Chapter 4: Right Behind You

Summary: More flashbacks. More angst. Natasha going into the lion's den.

Notes: Alight, guys. I'm finally back. Feel like I finally got to a good place with this and it's just a matter of full steam ahead. I'm hoping to have this finished and rolled out before Thanksgiving, because I've got an idea for that well. As a fallback, I could switch up the idea for Christmas, but I'd like to do Thanksgiving. We'll see if that actually happens. Haha. Anyhoo. Here you go. Questions, comments, suggestions? Message me, comment, whatever you wanna do. Thank you to everyone who's reading and leaving kudos and comments. I LOVE YOU ALL. Seriously, like, I'd bow down to you all-if I didn't have a sleeping, cuddly dog beside me, sound asleep and snoring under a blanket right now...Let me know what you think. PS-Song title taken from James Durbin, one of the guys from a past season of American Idol. He dropped a surprisingly fantastic album after he was voted off. Go check it out.

((()))

She came awake slowly, almost as though she was swimming up through a puddle of dark sludge. Frowning and stiff, she struggled to pull herself out of it and sit up, but finally she gave a hard tug of pure will and managed the task.

She blinked blearily in the sunny room and found the clock to discover it was after eight. But she was alone in the bed—and the space where he usually lay beside her was cool, clearly vacated some time ago. Scowling and shivering, she dragged herself up, every muscle in her body protesting as she struggled to stretch.

Coffee. She smelled coffee. Strong coffee.

He was a God. She'd married. A God.

"Jamie?" she called, groggily as she slid down to the polished wood floor, but received no answer. Everything was a muddy blur, streaked in shadow, miscellaneous half-thoughts tumbling messily around in her head.

She'd woken late, late into the night and felt that strange pull again. She'd stumbled restlessly out here, and stood…here. She looked around. Yes, here, she'd stood here, next to the counter, and…and why had she done that?

Another strange dream? Yeah, that must've been it.

And then…and then…

An episode? Had she dreamed that? She didn't remember how she'd gotten to bed, but of course, that must've been Jamie. Had he found her out here, curled up on the floor?

"Fuck…" she muttered to herself, shaking her head out like a dog. It was so fucking spotty. She remembered confusion, pain, panic, then…nothing. Nothing but darkness and…Russian.

He'd been speaking to her in Russian again.

He'd taken to doing that lately, murmuring to her in Russian to calm her. While usually, she was annoyed when she didn't understand something, with this, the cadence of his voice on the edge of her consciousness soothed her rapidly fraying nerves. Whatever terms of endearment they were, she found she didn't mind. She looked around and spied a small slip of paper, and crossed to it. 'Ran into town for some things, said his neat script. Won't be long. Made coffee'. And a tiny little heart in blue ink.

She smiled. The tough Winter Soldier was sort of a sap.

She felt guilty again. He was looking less like his handsome self and more gaunt and deep-eyed, like his alter ego, empty-gazed and hollow. He was on the edge of insomnia most of the time, anyway, and now she was keeping him up at night with her crap.

She poured her coffee with a shaking hand and took a desperate sip, nearly burning her mouth in her haste. Rolling her eyes, she set the mug down with a hard clunk and threw herself tiredly down at the kitchen table, snatching up her Starkphone at the same time and swiping it unlocked.

Any change? read a text from Bruce.

She sighed and typed back to him, taking another sip of coffee. Another episode. Faster onset than the last.

Any other strange side effects?

No. Why?

A pause. Just…I've been comparing this to the notes from James' file, and I want to keep close tabs on what's different and what's similar. Gives me something more concrete to go on.

Like what?

Have you been having any strange dreams?

Um. No. She frowned, sipping again at her coffee and pulling a face at the bitter lack of creamer. Her heart stammered over the strange sensations she'd been having. Surely that wasn't…? Should I be?

There's just an indication here that James experienced night terrors and delusions associated with trauma. Whether that refers to the initial fall from the extreme height of the train or all that resulted is slightly unclear.

Does that matter? She snorted.

I suppose not, no.

So, I might be experiencing some weird… She paused, chewing on her lip.

Strange feelings, perhaps. A nightmare or two. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a slight shift in your perception of reality—not, of course, that there's any call for concern or alarm. What you suffered—while extremely traumatic in itself—

Isn't anywhere near being brainwashed and tortured for sixty years, she cut him off, typing before his next message could come through. Right.

You might not experience any of this. I'm only warning you, should it come up. It's likely that James hasn't mentioned this because he doesn't want to scare you. But the intense pain you're experiencing, combined with your sleep depravity might just cause some strange things to crop up. Okay? Perfectly normal.

She sighed again, biting on her lip and thinking of their strange midnight trespasser. Was he all just in her head…? Was that why Jamie kept brushing it off? Seriously—she was seeing things now?! Pausing and forcing a moment of calm, she swallowed and took a deep breath, typing a reply.

Okay. I guess.

I want you to tell James about anything you think is weird, though, okay? He should know. Got it?

She smirked. There went Doctor Banner again. Loud and clear, doc.

Hang in there, Darce. You're not alone.

Sighing again, she set the phone down and stared out at the surf. "Great," she said aloud. "Now I'm going fucking crazy."

((()))

"Chort!" Natasha muttered under her breath as she pushed back from her laptop. It was exactly as she'd suspected.

Steve looked up from his sketch. "What's wrong, Nat?"

She pressed a hand to her face, rattling off a long string of Russian curses that even Steve couldn't follow.

He stood, setting his drawing pad down. "What, Tasha?"

She shoved at the table and her rolling chair skidded irritably back, her Eastern European temper getting the better of her. "I was right—they walked right into a trap, Rogers."

He paused halfway across the room, frowning. "What do you mean?" he asked, a tentative edge to his voice. "It's never a good sign when you call me that at home…"

She stood and began pacing. "I hacked the Tower."

An eyebrow hitched. "You hacked into Tony's system?"

She gave him a look. "Really, Steve?"

He shrugged defensively and crossed the remaining distance. "Well. I mean, I knew you were good, but I thought Darce was the only one that could hack that thing…"

She snorted, gesturing to the computer. "I got into his files. The log for the flight last week has been tampered with. And it was someone who covered their tracks well, because it didn't set off any of JARVIS' alarms."

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the arm of the recliner. "So…what are you saying?"

She gestured more emphatically. "I'm saying someone went in and changed the log, took a look at the employee list for the private jet and the information was hastily pieced back together. Could fool JARVIS, but couldn't fool a real person who knows what patterns to look for. Someone sifted through that info, covered their tracks, but they left just the smallest trail. Enough of a ghost to keep under the security radar, but not someone who knows hacking. Darcy, for example. Me."

"So…Tony's people…"

"Never showed. The pilot called in sick and the flight attendant had a car accident."

"Accident…right."

"Exactly, Steve."

"So…who flew them out?"

Shaking her head, her face hard in frustration, she didn't answer; only charged into their room and started rummaging around in the closet.

Steve followed her, already pulling out his phone. "I'll call Star—"

"Don't call Tony yet."

He stopped in the doorway. "…Why not?"

She shook her head, a force as she yanked her go bag out of the closet and threw it on the bed. "Because this is Darcy we're talking about here."

He shrugged, blinking. "Yeah, and he loves her like a daughter. He'll want to know—"

"He'll want to go charging in, in his bright, obvious suit and he'll blow everything. He's smart, he's methodical, but something like this takes infiltration type recon, Rogers. He won't want to wait while I ferret out what's going on."

He sighed, already feeling the tension in the back of his neck. "And what do you think is going on? I mean, we already know they made it there. What's to say it wasn't just a coincidence?"

She opened the drawer and began pulling out all her dark clothing and throwing it on the bed. "Who hacks a system like Tony's over a coincidence? Something as complicated as JARVIS would've taken even the most experienced hacker days from the outside. Darcy and I have it easier from the interior."

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "But how are there loopholes in JARVIS' systems?"

She shrugged. "Systems take constant work. If there was an update going on they may have snuck in. Who knows? If we're dealing with HYDRA, there's no telling what type of technology they might have at their disposal to begin with." She zipped up the bag and ducked back into the closet for her weapons case. "I've got a contact that should be able to pull a few strings for me."

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. "And this contact is…?"

"He's a techie. Technically, he's SHIELD, but he's off-book. Nick kept him on the payroll for double work. He sets up tech and does odd jobs for the baddies out there, then alerts Nick when things get hairy."

"So he's a narc?"

She hesitated. "…Sort of. Not sure how he was placed. Nick…"

"Wouldn't tell you?" He rolled his eyes, leaning on the door jamb. "Gee, what a surprise." He gestured with his chin. "So, what do you call this?" He knew better than to broach it directly with her. He had learned to pick his battles—not to mention his words—very carefully with her. Black Widow, indeed.

Surprisingly, she slumped. "Steve. I…I have to…"

"You have to go after your friend? Our friends?" He was getting awfully good at ignoring the lump at the back of his throat. Or maybe he'd finally been lulled into confidence concerning Bucky's ability to take care of himself.

For God's sake, Steve, he nearly killed you. If that's what he's like when he's brainwashed, what's he really like in a fight with his full faculties? He had a feeling he'd still only managed to see him in action when he was holding back.

She sank onto the bed. "I…"

"You care about Darcy. That's not something you have to confess, Nat. I mean…have you…ever had…a friend before…like, a girlfriend?" he asked, delicately.

She started picking at her cuticles like she did when she was nervous. But she didn't answer. She didn't need to. "She's vulnerable."

He sat down next to her, the bed bowing under his heavy weight. "She's with Buck."

"Just because he's the Winter Soldier doesn't mean he's not vulnerable, too, Steve," she snapped. "Just vulnerable to other things." She sighed. "And Bucky…Steve, you don't…understand what it's like to have red in your ledger. You can't…understand what you'd do to try and wipe it clean, to keep others from…getting covered in it because of you. I do. He does. If I…can help him…" She stood, swallowing. "I'm going in."

He leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. "Alone?"

This gave her pause. Real pause, this time, and she stopped and turned back to him, her face changing into an expression he was sad to find he couldn't read. "Steve…if we both go in, we won't have cover." She reached out to smooth the material of his t-shirt over his shoulder. "Let me do what I do."

He sighed. "Tasha…You're going in blind."

That small little smirk at the corner of her mouth. "Ain't that how it usually works?"

He frowned. "I'm perfectly capable of covert tactical support."

The smirk grew and she stepped up to slide between his legs and tilt his face back so that their eyes met. "I know, Rogers. But I need you here. I might need you to provide support from here. And I might need you here to mobilize Tony. You're better off staying in the city." She leaned down to kiss him, deep and slow and he felt his entire body tighten.

Just as he gave a soft moan and wound his arms around her waist to pull her closer, she backed off, sliding deftly out of his grip. He watched her quietly for a long moment as she packed. Black. All her black gear, the cat suit that he loved. That thing did things for him he'd never expected, at least, not back, the way he'd been in '43.

Her Widow's Bites. She paused to snap one and make sure it crackled a reaction, then she slid it in, too. Her Berettas. He swiped a handgun up and stared at it. "You've got a SIG? When did you get a SIG?" It was top line, like Buck's, powerful, and—quite frankly—scary, even for Steve. He remembered it's capabilities, after all, waking up to a smirking Sam.

On your left.

She took it back and slid it into her bag. "Since Buck showed me his." That was all she offered.

He chuckled, unable to stop it as he shook his head. Then he followed her out of the room and to the door of their loft. She pulled open the door and then stopped, turning to face him, her expression one of open vulnerability he often wondered if she only showed him.

"I…" she started.

He took pity on her. "I'll head to the Tower, see what's going on over there. I'll…I'll make up some story, okay? You heard about an old handler of yours? From the Red Room? That should appease Tony for the time being."

She nodded. "You'll stay in our old place?"

He shrugged. "You do, when I'm gone. Makes enough sense, won't draw any attention."

She nodded. After a moment's more of staring up at him, she finally set her bag down and put her hands to his chest, her green eyes wide and bright. Her scarlet hair spilled over her shoulder. "You, um…You're letting me go and do this."

He shrugged again. "I'm not letting you. Tasha, I'm not your handler. Remember?" Sometimes—only in rare moments of vulnerability—she needed reminding. "I'm your husband."

She nodded. "I know."

"Somehow. Still not sure how that happened."

She smirked. "Well, you pleaded your case pretty strongly that night in Abu Dhabi."

He felt his cheeks warm. "I don't remember doing much pleading for anything other than for you to take your clothes off."

She laughed, pressing her forehead to his chest and hiding her face. "Thank you."

"For what—begging you to take your clothes off?"

But she'd sobered again, and reached up to cup his face. "For not asking me to change."

Sobered now, himself, he just nodded, reaching up to take her hands in his.

"I love you," she murmured.

"Love you, too," he returned, leaning down to kiss her again.

And she left.

((()))

Tony heaved a hard sigh and leaned back in his rolling chair, the drone in front of him a tangled mess of parts and dangling wires. He'd been futzing with it all day, and to no real progress. Why this one was such a pain in his rear end when the others worked to general agreement, was beyond him. He'd officially given up. If the thing wasn't working by the time the kid got back, he was scrapping it and using it for parts.

The kid.

Kids, really, which was strange, considering that technically speaking, Barnes was…older than he was…or was he younger?

He rubbed at his aching forehead with his palm and growled out another frustrated sigh. He might as well admit it to himself—he was bored.

Tony Stark. Was bored.

And strangely lonely.

He'd never really been the type before, content to work alone. Until Pepper. And Darcy.

Something else to admit. He missed her. The Tower felt too quiet without her constant humming and flitting about, without her little sarcastic remarks as he threatened DUM-E, her movie nights in the common room, only half her time spent actually watching the movie, the other half joking under her breath with Barnes and throwing popcorn at Steve's head.

Frankly, the fact that he felt strongly enough about her to miss her at all was fairly miraculous. He'd always hated kids, had vowed never to have one, that he'd be an awful father. For most of his life, he'd barely functioned as an adult, letting Pepper lead him about by the hand.

But her missing-ness was making him itchy and he wasn't sure why. It was like a sliver he couldn't rea—

"Tony?"

He jumped, nearly toppling his expensive, ergonomic desk chair onto the floor with him in it as Pepper's voice patched in. "Yes, Miss Potts?" he answered, smirking at their little tradition.

"You coming up?"

He refocused his attention on the drone, mapping out what parts he'd pull off first. "What do you mean?" he said, distractedly. He sat forward and went to it with his screwdriver. "It's early."

"It's after eleven, Tony," she answered patiently. The woman was so saintly in her patience with him, he considered it another miracle altogether. "Come on up to bed. You know how you get when you haven't slept."

"Unusually focused?"

"Try manic, Tony," she corrected.

He didn't answer, instead rolling his chair to his tool bench and snatching up a socket wrench instead. "Won't be long. I'm just gonna take apart 13. The bastard's officially surrendering.

She sighed through the com link. "Tony. That'll take you hours, and it's not an emergency. You can do that in the morning."

The clicking of the wrench filled the space.

"Tony…" Her voice softened.

He swallowed.

"Tony…I know you're missing her. But you need to come up to bed."

"Missing who?"

Another sigh. "Tony. You might have everyone else fooled, but you don't fool me. I'm your wife."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potts."

The bemusement in her voice was clear as a bell. "You've been uncharacteristically restless the past week, even for you. You miss her. Or maybe both of them. I can tell you've got a soft spot for both of them."

"Don't know what you're talking about, babe," he insisted.

Now she chuckled. "You never could lie to me, Mr. Stark. You took her under your wing last spring. Don't pretend."

He slumped tiredly. "I hate you, Miss Potts. I may need to hire a replacement."

But she just laughed her bell-like laugh. "Come up to bed, Tony." A demure pause. "I'll be, uh…waiting…" And she cut out.

He stood and tossed the tool and his grease rag down on his chair, sighing dejectedly. "God damn it, Lewis." If she was still, technically, Lewis.

Whatever. He shut off the light. He was going to bed. The sneaky little voice at the back of his mind could just suck it.

((()))

The man in the bespoke suit wasn't alone this time.

She stared at him, trying to figure out why his distant form seemed vaguely familiar, not to mention wonder if he—they, now—was just a figment of her spread-too-thin mental state.

Restless, she'd slipped from their bed again, grateful for Bucky's slowly smoothed out sleeping habits as she shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen, feeling that familiar pull in her veins. She didn't understand it, but she was powerless to stop it. And she could move about more freely now that he'd gone to the drugstore and gotten some of those weird, awesome pain patches. They were working like a charm, keeping the residual aches at bay. She doubted they would do anything against an actual episode, but she was content enough in the meantime. Maybe she'd even get some sex out of it…

So she stood there, arms crossed stubbornly, watching him and his partner as they talked, nodding, then shaking their heads, like they were arguing in the night.

They talked for ten minutes before slowly heading back up the embankment again.

She frowned, trying to puzzle it out.

"Darcy." His voice was hard this time, not sleepy, and he used her full name, something he rarely did.

She blinked, cutting her eyes over to him. "I'm in trouble, I know."

He came into the room, pulling a hand through his mussed shaggy hair. "Darcy, baby, c'mon. You can't keep doing this. You're under enough stress as it is."

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her hip in the vain hope that he'd notice the teeny pajama set she was wearing.

He didn't. Or, rather, of course he did, not that he was about to act on it.

"It's not like I'm seizing every five minutes, Jamie. I am capable of walking around."

He stopped in front of her, sighing. "Yes, I know. But you need more rest than you're allowing yourself to get. That will only elongate healing time. That shortens the trip that you keep complaining is ruined."

She grumbled. "It is ruined."

He slid his arms around her. "No, it's not, Darce." He tugged her in close and pressed his mouth to her forehead. "We're together."

"You're such a sap. That's your superhero weakness."

"I'm not a superhero."

She poked at his left arm. "Oh, yeah?"

His left appendage whirred softly as he swung her up into his arms. "This arm has been used for very, very bad, naughty things. That automatically takes me out of the running."

She snorted.

"What were you doing up, anyway?" he asked as he laid her gently down again in the bed and went around to join her.

She studied the crisp sheets, gray in the dim room. "That guy was back. The one in the suit that I saw last week." She tugged at the top sheet. "You think I'm crazy, I know."

He sighed and gathered her close. "I don't think you're crazy, Darce. I think you're exhausted."

She pressed her palm to his bare chest, and his sternum was warm where it pulsed under her hand, his heartbeat rapid, as usual, strong and steady. She nodded.

His mouth found the shell of her ear. "So, sleep, dollface. Okay?" He tucked his face against the hollow where her shoulder met her neck, and his exhale was soft and soothing on her skin.

Her heart squeezed. She'd missed this, tangling close in the dark, nothing between them, nothing to worry about. Just his lean body, solid and steady. His warm skin, especially on wintry nights and Jane had had her out and about all day in the snow.

She curled her leg around him and he hitched her knee over his hip.

Finally, snug in his embrace, she slept.

((()))

Bedded down for the night in a tiny safe house, high in the Hollywood Hills, Natasha turned on her Starkphone. The Red Eye flight had felt much longer than the average Red Eye flight and she was exhausted, and beyond glad she'd thought to set this place up, tucked into the cliffs of California, some years ago, just after Clint had flipped her. One of her longest days in Manhattan had quickly turned into one of her longest days period, and she was glad to have finally finished her trip, secure in the idea that she'd come on a correct hunch.

Lasov had done his digging, and sure enough, a cagey operation had installed the pilot and the flight attendant, a dingy looking blond that probably had spent the flight ogling Bucky and annoying Darcy to no end.

But her informant had been cagey about just who she was dealing with. He'd given her little, obviously spooked beyond belief, which probably meant he was in the middle of one of their operations and didn't appreciate being pumped right in the middle of it, raising his chances of his cover being blown.

Less than thrilled with the just barely confirmation she'd received, she chewed on her thumbnail for a moment while her phone loaded before catching herself and shoving her hand under her thigh on the suede couch.

Nervous habits. She was developing them left and right. Steve said it was natural, especially in their line of work, but she resented it. She'd been trained, taught—forced—into being even keeled and unshakeable, cool and steady in the face of danger and tension. She was good at what she did. She'd been the best of her group, a favorite. Where usually being a favorite meant leniency and treats, favors and an easy ride, in the Red Room, it just meant you were pushed that much harder, the belt to the wrists if she showed any inclination toward weakness. She'd had the nervousness beaten out of her. Now it was coming out of the woodwork.

It was Steve.

It had to be.

She felt comfortable now, safe and secure.

Because of him.

She was letting herself get sloppy.

Was that a bad thing? Could she still do her job, and do it to the fullest extent—still be the Black Widow—and feel secure in the knowledge that nothing would remain changed afterward?

Her phone chimed and she found a text from the man in question. Tell me you're safe, was all it said.

She smirked, her heart unclenching. Roger that, she texted and hit send, then yawned widely and slouched back against the cushions.

There'd been an obnoxious kid a seat down from her the entire flight that had been enough on the side of Holy Terror to make her glad she'd vowed never to have children, even before her sterilization.

Think you're clever, huh? Anything to report, Agent Romanoff?

She snorted indelicately and shook her head. Whenever they were apart like this, their relationship devolved into teasing banter, and at first, she'd been surprised he was capable of it.

Maybe Darcy had rubbed off on him a little. Of course, it wasn't as though Bucky wasn't full of sarcasm and his own brand of affectionate teasing. He and Darcy were tailor made for each other.

Not much, Captain. Definitely not Tony's staff.

Not good.

Should I start calling you Captain Obvious instead?

She smiled. What he'd done to her in the past year… She shook her head, her heart squeezing. He'd finally quelled the inclination in her to call it a weakness, her feelings for him.

Really obnoxious kid on the flight, too. Didn't get any sleep.

I'm sure he wasn't that bad. You're just uptight about Darcy.

Steve loved kids. If she really dug deep, particularly on long ops, or periods away from him, she had to admit to herself that it bothered her, the fact that they would never have that life; a normal life, with a house and a fence and a VW and a family.

Maybe that was why she had grown closer to Darcy in the past few months. They were in the same boat. And while she knew that Darcy shared her feelings about parenthood—and Bucky shared them as well—she also knew that something about losing it all without a choice made Darcy itch too.

The small child in her, the one still living on the streets of St. Petersburg with ideals and tiny dreams and dirty feet still imagined herself with a prince in a castle.

Steve was a prince.

But there was no castle. It had crumbled to dust in the backrooms of drug houses while she dispatched the runners and sliced the throat of their crime boss in the dark, with half her clothes torn off.

Crumbled to dust as she slunk along alleys of the city, taking out snipers and mercenaries just like Bucky—only much, much smaller and clearly not as advanced—only to go home to the Room and wait for further instructions.

Her phone rang, yanking her out of her past and back to the simple, elegant design of the safe house. Blinking, she tapped the screen.

"Stop thinking about the Red Room."

Her walls went up; they always did with the mention of her past, even with Steve. "How do you know I was thinking about it, Rogers?" she shot back, playing for coy.

But he took the route he always did, and it always caught her off guard somehow, him deftly ducking her defenses with tenderness. "Tasha…c'mon."

She swallowed. "I hate you, Rogers."

A small smile in his voice. "No, you don't. It's done. Let it be done."

"What if it's not? What if it's just someone else now? And they've got their hands on Darcy?"

"She's with Buck."

She chewed on her lip for a moment. "And if they split them up? Take Darcy for all she's got while she's weak and uncoordinated? Turn Bucky back in on himself, turn him against Darcy?"

Steve was silent, and it was clear to her that he either hadn't thought that far ahead or had been putting it out of his mind. "But—"

"We don't know for sure if any of their conditioning remains locked away in his head, Steve. He's better. He's healed. But he might not be out of the woods. All of that other stuff would be nothing if they did that to him. He'd never forgive himself."

He sighed. "And Darcy—"

"Has been good for shit, lately, and getting worse. It's driving Bucky up a wall."

"What do you mean?"

She smirked. "You could use some work on your observation skills, sometimes, Cap. You can read people like a book, but only if you're paying attention."

She could practically hear him blushing.

"You haven't noticed a strain on him lately? The past two months, the circles under his eyes have been making a reappearance. And Darcy's been quieter than usual, sallow and sick. Stark said Bruce has been burning the candle at both ends over her blood work, and all for nothing so far."

"So you rushed off to feel useful?"

She huffed out a sigh. "I rushed off to cover them while they were vulnerable. I heard Tony on the phone with her last week, talking her down. The episodes are getting worse. They need all the help they can get, and I'm good at what I do, Steve."

A long pause. "I'm just…I worry about you."

Her frustration softened and she smiled. "Like you worried about me in New York, throwing me up on your shield to hitch a ride with the Chitauri?"

He snorted softly. "Yeah. Right."

Her second phone beeped.

"I gotta go, Rogers. Got a call coming in."

"You tell that informant of yours he gives you a bum steer, I'll be tracking him down and introducing him to my shield, you got that, Romanoff?"

And she smirked. "Yeah, you and Liam Neeson, right?" She hung up, switching for the cheap burner she'd established with Lasov earlier that afternoon. "You got something for me?"

His thin voice shook as he spoke, quickly and quietly. "Yeah, but we've only got one shot, here, so you can't screw it up."

She raised a brow. "You do remember who you're talking to, right?"

He huffed out a rough, hard sigh. "Yeah, yeah. Just, listen. You can't ask questions. These guys are serious. They need a woman for muscle, but they didn't give me any details. You want in, yes or no?"

She sat forward for the notepad she'd set on the cocktail table. "Go."

((()))

Steve didn't like this, he did not like it at all. It was like his skin was itching and he felt exposed and obvious the next day as he went around the Tower as usual. He sat, jiggling his leg nervously as he waited for everyone in the empty conference room. This whole doing nothing thing was eating at him, worse than ever before, and with Darcy, Bucky, and now Natasha away and out of his reach, he was practically twitching.

He snorted. Darcy would suggest yoga.

"You know, Maria, I'm surprised at you. Didn't think you were capable of feeling guilt, girl. What's got you wound so tight?" Sam's voice drifted down the hall.

Maria huffed. "Don't pretend you know anything about what I'm feeling, Sam," she snapped, her voice low and harsh.

But Sam was laughing. "Ooh, man, you're all fired up!"

Another hard sigh. "Don't know why you have to act like such an ass. All I did was ask you out for a drink."

"And I told you that while I appreciate the effort, 'trying' is usually defined by some sort of apology."

"I already apologized to you!" she argued. "Twice!"

Steve winced.

Maria had had a hard time the past couple months. Her backstabbing of both Bucky and Darcy with her harsh opinion and invalid suspicions hadn't won her any allies, especially with her vicious delivery.

He was glad, in hindsight, that he and Natasha had both been out that morning. He knew—Captain America or not—that if he'd been in that room to see pale, exhausted Darcy being verbally berated in front of their entire team like she was some cheap floozy, he'd have been unable to control his reaction.

He felt very protective of her, like a little sister that he'd never met back…home? Was it home anymore? No. It was a strange alternate reality to him, now, the 1944 he'd left behind.

He supposed that was some sort of progress.

Her relationship with his best friend had felt like some sort of weird, surreal dream and he'd had to blink a few times to see it properly, go back through his conscious mind and retread all the little things he'd missed. Little, half-truths to keep it quiet, a lingering look here, a glance there, a soft pink blush on Darcy's cheeks. The bubbly sound of her laughter and a strange new light in Bucky's eyes that had been distinctly missing before.

Natasha was right: sometimes he was a blind idiot.

"Oh, God, Hill, don't tell me you think a few half-assed words are really gonna do the trick this time. And, besides—I meant an apology to them, not me. You didn't hurt my feelings, Maria."

An actual, audible pause in the hallway. "…Then why the hell—"

"A vicious attack like the one you laid on that poor girl when she was already hurting is distinctly unattractive, Maria," Sam said, his voice low and hard, defensive, and Steve wasn't sure he'd ever heard him sound quite that shade of perturbed before. "What you showed me that morning was an ugly side of you, and I won't lie—it crossed my mind what else you kept hidden from me, what else you'd do if we stayed together. So I ended it."

The hallway was deafeningly quiet.

"Sam—"

"Listen, it's too early for this. We've got a meeting." And he brushed her off, sliding through the doorway and coming face to face with Steve.

For just a moment, their gazes met, and Steve had just enough in the way of reflexes to give him an encouraging nod of appreciation before Maria ducked in after him.

They took spots at opposite ends of the table.

The next ten minutes had Steve seriously regretting that he'd been powerless enough in his restlessness to arrive fifteen minutes early to their weekly meeting. He blew a stream of air up, at the rebellious locks of hair that were falling over his brow and tried to contain his frustration.

Sam was playing at the cold shoulder, futzing with his phone like he was totally unaware the two of them were still occupying the same space.

Maria was glaring daggers at him, unabashedly, totally ignoring her teammate.

He sighed.

This went on for ten endless minutes before Tony arrived—to much fanfare, in fact—the attack alarms blaring out in the hall as he ducked his head through the doorway with a mischievous smirk. "Meeting's cancelled. World's ending. We've got a job." And he ducked back out again.

They lunged up out of their expensive ergonomic office chairs, wincing at the screaming alarm, and Steve had to smile at the sound.

"God, what is that?!" Maria yelled, covering her ears as they huddled in the doorway, shifting restlessly as they waited for one of them to leave first.

"Science Fiction! Tony's little joke!" Steve yelled back, ducking through the doorway, unbelievably glad to have been—what was it Darcy had referenced, some show called Saved By the Bell?—called for something to do with his hands. Also—Hey!—another reference that he understood!

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam bellowed back, scowling and wincing at the volume of the alarm, a manic, repetitive shriek that started low and quickly went up in pitch in a short, rapid blare.

"Star Trek!"

Sam frowned again as he followed him out of the room. "That ain't in the movies, Steve!"

He sighed as he led them down the hall toward the elevator. "Not the movies! The show!" He hit the button and the doors slid open.

The alarm continued in the confined space, but at a much milder volume. Welcome, Captain, Agents Hill and Wilson. Allow me to take you to the Tactical Level, JARVIS announced, and the lift began to descend.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, sounding relieved to be able to use a normal volume.

Steve sighed. "You know, the Original Series, from the Sixties? William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, DeForest Kelley? Red Alert?"

Maria frowned. "Who?"

Sam rapidly followed. "What?!"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You guys have never seen the Original Series?! It's a classic!"

Sam blinked at him. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"

He sighed again. "It was one of the first things that Darcy showed me."

Maria just shook her head, folded her arms, and faced the doors, going her typical icy calm.

Sam cocked his head. "What's that got to do with the alarms?"

They were still going off, Tony's little reference. Darcy had burst out laughing when he'd suggested the idea the week before in the lab. He and Bucky had gone down to have lunch with them and Tony had casually mentioned that wouldn't it be hilarious to use the Red Alert sound effect? When the doors opened on the Tactical Floor that housed their weapons and uniforms, Steve had to yell again to be heard, and shrugged with a smirk as they went down the hall. "I guess Tony's a fan!"

((()))

She hadn't been able to call Steve. There hadn't been much time, and the few moments she'd been able to spare had been useless—he hadn't picked up. She chewed on her lip. It was early. The man slept like a god damn rock.

Usually, she had a tight clamp on her emotions, especially those of the nervous order.

But if this went sideways…

She hoped he knew how she…what she…what he'd done for her…opened her up in unexpected ways and…

She swallowed, and tightened her hands into fists.

Keep it together, Romanoff. Do your job. You're good at this. You keep your cool.

The thug behind her slid a palm into the small of her back and urged her forward.

The Black Widow kept her fucking cool.

He pushed a little harder toward the door they were walking toward.

There was a lump lodged in her belly and the only weapon she had was the knife lodged in her ankle boot.

God, Steve would kill her if she didn't come back.

But…she'd kill Darcy if she didn't come back.

Bucky would kill Natasha just for doing this, playing this game. He hated games, James Barnes, and she knew—deep down, where he hardly dared—that he was terrified one of the games they played as SHIELD agents would do more harm than good, particularly if he was involved.

She understood this fear, the physical need for redemption, a hollow pit in the stomach where all your regret pooled in a bloody hole.

It had taken her a long time to stop hearing the screams from what she'd done, what she'd been responsible for…

She could only imagine how it was for him.

Darcy was some kind of saint, she was sure. An absolute miracle worker.

Her friend.

It was good, she was slowly finding out, to have a…what had Steve called it? A girlfriend.

Someone of a similar mind to talk to, gossip with, share a drink. That was what women did, right? They went out for martinis and gossiped about the moms in their group and complained about their men and compared them in bed? Right?

She had no desire to do any of that, though, and she didn't think Darcy did either. Mostly they talked about SHIELD. Tony's shenanigans. Steve's missions, Bucky's nightmares. They'd watched that last Bond movie a couple weeks ago.

God, was that really just a couple weeks ago?!
"Let's go, Sweet Cheeks. Boss is waiting. And he's not a patient man."

She was going to kill Lasov, too, in fact. When he'd told her he had a way in, he had only mentioned that the assholes needed some feminine muscle, not a fucking chew toy. This guy at her back was sucking around for a punch to the collar bone. She was this close…

With one last shove, he pushed her through the standing door and into a brightly lit room, what appeared—upon further inspection—to be an office, opulent, for a CEO type, with yards and yards of expensive carpeting and a lavish desk.

And the face behind it was familiar. Impossibly familiar.

Not that she was going to make that obvious or anything.

He smiled, genially, which only made his scarred face creepier. "Hello, Black Widow," he said, cocking his head and studying her. "Funny meeting you here. Come here often?"

"Even if I did, you wouldn't know, considering you're supposed to be dead," she returned.

He chuckled, so casually, like they were having a cute little conversation. "Funny how things like that happen, hm? Soldiers that spend decades sleeping. Big green men that find it impossible to commit suicide? Stuff of legend, hm?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a square look.

He gestured widely with his hands. "And the infamous Black Widow is here. Day of days." The look slid wry. "Why are you here, by the way? Honeymoon over already? Oh, wait…"

She was careful with her expression here, and let that little smirk that Steve loved curl one tiny side of her mouth. "You could say that."

"And…? You're…bored? Domesticated? Mr. Roger's too…nice for you?" he sneered.
She shrugged demurely. "Friend of mine heard there was some action."

He snickered, shaking his head. "Everyone knows you're SHIELD, Romanoff."

Another shrug. "No one said I had to only be SHIELD."

He raised an eyebrow. "And I'm supposed to just…take you at your word? A known Russian spy? Just like that?"

Rolling her eyes, she mentally crossed herself and dropped her shoulders. "Fine. You want the truth? This plan I hear you've got in motion involves a little someone I'd like to take care of myself. Alright?"

Don't smirk. Hold the act. She'd done it countless times before. Cold, icy eyes. Hot, fierce expression. Hard body language. Hold…

He eyed her up, not blinking once, his own expression calculating and clever.

Hold…Hold, Natasha…

She wasn't sure if it was her own voice, or Steve's.

Likely, he was wondering how on earth she'd known the details of his mission, who might've squealed and why.

"Why's that?" he finally asked.

She had to work not to release a relieved huff of air. "Let's just say Captain Rogers isn't the saintly superhero America thinks he is. And sometimes attention-seeking friends can…stab you in the back."

Don't snort, either, Nat. The day Darcy ditched Armani-worthy Bucky and shagged her big brother Steve would see Loki come cross-dressed to LA looking for movie work. Darcy and Steve had been attached at the hip before she'd ever gotten involved. If they'd been teetering on the edge of something like that, it would've tipped by that time, and there certainly would've been plenty of tension to pick up on. There'd been nothing.

And the only way she could truly think of to describe her friend and Bucky was like two binary planets, orbiting each other, locked in one path together.

It was sweet. It was a relief. It was a certain shade of heartbreaking, the way she'd…saved him. She almost felt guilty using this story.

Should she feel ashamed or embarrassed or sappy in the knowledge that they had couple friends to double date with? Probably. That didn't mean she was going to.

A slow, cocky little smile unfurled on his mouth and he nodded, sitting back in his chair and steeple-ing his fingers. "A little too close for comfort?"

A non-committal shrug indicating she held the higher ground and was done talking about it.

"So you'd like to take care of this friend?"

She cocked her eyebrow and shifted her hips in confirmation, hoping it'd be convincing. Enough people had wondered over the years, her aloof nature making her appear morally ambiguous. She'd used that to her advantage before. Hopefully it could work to her advantage again…

He sat back in his chair. "Show me what you can do."

She cocked the other brow as though to say, 'Seriously?'

He smirked, gesturing one of the thugs forward. "I've always wanted a show from the Black Widow."