somehow hears above the discordant roar of his own fragmentation. There is no pain until the final moments, which seem to stretch on and on as his body is ripped asunder. The last thing he sees before jolting back to consciousness are Peggy's tears. So he sits on the edge of the bed fighting to control the tremors until the sound of someone banging on his door finally gets his attention.
After snatching a towel from the bathroom to wipe the sweat off his face, he hurries out into the living room just in time to see the door swing open. Agent Harris is just stepping into the room when Steve plants himself in front of the man. When their eyes meet, Steve can see the fear. Apparently the word has gotten out about the tests they ran on him the other day. Which might explain why SHIELD left him alone yesterday. Steve had expected more attempts to examine him, or at least another talk with the shrink. What he got was a few books by F. Scott Fitzgerald and the three meals he ordered. He wasn't exactly unhappy to be left alone, but the situation still puts him on edge.
"Please stand aside sir," Harris demanded, but the attempt to assert his authority doesn't really work, mostly because he took two steps back after he said it.
"No," Steve answers firmly. "This is my room. and I want you out of here now."
He can see the doubt in the other mans eyes. He can also see more agents behind him and he suddenly has a bad feeling about this, because while Harris would probably back down on his own, Steve doesn't think his back up will let him.
"What the fuck is going on here?" Demands a voice, and the reaction is instantaneous. Harris straightens up and backs away, and he can see the others doing the same.
"Sorry sir," Harris squeaks, "but we have orders to make sure…"
"Shut up Harris," the voice interrupts, but the tone isn't exactly harsh. More like amused then anything else. Then the group of agents makes room and the source of the voice saunters into his view. And it's that guy from the other day, when he was lifting the weights, who was dressed in a sleeveless shirt.
"Doesn't really look like he needs your help," the man says, after winking at him. "So why don't you kids go play some where else." One of them starts to protest, but quickly shuts her mouth when the man turns to look at her. Steve watches them go with relief, which quickly fades when his savior steps across the threshold, shutting the door behind him.
Before he can think of anything to say, a hand is thrust at him and Steve takes it, more out of instinct then anything else "Clint Barton," he states, as they shake.
"Steve…Steve Rogers."
"You ok Rogers?" Barton asks after a few seconds, and there's no demand or emotion in his voice, just a simple request for information.
"I'm fine," Steve answered, his voice a little horse. "Just a bad dream. Your friends overreacted."
"We're SHIELD, that's what we do," the guy retorts with a smirk. And the next second that smile is gone. "You get them a lot?"
"Not really, at least not when I'm on a mission," Steve answers, a little wary about talking to anyone about this. For the most part it's actually true. He almost never gets one in the field. It's afterward that they come, sometimes night after night, until even he is groggy from the rest denied. Barton just stares at him for a few seconds.
"So you gonna talk to Doc Jennings about?" Barton finally asks, turning away and glancing around the room.
"Does that really help? Talking about it?"
"Not much."
"Then why…"
"Cause once in a while it does. Think about it." Then he flashed Steve a quick half grin, and lets himself out of the room.
He spends a long time in the shower, letting the hot water slowly relax his body. After that he takes the pad of paper and pencils in hand and begins to draw. At first he does quick sketches from his new world, simple drawings of Fury, Hill, and some of the other agents he's seen. Next he works on a more complex subject, using an impressionistic approach of garish colors and indefinite shapes to fill out the picture of the new version of Times Square he still can't get straight in his head. It's dawn before he sets the picture aside, not satisfied with what he sees. It's the kind of work that really needs watercolors to look right, and he isn't much good with those. He's never had enough money to work with canvas and paints. He stands up to stretch and then reaches for his pencils again.
He's only used models a couple of times, and while that resulted in some of his best work, it isn't an option with a subject that he hasn't seen for seventy years, even if it's only a few days to him. Steve has drawn Peggy at least a dozen times, but he's never been happy with the finished product. He can't seem to capture that almost playful smile that is the counterpoint to the iron determination she exudes like a cloud of perfume. And Peggy was determined about so many things.
Victory was of course at the very top of the list. If they didn't win against the fiends they were fighting, none of her other dreams would be possible, including whatever ones she might have had for them. So she never would have considered anything with him before they had won through, and it was something he respected, and certainly agreed with. It would have been a distraction, and even worse a threat to her tenuous position with the SSR. Because while there were plenty of things Steve could have gotten away with, any scent of impropriety would have had Peggy on the first plane back to London. But like the other excuses he had, that never should have been a reason for not letting her know.
Peggy takes shape in the paper, the sweet curve of her mouth, those expressive eyes, the dimples that form when ever she favored him with a smile. He struggles a bit with her hair, which has always been one of his vexations, but this time it comes out better then most, and he feels like he's on a roll and really getting her. Steve can practically feel the crispness of the freshly starched white collar that he fills in around the slim column of her neck. After nearly ninety minutes he sits back to take Peggy in. While her expression is playful, the underlying fierceness of her personality still lingers in her eyes. And suddenly he knows that this isn't just something he made up in his head. It's part of a memory.
There was a party, one of those rare celebrations they allowed themselves in the wake of a particularly hard mission. None of them were exactly happy; it was more like a feeling of relief. Relief that they were alive, relief that one more of Schmidt's bases was destroyed. That the war was a fraction closer to being over. Philips provides the booze and then made himself scarce. They're just sitting around, Steve watching as his men began the long task of drinking themselves into a stupor when she roars into the room with a phonograph, a platter of perfectly cooked steaks, and her smile. Steve remembers everyone of those smiles and this was one of the best, because while she smiled at every one of his men, he could see for the first time that there was a difference when one was directed at him. His hands gently brush over the image, then he turns the picture over. It's a sight he'll never see again, except in his art.
He has just about finished packing the art supplies away when he hears a soft knocking at his door. Answering was something he didn't want to do, but they had keys so it really wasn't much of a choice. It least he be in control if he opened it. On the other side of the door he expected Hill or maybe Fury ready to give him a butt chewing over what happened last night. Instead, there are two people he has never seen before. The man wore a sharp, dark blue suit, and a bland expression, though Steve could something fighting to breakthrough his nondescript exterior. The woman took his breath away.
She was beautiful in a way he'd never seen before, with a perfect face that was set in a flawless mask, green eyes boring in on his own, and he suddenly remembers who he is and has to fight hard against the urge to look away. Because whoever this woman is, she is just too dangerous to take eyes off of, no matter how pretty she might be. Then her perfect pink lips part into a smile and meeting her gaze becomes both harder and easier. In spite of wariness he feels himself relax, and that becomes a piece of cake when he finally realizes that she's wearing at outfit more suited to his time then her own.
It's a dark green pleated woolen skirt that ends about mid calf (and matches her eyes). A wide black belt cinched around a surprisingly narrow waist. The snow white blouse peaks out of the top and cuffs of her matching wool jacket. Even with the two inch heels of her oxfords, the woman is nearly eight inches shorter then his six foot three, but he doesn't think his size would be any advantage with this one, if it wasn't for the serum. It's her stance he abruptly grasps, the way she holds herself, like a predator under complete control, or a snake ready to strike. He sees so many conflicting signals that he barley hears her introduce herself, and awkwardly extends his hand when she offers her own.
"Agent Natasha Romanov," she states, in a flat, husky voice.
"Pleased to meet you ma'am," he mumbles, "I'm Steve Rogers." She nods and steps back to make room for her companion.
"Agent Phil Coulson," the man says, with a tone of voice Steve recognizes. Admiration. It's something he's never comfortable with. He doesn't think he deserves the attention he gets for doing his duty.
"There are some things we need to discuss with you," Agent Romanov declares.
He takes a deep breath and slowly shakes his head. "I'm sorry ma'am, but I don't really feel like doing much of anything for SHIELD right now."
"Excuse me Captain Rogers, but has anyone seen fit to ask you anything concerning you last operation?"
"No Agent Coulson," he answered softly, with something like confusion in his expression. "No one has."
"That's why we're here Captain Rogers," Natasha tells him, after nodding to Coulson. "You need to be debriefed."
"Why would you want to do that?" He asked in a dubious tone of voice. "According to Fury, that was over seventy years ago."
"That's really not true for you, is it." Natasha states, in a way that makes it clear she is not asking him a question.
"No," he whispers looking at the woman, fighting to contain the emotions of three days ago. Especially that final minute.
"There was never a final report Captain," Coulson says, just before the silence becomes uncomfortable. "We need this sir, and we think you need it too."
Steve doesn't think he can hold it together if he actually says anything, so he just nods. Then he steals a look at Romanov and wonders if she knows. While no one would ever confuse the two of them, the SHIELD agent is dressed in a manner very close to Peggy's preferred style. Except of course for the color. Peggy told him more then once that she detested wearing green.
Thanks for all the feedback. Please keep the comments coming, they are great motivation. Sorry about the lack of Ziva, but she's in the next update and will be fairly regular after that.