Chapter 14: The Other Side of the Mirror

"Shoot!"

At Natasha's shouted signal, the two men standing in front her quickly squeezed off three shots each so rapidly it was hard to hear the individual reports of their guns. She glanced down at the target read out, not surprised by the score. Since Rogers and Barton had started this competition ten minutes ago, every bullet fired had hit the mark. While that kind of precision was what she expected of Hawkeye, Natasha was taken aback that Rogers could match him shot for shot, particularly considering the gun he was using; a vintage Colt 45. Granted it was a shooting range and the distance was only fifty feet; it was still damned impressive.

"Two more perfect scores," she called out, loud enough that they could hear even with the ear muffs they wore.

"Damn," Barton grunted, glancing at the other man with a raised eyebrow. "That's pretty good shooting Cap. With that fossil you're using, I thought you'd shoot yourself in the foot."

Before Steve could respond a red light on the wall began to blink. "You better get up there Barton," Natasha snickered, smiling at the archer. "You're old lady wants to talk."

"Fuck off Nat," Clint shot back with a grin. Humming a tune Steve didn't know, he sauntered out of the booth.

"His old lady?" Steve inquired in a doubtful tone of voice.

"Relax Rogers, I'm just giving him a hard time. Although Maggie would be Barton's perfect woman." At Steve's confused expression she gave a brief, throaty chuckle. "Maggie is the Range Master, which makes her one of Barton's favorite persons. Plus she's a great cook. The two most important things in his life are target practice and food."

"At least he's got one of his priorities right," Steve observed.

"It's time you did the same. Give me that relic."

"It works just fine," he protested, moving the Colt behind his back, as if worried she might snatch it out of his grasp.

"It's old Rogers," Natasha retorted, holding out her hand.

"So am I," Steve muttered with a sigh.

"The gun," she demanded in turn, and after a few seconds he ejected the clip, flicked on the safety and put the Colt in her hand.

Natasha opened a drawer in the shooting booth and switched the Colt for another gun. Steve eyed the weapon that she had provided critically. It was called a Glock, and it was different from any gun Steve had ever held. For one thing it was considerably lighter than the Colt 45 he'd used in the war. When he had asked Natasha why, she explained that most it wasn't even metal. The slide and frame were made of something called polymers, which was just a fancy name for plastic. It was the future, so he really shouldn't be surprised, but he couldn't help it. The clip of this particular model could carry fifteen rounds, which would have come in handy during those fire fights with Hydra. Of course, in order for that extra ammo to actually be useful, he needed to hit what he was shooting at. By the time he'd emptied three clips, Steve was on target less than fifty percent of the time. It must be the new fangled gun he thought, since he hadn't missed once with the trusty old Colt 45.

"You're overcompensating for the recoil," Barton called out, and Steve was a little surprised, since he hadn't been aware the man was back.

"Here, let me," the SHIELD agent continued, taking the gun from Steve. "Thing I noticed while you were shooting; no muzzle climb."

Clint grabbed his muffs and covered his ears. Then he assumed the firing position; feet roughly parallel to shoulders knees slightly bent, his right hand clasping his left, which held the gun. Barton fired the weapon three times. With each shot the weapon jerked up slightly, before sliding down again to the exact same space just as the trigger was pulled again. After he finished, Clint gave the gun back to Steve, flashing him a grim.

"That's why us normal humans use the two-handed method; it offers more control. We can't completely suppress recoil like you do."

Steve took the Glock back with a nod of his head. When they started shooting, Clint took one look at his single-handed stance and told him that he needed to learn the right way to shoot a gun. It took more than a little friendly discussion (and a demonstration that his now unconventional approach didn't affect his accuracy) to finally make it clear that there was no way he could hold a pistol in both hands if he wanted to carry his shield.

"Take your stance and fire one round at the target," Barton continued, after stepping behind him. Steve followed the instruction after taking aim down the line of his arm.

"Perfect shot," Clint muttered. "Same thing, only shoot twice." Two shots rang out.

"Again, with three." Steve squeezed off three quick bullets and turned to face the SHIELD agent.

"What are you doing Clint?" He asked, because while he was pretty sure the other man had a point, he didn't have a clue what it was.

"Helping you fix your problem Cap."

Over the next few minutes Barton explained what Steve was doing wrong, and how he could correct it. The Glock didn't kick nearly as much as the weapon he was used to shooting. His arm and shoulder were too stiff, and Steve needed to loosen his grip a bit and bend his elbow more. Barton was a hands on guy, pushing and prodding Steve around until he got the stance he wanted. It was still the one-armed 'gunslinger' posture that he needed to use, but looser, and less stiff than before. And certainly more effective he noted after firing off six quick rounds, every one of them perfectly on the mark.

"Gotta go," Clint announced, ignoring Steve's thanks for his help. "Going to lunch with Maggie, and it's leftover pot roast."

"Save a piece for me," Natasha called out as he walked away.

They spent about fifteen minutes more at the range. Most of the time he shot while Natasha observed, but during the last few minutes she took some turns as well. Most of the time she shot with both hands on the gun like Barton, but at one point she switched to using one. Whatever technique she used, her marksmanship was every bit as good as his. Barton clearly enjoyed the exercise of target practice, and Steve derived a certain satisfaction in his proficiency. What Romanov thought about it he couldn't tell. Her face was a mask, no reaction, no emotion. He'd be willing to bet a lot that she was the same way when the targets were live. He didn't quite know what to think of that. After they finished packing up Natasha invited him to eat with her at the cafeteria. She put an apple, a bunch of grapes, and a small salad on her tray. Steve loaded his with chicken, a sandwich, two burgers, and three pieces of pie. He finished eating about the same time she did.

"SHIELD has a training base in the Adirondacks," she stated, after sitting back in her chair cradling a mug of coffee. "It's one of several facilities that are used to evaluate perspective recruits. Barton and I are going up to help with some of that. Coulson thinks you should come."

"So what is it? Like basic?"

"In a way. These are people SHIELD are interested in, but they like to weed out the ones who can't cut it before they sign on the dotted line."

"Is that why you want me there? To see if I can cut it?"

"Director Fury has no doubts that you can Rogers."

"Agent Coulson probably feels the same way," Steve muttered. "But you're not sure, are you Agent Romanov?"

"No one is interested in my opinion."

"I am. I'd like to know what you think."

"I don't think you're ready Rogers," she retorted, her voice abruptly gone cold. "You should think about getting your head straight from your war before you jump into the next one."

"You don't know anything about me," Steve declared, his tone of voice bleeding irritation.

"I know enough. I know that two years ago you were singing and dancing your way across the country shilling for war bonds. Then someone had the bright idea that you were ready to wage a war against one of the most ruthless and deadly organizations ever created. Now I don't know everything that happened to you during that war, but I have a pretty good idea what you had to do to win it."

"Are you telling me that you would have done it any differently Romanov?" He demanded, in a tight voice.

"Probably. I'm sure my body count would have been higher. I can tell you one thing for sure. What ever I did, it wouldn't have bothered me at all."

"How can you say that?"

"It's the difference between us Rogers. You were altered so you could be a weapon. I was created to be one. Guilt was never factored into the equation for me. My designers wouldn't stand for it."

"I don't believe you," he muttered, but she the doubt in his eyes. "Everyone has some kind of…,"

"Moral standards…lines they won't cross? How many lines did you walk past during the war?"

"Don't you understand," he answered, his voice so quiet it was hard to hear over the hum of the cafeteria, "we had to win."

"I'm sure Schmidt felt the same way. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he didn't," she held up her hand when he started to protest. "But don't insult my intelligence by telling me you could beat a maniac like him by being any less ruthless than he was."

"Are you saying you don't see any difference?"

"Of course there's a difference," she answered with a crooked grin. "We work for the good guys."

He heard her chair scrape back, but for once Steve didn't have to fight that urge to glance up and see the seductive sway of her hips. He was in another time, another place, remembering when he realized that he couldn't hang on to his ideals if he wanted to beat Hydra, much less live through the pitiless struggle he'd enlisted in. War as it turned out, was both simpler and more complicated than he knew. In the end it was about killing people plain and clear, and all the talk of honor and heroism was just what people had to tell themselves so it could make some kind of sense. He remembered how hard it was to turn off that part of him that cringed every time he pulled the trigger or struck out with his fist and added another human being to his tally. In the end you didn't have much choice; because if you allowed yourself to care, to really think about what you were doing, you wouldn't be able do your job. So Steve didn't think, didn't feel, he just did. Now he wondered whether it was something you could turn off again, or was he always going to be this way, closed off from something he believed was a necessary part of being human. He had a feeling that if asked Natasha Romanov, she would tell him there was no going back.

"What do you want Coulson?" Agent Melinda May demanded, standing in the doorway of his office.

Her tone was flat and emotionless, so normal. The stare would have been enough to make a junior Agent whimper, ditto. On the positive side, she arrived thirty-seven minutes after he'd sent the e-mail, which he'd done right after he sent a message to Ziva inviting her to spend three days with several dozen potential SHIELD agents in the picturesque Adirondack Mountains. Which had all been proceeded by several hours of pointless arguments with Fury over the wisdom of requesting Captain America's presence at the aforementioned gathering. Phil felt good about the morning. Granted, hard work was its own reward, but so far he was two for two in the 'yes, I/he can come" department. Of course he'd purposely saved Melinda for last, because she would be the hardest nut to crack.

"Come in May, have a seat," he replied, careful to keep any trace of a smile off his face.

She looked him, then looked at the chair, then back at him. After a slight shrug of her shoulders she sat down. Over the course of the last few months, Phil had visited her down in archives often enough to know that Melinda was bored. Bored enough to agree to help train probationary SHIELD agents in advanced hand to hand tactics. Bored enough that several of those agents had ended up in medical. Above anything else, that was the one thing Phil was counting on.

"You said you had a project, what kind of project?"

"It's not field work Melinda. I wouldn't ask if it was."

"Alright," she huffed, and he could see tense shoulders relax a little. "Then what is it?"

"I have a…special recruit. Someone who is difficult to evaluate, and even more difficult to train, or at least train safely."

"More training? I don't know Phil. It's not that I don't enjoy it, it just that most of the newest class of agents seem so…"

"Breakable," he supplied, when her voice trailed off. "Let me assure May, that won't be a problem with this individual."

"Then what is the problem?"

Instead of answering, he gestured at the plasma on the wall and activated the remote control. Steve Rogers' image appeared on the screen. It was a head and shoulders shot of the Captain staring directly into the camera. Phil glanced over at Melinda, and was both gratified and faintly alarmed that her entire attention was fixed on the screen. He knew her type well enough to realize that Rogers fit it to a tee; good-looking, young, and supremely fit. He also knew that she was a professional through and through.

"He certainly is pretty," she muttered, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Let me guess, he's going to be a honey trap."

Coulson couldn't help the harsh bark of laughter that escaped at that comment. Naturally, he was under control within moments. Instead of a verbal answer, he pressed the remote again. The first video was just a warm up; Rogers jumping rope, his hands and feet a blur of motion, the only sound the sharp slap of the hemp against the mat. After several minutes he switched to the next one, which featured the Captain doing pull-ups with a pair of two hundred pound weights attached to a belt around his annoyingly narrow waist. The fact that he was shirtless was an extra bonus. One of those little things that added so much value. Finally, Phil's favorite. A minute with the heavy bag, which danced and jerked each time Steve punched it. Until he destroyed the unfortunate piece of exercise equipment with a final crushing blow.

"Impressive," Melinda acknowledged, breaking the long silence after the screen went dark.

"Isn't he," Phil answered, with a nod. "You can see my problem."

"Yes," she replied, her brow furrowed. "I can't believe Fury finally decided to bite the bullet."

For a moment Coulson was confused, then realization dawned. "He's not a mutant May."

It was a natural assumption on her part. It was a long-standing argument with the organization. SHIELD needed to incorporate mutants because that's what the opposition was doing. Some of these individuals were mercenaries who sold their services to the highest bidder. Given the way these things worked, it was predictable, one could even say expected. In the last several years another trend had presented itself. Young mutants taken from (or sold by) their parents to groups who craved the advantage their abilities could bring. However it came about, something had to be done to counter what was becoming a problem for SHIELD. Fury never said what his answer was, but Phil had a pretty good guess; the Avengers Initiative.

Now that it was apparently a dead letter (at least the Council thought so), Fury had taken a few tentative steps in the direction that he had advocated for several years, one that May supported as well. There was nothing on paper of course, nothing you could point at and say this was what the Director had decided when it came to a policy regarding mutants. However, if the list of prospective agents who would be present this weekend was any indication, the boss was finally getting to where Phil thought he needed to be.

"Asgardian?" She guessed, and it was a pretty good one.

"The boss doesn't really trust them," Phil admitted. Neither did the Council.

"Not Ross," Melinda spat out after a long silence. "Please tell me you didn't go to that asshole."

"Certainly not," he protested indignantly. "The man is certifiable. More to the point, his attempts to recreate the super soldier serum have all been abject failures."

"Then where did you dig this guy up?"

"Actually, that's a fairly accurate description of how we found him." At that point he paused to open his desk drawer. When he glanced down, what he was looking for was right on top. "It's just not Ross. No one has come close to replicating Dr. Erskine's work."

It wasn't something he had to explain, since Melinda had been subjected to enough of his rants on the many attempts over the years at recreating the formula responsible for Captain America. Usually as the back drop to what went wrong with the last cluster fuck that Hill or Fury tried to characterize as a successful operation. However many talents Agent May had (and Phil had come to appreciate all of them), clairvoyance was not one of them. She needed a clue if this was going to go any further, and he was happy to offer one.

"Fortunately, there is no longer any need to look for a substitute," he told her, suddenly feeling just a little giddy. "Not when the genuine article is once more available to us."

He extracted the small card from his desk and slid it across the desk. It was an announcement about the appearance Captain America at the Orpheum Theater in Omaha, Nebraska. This particular item was a rarity because the image on the card was of Steve wearing the uniform without his mask. The look of surprise on Melinda's face was gratifying, as was the string of insults that she directed at him. He couldn't help feeling a little smug that he'd managed to surprised her, and if the gleam in her eyes was any indication, he had just gone three for three.

Gibbs rolled into his driveway, pleased to see Ziva's Mini parked on the street. She'd called him five hours ago with the news that the death her and Tony were investigating was going to be ruled accidental. Gibbs suggested that she come over for takeout once she got back to DC. When her text gave him a heads up that she'd be there in half an hour, he headed out to his favorite Chinese. Moments after he pushed through his back door she called out to him from the basement. Chuckling to himself, Gibbs got two beers from the fridge and a plate for Ziva.

"Food is on the table!" He barked and soon she had sauntered up the stairs, an eager expression on her face.

"Was the chow on the Eisenhower that bad?"

"There certainly was a lot of it," Ziva responded evasively. The she pulled the white container Gibbs had set in front her close to her nose and grinned. "But nothing nearly as good as Kung Pao Chicken."

"Kosher Kung Pao Chicken David," he supplied, in a serious voice belayed by a smile of his own.

"Thank you Gibbs. It normally does not matter to me, but tonight it was the right choice."

They spent the next few minutes taking the edge off their hunger. Ziva spilled the contents of the container onto the plate and picked the each bit off the platter with delicate flicks of her chop sticks. Gibbs shoveled the Lo Mein directly out of the container and into his mouth. After a few minutes she set aside her sticks and took a long drink from the beer.

"You've been busy Gibbs. According to Abby, there was no way you would be done with those hobby horses before Sunday."

"That's what I thought too," he grunted after swallowing a mouthful of beer. "Lucky for me your friend can paint."

"So what did you think of him?"

"Coulson? I told you before, he's a pain in the ass."

"I know what you think of Phil, but he is not the man I am asking about."

She already knew some of it, because she'd called him about an hour after Coulson and Rogers had left his house. Most of what they discussed had to do with Ziva joining SHIELD. Gibbs was still ambivalent on that subject. He told himself it was because he didn't trust those bastards, not because he was losing an agent he happened to care about. However, he no longer had any doubts about the legitimacy of their offer, and that's really what Ziva had wanted to know. Toward the end of their conversation he remarked that Rogers was going to be over for a few hours in the morning to help Gibbs out with his project. She tried very hard not to sound interested, but after Gibbs called her on it she admitted that she would be eager to hear his impression of Steve. Obviously, she still was.

"What do you want to know Ziver?"

"As I asked before, what do you think of him?"

"I can tell you one thing, the guy has crap taste when it comes to employers."

"Yes," she smirked tipping her head to the side. "You have made your position on SHIELD quite clear."

"Seems like a stand up guy to me Ziva," he went on. "Respectful, eager to help, liked the idea that he was doing something for kids. Hell, the only way he could be any better would be if he wanted to join the Corp."

"He certainly seemed a good man to me as well, but you actually spent more time with him then I did."

"How did you meet Rogers anyway?"

"It was when I was staying at the New York HQ of SHIELD," she answered him softly. "He was in the suite next to mine. He had… well a bad dream Gibbs. His head slammed into a wall and the noise woke me. The wall between our apartments was…it was…well broken."

She stopped abruptly and reach for her beer. Tipping it up, she quickly emptied the bottle and asked for another, refusing Gibbs counter offer of bourbon with a suppressed shudder. He got two, cracked them both open and offered one to her. Then he sat, nodding for her to continue. Ziva told him about Barton, how he had attempted to get Steve to see a doctor, and her outrage when she learned that the man had gone to workout instead. Gibbs couldn't help but laugh as she described her confrontation with Rogers in the gym, while he also chided her about what an impression the soldier had made on Ziva with just few minutes of skipping rope.

"He was very good at it," she muttered, not adding the other comment that was on the tip of her tongue, which was that he looked very good doing it as well.

That's not all he's good at Ziva," Gibbs stated, after helping himself to some more food.

"What do you mean?"

"Rogers had three tours of duty in Afghanistan. Almost all of it working behind enemy lines. Coulson said the guy was so good at what he did that SHIELD is pretty much gonna let him write his own ticket."

"Three tours of duty, and he was a Captain in the Army. He does not seem old enough."

"Yeah, I was thinking that to," Gibbs agreed with a shrug. "Also, not the kind a guy you would expect to be involved in operations like that."

"He's too…nice. He reminds me of you Gibbs."

"Sorry David, I might be a lot of things, but nice? Don't think so."

"Of course you wouldn't think of yourself as nice. I am sure that Steve feels the same way."

"Something we're both forgetting David, first impressions…."

"…are often misleading." She finished, taking a deep breath. "I will admit that he made a very good first impression Gibbs."

"Same here. All I'm saying is there's a hell of lot more about Rogers that we don't know. Don't mean it's bad or good, just the way it is."

"Message received. I will proceed with caution."

"He asked about you," Gibbs said after a few seconds of silence. "Wanted to know what you did for the team, what you were like, how good a dancer you were."

"Really? What did you say to him?"

"Same thing I'm gonna tell you. You want to get to know someone, you gotta talk to them."

"I intend to," she answered in turn. "I wish to take some personal days Gibbs. Phillip has invited me to spend three days at a SHIELD training facility in the Adirondacks. There is an evaluation process for all new recruits."

"Is Rogers is gonna be there?" He asked with a smirk.

"Yes, I believe so," she said, offering a small smile in return.

"Take the time off David. Just make sure you kick some SHIELD ass while you're there."

"You need not worry. I actually think it will be fun."

After Ziva left Gibbs returned to the basement. There was a new project awaiting him, along with a bottle of bourbon. Pieces of wood were laid out on his work table, the segments of a rocking chair that he was going to make for Ziva. He picked up his sanding block; just a piece of wood he'd cut to fit, and tacked on the sand paper he wanted. Gibbs had done most of the sanding yesterday, all he really needed to do was some fine work with a few pieces. The repetitive movement was soothing, it was one of the things he did when he wanted to work out something in his head. The particular issue he needed to figure out at the moment was Steve Rogers.

He'd wanted to say something to her, but until he had more to go on, it would have just sounded crazy. So far, McGee had come up with nothing you couldn't find with Google. There was a birth certificate, and some elementary school records, and something Gibbs hadn't expected. Both Rogers' parents were dead, killed in an automobile accident when he was nine. After that, the digital trail of his life pretty much disappeared. All Tim could say for sure was that Rogers had been taken in by his aunt, and went to live with her in a small town in northern New York. So far, the Army records were nonexistent. Rogers social security number was a match for someone of the same name who had enlisted in 2006, but there was nothing after that. Considering the lengths the Pentagon would go to protect the identities of their special forces operatives, Tim would have to tread very carefully.

What worried Gibbs even more was what he'd heard from his dad, which was nothing. He'd sent the e-mail two days ago. No reply, no phone call, and no answer when Gibbs tried to contact him. After a dozen of his calls went straight to voice mail, Gibbs got in touch with some people he knew in Stillwater. Jackson's store had been closed for two days, there was no one home and the car was gone. Just before Gibbs left NCIS, he cleared taking a few personal days so he could drive up to Pennsylvania and find out what the hell was going on with his father. An hour of sanding brought him no closer to any answers, but at least he'd consumed enough liquor to allow for a little sleep.

He'd just finished packing his tools away when he heard the sound of footsteps coming from above. Grabbing his Sig from the work bench, Gibbs crept slowly up the stairs, alert for any noise that might clue him in as to who had entered his house. He paused at the top and waited. After maybe a minute he heard the refrigerator door open, and then a familiar voice grumbling about a lack of edible food.

"Dad?! What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find something to eat that doesn't look like a high school biology experiment."

"Damn it, I've been trying to talk to you for two days," Gibbs growled, fighting to reign in his anger.

"Well I'm sorry Leroy, but I don't like to drive as fast as you do," his father barked in return.

"You drove down here?" He demanded, his tone incredulous.

A quick glance out of his kitchen window confirmed his dad's statement. Jackson's old truck was parked in his driveway. His father was eighty-nine years old. The only reason he still had his license was because he'd promised the Stillwater Chief of Police that he would limit his driving to puttering around town.

"I…well I needed to talk to you son," Jackson answered, all anger suddenly drained out of his voice. Instead, Gibbs thought he heard fear.

"Why didn't you call? I told you in the e-mail I sent that I wanted to come and see you."

"Where did you get that God damned picture from?!" Jackson shouted, suddenly red-faced and angry again.

"Took it at Arlington," Gibbs responded, calmly. He wasn't surprised by his dad's display of temper, since it was his too. "Met the guy a couple of days ago. Thought he looked familiar, but at first I couldn't figure out why. Then I remembered. It was one of those pictures you…"

"This is bullshit Leroy, and you know it!" Jackson interrupted, arms flailing wildly.

"Then you do know him," Gibbs continued in an even voice.

"I damned well know who he looks like," the elder Gibbs spat out. "But there's no way in hell it's the same man."

"You're telling me he's not Steve Rogers," Jethro prodded gently. Instead of another outburst, Jackson seemed to visible deflate before his eyes, his red face suddenly pale.

"Don't see how he could be Leroy. Steve Rogers has been dead for near seventy years."

A/N: Very grateful to everyone who has reviewed! Please keep them coming. Any comments or suggestions are always welcome.