Note: 2 of 2 chapters posted on July 4th, 2020

Chapter 21

Lucy had not given any extensive thought to Thanksgiving as it had approached, but she couldn't help but feel homesick in the weeks leading up to her favorite holiday.

She probably would have had an easier time of coping if there had at least been snow. Or maybe that would have made it harder. Without snow, she could pretend that it wasn't two days before Christmas, that she wasn't missing her family more than she had in a long time.

At least, she thought so. It wasn't that easy.

The chilly night breeze accompanied her all the way back home, a grocery sack filled with containers of various hot and cold deli foods clutched in her hand. She climbed the stairs to the third floor. A few hours ago, after returning from an assignment that had taken longer than expected, Lucy had broached the subject of dinner to Steve, and he had offered up his place as the venue. Seeing as neither of them felt up to cooking, Lucy had volunteered to get takeout. Deli chicken and a variety of sides from the nearest convenience store sufficed nicely.

As she approached his door, a big-band melody and a pleasant female voice reached her ears from within the apartment. She paused, briefly wondering whether she should intrude in the middle of a song, but Steve had told her that the door would be unlocked and to come in when she arrived. So, she quietly turned the knob, to avoid being disruptive, and entered.

"You'll never know how many dreams I dream about you, or just how empty they all seem without you . . ."

Steve stood in front of his record player, his back to the living-room doorway. Lucy waited as the song continued. Something about the slump of his shoulders gave her pause.

"So, kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again; it's been a long, long time."

So, this is the song . . .

A saxophone solo filled the room, and the captain didn't move. Lucy recalled his expression when he had picked up the album back at the shop. Her heart ached. She felt as if she were witnessing a personal moment and that she shouldn't be there.

Suddenly, Steve glanced over his shoulder, as if sensing Lucy's gaze. His eyes met hers, and she found herself forcing a tiny smile as she held up the bag, hoping that he wasn't bothered by her sudden appearance. He lowered the volume on the player as the full sound of the band kicked in, playing out the finale of the song, then turned to face her—with that same expression that she had seen in the shop.

Maybe the song wasn't such a good idea after all . . .

The haunted look in his eyes remained for a moment longer, before being pushed back down and replaced by something softer and more neutral.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry; I had bad timing."

"You're alright." A moment's pause. Then, with one of his bright smiles, he said, "Thanks for the food. I'm starving."

Lucy returned the smile, starting to relax. "It's been a—" long day . . . She stopped herself before the words that echoed of the melancholic song left her lips, and chose something else. "—tiring day."

She followed him into the kitchen with the bag of comfort food, trying to forget the look of pain on his face, wishing that the urge to know what had caused it would go away. She desperately wanted to know what he felt, what haunted him. Though she could make a few guesses, she had a feeling that none would be the whole story. But it was not her place to bring it up. It would be up to him to choose when to tell her someday. If he ever would.

She really hoped so.

Steve laid out the plates on the kitchen table, and Lucy set out the containers of food, and the two of them tucked into a long-overdue meal.

"Any plans for Christmas?" Steve inquired after they had been eating for a couple of minutes.

Lucy wanted to say no, but she found it depressing. "I'll probably watch White Christmas. It's a family tradition." She tried to keep the loneliness out of her voice. She didn't feel the need—or the desire—to mention how deeply she missed her parents. Steve would already know that.

"Would you mind if I joined you?"

She looked up, meeting the pair of clear blue eyes across from her, and covered up the sudden sting of impending tears with a smile. "Not at all."

They both turned back to their plates, and after a moment spent idly scooping up a bit of potato salad with her fork, Lucy spoke again. "It's so weird . . . this is the first year I haven't had a Christmas tree . . ."

Before Steve could reply, the sound of a phone vibrating reached their ears. Steve glanced over at the counter and got to his feet, picking up the device and checking what was undoubtedly a message from Natasha. Dread pitted in Lucy's stomach. Not another assignment . . . They had had two in the span of a week, and all she wanted was to finish this meal with her friend and get a good night's sleep. But if going on a mission now, or even tomorrow, meant that she could have a quiet Christmas at home with Steve, then she would take that deal.

She watched him with apprehension as he read the message. His brow furrowed.

"What is it?"

"Something's happened."

"What?"

"Natasha says to turn on the news."

Steve hurried into the living room, with Lucy close behind, and turned on the television, skipping to the appropriate channel.

The screen was filled with aerial shots of a seaside cliff and what had once been some kind of structure, but was now nothing more than the aftermath of chaotic destruction. For a split second, Lucy stared in shock, not quite sure what she was looking at. Then, she saw the headline, and her blood ran cold.

STARK MANSION IN RUINS. POSSIBLE PROVOKED ATTACK BY THE MANDARIN?

Neither Lucy nor Steve moved a muscle as they listened intently to the newscaster's voice-over.

"Many think that the attack is likely the work of the Mandarin, as it occurred shortly after Stark issued a challenge to the terrorist, in which he provided his home address."

Steve made a low sound of frustration at Tony's recklessness. Lucy glanced up at him. His face was pained with worry as he took in the scene before them. The muscles in his neck were taut.

"Authorities are in the process of investigating further, and it is still unclear whether Stark was killed in the attack, as his body has yet to be found."

When Lucy finally recovered her voice, it felt weak. "He's . . . he's okay . . . He'll be okay."

Steve didn't have to say anything. His expression alone told her that he could only hope that she was right. But she didn't blame him. She wasn't sure how much confidence she actually had in her words herself.

Christmas Day dawned, and despite the lack of a tree and festively wrapped gifts, it still managed to feel like her favorite holiday. She slipped into a warm red sweater and put on one of her Bing Crosby Christmas albums, then popped a tray of cinnamon rolls into the oven, along with a downsized version of her family's favorite fluffy egg casserole with spicy breakfast sausage.

While the food baked, she picked up her phone and called her parents. She had to stop herself from crying as she spoke to them, but she felt much better than she had even a few days prior, and by the end of the conversation, she had a genuine smile on her face. Next, she called Lena, and was pleased to hear that she was having a good time at a Christmas party. Lena might be the more outgoing of the two of them, but being so far away from home during Christmastime was bound to have some kind of effect on her, too, and Lucy was glad that the girl had something to keep her busy.

As soon as the rolls were done, she enjoyed one with a glass of orange juice while she waited for the casserole. Occasional thoughts of Tony Stark cropped up in her mind, but thankfully, they weren't bleak like they had been two days ago. The question of Stark's possible demise had been answered yesterday, when Iron Man rescued thirteen members of the crew of Air Force One when it was attacked mid-flight. The president had been kidnapped—a terrifyingly impressive feat—and it was still unclear as to what had become of him. Lucy tried not to dwell on it, trusting that Stark was in the process of rescuing him. She had only encountered Iron Man once, in Germany, and had never spoken to the man inside the armor, but she knew that he was a hero and an important comrade to Steve—perhaps even a friend. The president was probably in the most capable hands that he could be in at the moment.

After a comforting breakfast, Lucy put on some instrumental Christmas jazz and fit in a little studying, trying to focus and not think too much about the rest of the day.

Steve arrived in the early afternoon, carrying bottles of sparkling apple cider and cranberry juice and a red-and-green gift bag. He said that sparkling juice would have to do, since Lucy had another year before she reached legal drinking age. But she was completely fine with it. The fizzy drinks reminded her of holidays with her family.

With their sparkling drinks in hand, and a bowl of homemade popcorn tossed in salt and melted butter, the two settled into the couch and started the movie.

Even though White Christmas counted as an old movie, Steve had never seen it, since it hadn't come out until 1954. Lucy was excited to get his reaction to it, as it was one of her favorites. She could imagine that he might identify with the show-business aspect of the story, considering that that's where he'd gotten his start as Captain America. It was surreal to her, thinking about where he had begun and everything that he'd gone through to get to this point in his life.

When the intro came to an end, she worried about the opening scene a little, what with the war and the performance for the troops, hoping that it wouldn't bring back too many unpleasant memories for the captain. She snuck a glance his way. His brow was furrowed, perhaps in concentration, but there was something more in his eyes. She turned back to the screen, but her attention was on the man beside her more than the movie. It seemed like a totally new experience, watching it with Steve, and when Bing began his beautiful, heartfelt performance of White Christmas for the troops, she found herself getting more emotional than usual. She could tell that Steve felt it, too.

Throughout the rest of the movie, she looked over at him periodically to catch his expressions. He seemed to be enjoying himself, especially when it came to the musical numbers and some of the Danny Kaye bits. They chuckled together at the clever and comedic snippets of dialogue, and Lucy couldn't help the slightly awkward nervousness that she felt, sitting mere feet away from Steve, during the scene between Phil and Judy on the window seat.

Predictably, she cried at the end—she could never help it—and when the movie faded to black and she glanced at Steve, he looked considerably misty himself.

He cleared his throat softly, but his voice seemed normal when he spoke. "I can see why it's a family tradition."

"Thanks for watching it with me," she replied, smiling, and reached for her sparkling cranberry juice to finish the last little bit.

"Absolutely."

There was still some time left before it would be a reasonable dinner time, so Lucy put on some jazz, and she and the captain faced off in a few games of checkers.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door. Lucy and Steve straightened up, turning quickly to look in the direction of the entryway, both prepared for anything. Steve got up first, and Lucy followed.

When Steve opened the door, they both relaxed instantly.

"I heard you were having a party, so I invited myself. Don't worry, I brought offerings."

Natasha held up a couple of bags of what looked like food, and Steve and Lucy stepped aside to let her in. She sauntered past them and led the way into the kitchen, where she unloaded a fried-chicken dinner—and a carton of eggnog. Non-alcoholic, of course.

Lucy grabbed up the carton excitedly. "I haven't had eggnog in years! Natasha, this is too much, you didn't have to."

The redhead dismissed her remark with a nonchalant shrug. "It's Christmas. We should have some kind of fun. And, sorry Rogers, but"—she pulled something else out of her pocket—"I'm going to treat myself." She held up a small bottle of liquor. Lucy smirked and laughed softly, then glanced at Steve, who wore a similar expression.

"So," Natasha spoke up from the armchair, a few minutes into the meal, "is the Star-Spangled Man going to be wearing a special uniform for the New Year's thing, or are you just going to look like you're about to kick some ass?"

Steve cracked a crooked grin, and Lucy had to stop herself from laughing with her mouthful of food. Natasha was referring to the special appearance that the city had requested that Captain America make at the Lincoln Memorial on New Year's Eve. Steve had been hesitant at first—probably reminded too much of all of the fanfare during the war—but had ultimately agreed to a brief appearance.

"My usual is just fine," he replied, leaning forward, to retrieve his glass of water from the coffee table. Lucy had told him that she wouldn't mind if he wanted to have a beer, but he'd insisted that water was enough. His consideration for her not drinking was just another personality trait that made Lucy's heart ache. Every time he did or said something that reminded her of his old-world upbringing, it seemed to get harder and harder to not be attracted to him.

"I'll be sure to take plenty of pictures for posterity," Natasha said, lifting her own glass of sparkling cranberry juice—laced with vodka—to her lips.

The meal was satisfying, and as the last empty plate was set aside on the coffee table, Lucy got up and hurried off to her bedroom. Seconds later, she returned, carrying two gifts: a festive bag with a vintage Santa motif, and a small box wrapped in paper decorated with red and white Christmas trees.

"Merry Christmas," she said, handing the bag to Steve and the box to Natasha. The latter appeared to be a little surprised, and Lucy sat back down, feeling slightly nervous. She hadn't been sure of what to get her—the woman seemed like she never needed anything, and Lucy didn't know much about her personal life—so she hoped that the gift would be acceptable. Steve's gift, on the other hand, she was fairly confident about.

Steve smiled warmly in silent thanks, then looked to Natasha, who nodded at the bag in his hands. "You first, Cap."

The captain removed the dark-red tissue paper, reached inside, and pulled out the DVD: It's a Wonderful Life.

"I was pretty sure you hadn't seen it yet," Lucy said as he examined the cover. "It's kind of a classic Christmas movie. But it's good for any time, really."

"Thanks," Steve replied with a soft smile. "It looks good. I can't wait to watch it."

"Your turn," Lucy said to Natasha, and the redhead efficiently tore the paper off of the little box. She turned the box over in her hands for a moment before opening it, withdrawing a sleek, black pocket knife. It had as many useful features as Lucy could find, and if nothing else, it suited the image of Black Widow.

The bit of anxiety in Lucy's stomach eased when Natasha extended the longest blade and inspected it with an approving nod.

"Not bad taste, Artemis. Thanks."

Steve then passed the gift that he had brought to Lucy. She reached inside, and as soon as her hand grasped it, she knew that her excitement had not been in vain. She pulled it out, and her face lit up as she admired the cover of the Frank Sinatra Christmas record.

She grinned at Steve. "It's perfect! You know me and Frank."

"That I do," he smiled in return. "Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I'll just run up and get Natasha's."

Natasha made a face, as if she thought the notion that he would get her a present was ridiculous. "Oh, you didn't . . ."

"I definitely did."

Steve left the apartment, and Lucy chuckled to herself.

Natasha narrowed her eyes in false suspicion. "Should I be afraid?"

"Why?" Lucy asked, still smiling.

"What kind of gift would Mr. Star-Spangled Hero from World War II give a modern woman? Aside from a record album for the music nerd in his life," she added, and Lucy almost blushed. "It'll probably be some kind of jewelry with an American flag on it."

Lucy wouldn't mind such a gift herself—she wouldn't mind any gift that came from Steve—but the thought of Natasha wearing something like that did seem inappropriate.

"I would assume that he knows you better than that," she said, and the next second, footsteps approached the apartment door, and Steve reentered, carrying another bag. He settled back into the couch and handed the gift to the redhead.

She raised an eyebrow at him before reaching into the bag.

Then, she paused and gave Steve a deadpan look as she withdrew the contents. Lucy tried to withhold her laugh, and it came out a little less gracefully than she would have wished, but she didn't care. She was too shocked by the comical pair of red fuzzy dice that dangled from Natasha's hand.

Lucy glanced at Steve. He looked extremely satisfied with himself, the humor obviously intended.

"I thought your car was missing a little . . . something."

The corner of Natasha's lips twitched. "Well played, Rogers."

Soon, the three of them once again found themselves engrossed in poker, accompanied by the mellow strains of Nat King Cole and Steve Lawrence—the latter being after the captain's time, but he thoroughly enjoyed both, as Lucy had hoped that he would—and when the sun finally began to set, casting a cozy, warm glow into the living room, Lucy realized that she hadn't yearned for home in many hours. This was truly her home now. And these two people beside her had become her family.

Lucy was awakened on the twenty-ninth by a familiar buzzing sound. She was disoriented at first, but when she realized that it was her phone vibrating on the bedside table, she was suddenly much more alert, and quickly reached for it.

She had hoped to see Steve's name, though it seemed too early for that. Or Natasha's, which she hoped was not the case, for it would probably mean an assignment, and it seemed too early for that, too. But the name that she was faced with took her completely by surprise, even confused her.

Rumlow.

She frowned and answered the call, trying not to sound like she had just been pulled out of sleep. "Hello?"

"Artemis, Pierce wants to see you."

"Pierce . . . ?" Not Fury?

"There's something important he wants to discuss with you."

Lucy sat up quickly, taking in Rumlow's brief instructions for getting to Pierce's office, then ended the call and hurried to her dresser.

She was out the door faster than she would have thought possible after having been awakened earlier than she normally got up to run, but the even more impossible-seeming task waited for her at the curb.

Her black Mazda was more daunting than ever, but she didn't hesitate, and circled around to the driver's side. It would have been much worse had she not finally decided to take the car out for a drive a few weeks before with Steve. Of course, the captain wasn't as familiar with modern cars as she was, but it his presence had been a tremendous reassurance, and had even given her a boost of confidence—once she had gotten past the little flutter of extra nerves in her stomach. This time, however, she was alone, and the nervous energy was all thanks to the unknown nature of what lay ahead.

She had crossed the Potomac countless times, but this was the first time that she couldn't look out across the water—only up at the towering concrete structure that was S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

She found a spot in the garage and brought the car to a smooth halt, breathing an internal sigh of relief that she had managed to arrive safely, then got out and hurried into the expansive glass-ceilinged lobby.

The sun usually provided most, if not all of the lighting in the vast space, but seeing as the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, pale artificial light was utilized. Hardly anyone had arrived yet, and the atmosphere was almost eerie as Lucy crossed to the nearest elevator.

"World Security Council," Lucy announced, and the pleasant, automated female voice replied, "Confirmed," as the doors closed. The car carried her up, and up, and up, much higher than Fury's office, and the uneasy pit in her stomach seemed to increase with the height. She took a slow deep breath, and the elevator stopped. The doors opened.

She walked out with as much confidence as she could muster.

You're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, she reminded herself. Pull it together.

She knocked on the proper door, and as soon as she heard Pierce's voice call out, "Come in," she obeyed.

A dark-haired woman sitting at a small desk beside the door stood upon Lucy's entry, smiled at her, and ducked out of the room, leaving Lucy to face the bespectacled man behind the desk at the opposite end of the office.

"Agent Carlisle. That was awfully fast," Pierce remarked. "Here, sit." He gestured to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.

As Lucy came forward, her eyes strayed to the wall of windows on the right side of the room, which looked into a much larger room with four high-backed chairs on the far side. Behind them and to their left were two more walls of windows that overlooked the sprawling city below. A large slate-gray S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem was displayed proudly on the only non-glass wall.

She took a seat.

"How is life in DC treating you?"

Lucy looked at him silently for a moment, then gave a slight, stiff nod. "It's good." She appreciated his efforts to make her more comfortable, but she would really prefer that he just explain why he had asked her here.

"I'm glad to hear it." He removed his glasses and placed them on the desk, on top of a few documents. "Your performance has been exceptional," he went on, settling back in his chair. "You've been an asset to your team."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I have an upcoming assignment that may require . . . special skills, and as the captain has a prior engagement, you will be accompanying Agent Rumlow and his men."

Lucy stared, her mind reeling. She was being sent instead of Steve?The twisting pit in her stomach bottomed out.

"When do we leave, Sir?" she managed to ask.

"At oh-three-hundred on the thirty-first. Our intelligence suspects that there is going to be an assassination attempt on Gregory Beringer, an attaché to the French ambassador. He and the ambassador will be attending a summit on New Year's Eve at Stockholm's Grand Hotel. Afterward there will be a cocktail party to celebrate the new year. You, Agent Rumlow, and a few of the other men, will keep watch for threats and stop any possible attempts on his life for the duration of the summit and the afterparty."

Lucy processed this information as quickly as she could, still not having fully wrapped her head around the fact that she would be going on a mission—overseas—without the captain.

Then, something else clicked in her mind.

"Is Natasha not going either?"

"Agent Romanoff won't be needed for this assignment."

That seemed a little strange to Lucy. Thwarting an assassination attempt seemed to be an extremely worthwhile use of Natasha's skills.

But it wasn't her place to question it. This is what it means to be an agent. You receive orders and carry them out.

"Agent Rumlow assures me that you are more than capable yourself, Agent Carlisle," Pierce added. "With his leadership, this should go smoothly."

She nodded, trying not to be too stiff and reveal just how intimidating it all sounded. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. You're dismissed." He slid his glasses back into place.

Lucy got to her feet and made for the door.

"Oh, and Carlisle?"

She halted and looked back.

"This is classified."

His pointed look over the top of his glasses told her more than he was saying. And she understood.

You're not to tell anyone the details of this assignment. No one.

Her stomach felt like lead.

"Of course."

He nodded and returned his attention to the documents on his desk.

The ride back down to the lobby felt much too short. Before Lucy knew it, the doors opened, and she was pulled out of her swarm of overwhelming thoughts. Not much time had passed, and the sky above the glass ceiling was only a touch lighter. Lucy's legs carried her back to the garage, as if on autopilot, and after getting into her car, she just sat there, staring.

She had never gone on a mission without Steve leading the way. And an assassination was different than a band of smugglers. It felt like there was more at stake when someone's like was imminently on the line. Did she have the ability to put a stop to it? To directly save a man's life?

The memory of throwing herself in front of Steve before he could be shot returned vividly, and she could almost still feel the severe bruise that the bullet had given her. She could save a life. Still, the doubt was there, and if she was going to pull off this assignment, the last thing that she needed was to doubt herself.

Steve wouldn't doubt her. He would give her confidence.

If he knew what she was about to do, he would bolster her and tell her how capable she was. And despite Natasha's teasing, she would offer her own words of encouragement.

But Lucy couldn't tell them. She couldn't tell Steve how worried she was. If she could, she knew that he would want to go with her.

She imagined him, in uniform, standing in front of a crowd of excited, happy people about to ring in the new year, surrounded by cheers and applause and fanfare. And she regretted that she wouldn't be there.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and started the car.

Receive orders. And carry them out.

It was the longest flight of Lucy's life. She had gone to bed at eight o'clock, to make up for the sleep that she would lose, but her mind had refused to calm down, so she hadn't been able to doze off until a couple of hours later. Her alarm had jarred her awake at two o'clock in the morning. With only a few hours of sleep under her belt, she had gotten ready to leave, reassuring herself that she could get a little more sleep on the jet.

But there was too much to think about, and she wanted to be as mentally prepared as possible for what was to come.

She spent the hours-long flight going over surveillance, the layout of the hotel and its surroundings, and familiarizing herself with neighboring buildings that could be used as vantage points for snipers.

Snipers.

She hoped that the assassin wouldn't be a sniper. She doubted that her suit would offer adequate protection from one of those rounds.

The team would be posing as extra security, so they each put on simple black suits over their body armor. They wouldn't be as conspicuous this way, and it would allow them to carry their guns without question.

It had been dark when they'd left DC, and it was dark when they arrived in Stockholm, despite it being the middle of the afternoon. Midwinter was strange in some places of the world, and it was just one more thing to add to Lucy's anxiety. Darkness would give a potential assassin some good cover. She hoped that the city lights would dispel enough of the shadows.

She and the rest of the team followed Rumlow's lead through the city, and gradually, some of the other men broke off to scope out and secure the buildings around the hotel. She and Rumlow entered through the revolving door.

Lucy had never set foot in a hotel like this. The style and decor were stunning. But she had no time for distractions. After passing through a metal detector and showing false credentials to the security personnel, she marched along behind Rumlow, until they came to a conference room. Rumlow stopped outside the open door, a short distance from three actual security guards, and Lucy stood next to him, back against the wall.

The meeting dragged on and on, and Lucy tried to combat the boredom by keeping her mind sharp. She went over strategies for battling an assassin in various scenarios, using what she knew about the hotel and its surroundings to run little simulations in her head. Still, it felt like it had been much longer than three hours when the politicians started to file out of the conference room.

With relief, Lucy followed Rumlow and the crowd to the reception space: a breathtakingly opulent ballroom. She couldn't help but take a few seconds to soak in the grandeur. Ornate, gilded ornamentation, paintings on the ceiling, huge chandeliers, and four tall, window-like mirrors on the left and right-hand walls. It was a spectacular sight and an appropriate venue for a New Year's Eve celebration such as this. She wished that Steve could see it.

She and Rumlow quickly spotted Gregory Beringer in the crowd, then stood sentinel with the rest of security at the edge of the room, keeping their eyes on the potential target and anyone nearby.

With so much going on, Lucy found her nerves returning after having gone dormant during the long wait in the hallway. She worried that she would miss something crucial and that it would cost Beringer his life. So, despite her lack of proper sleep, she watched the room intently. A few times, the wafting aromas of hors d'oeuvres reminded her that she had not had a proper breakfast either, but she ignored her stomach and remained vigilant.

The minutes became hours, though she did not know how many. She wondered how long it would be until Steve made his appearance as Captain America at the Lincoln Memorial. Maybe he already had . . .

No. Think about him later.

She refocused herself. This assignment may be important, but she wasn't accustomed to just standing guard like this. It amazed her that people did this for a living.

Suddenly, the comms came to life, and the voice of one of the agents spoke into Lucy's ear.

"I think I've got something . . ."

"What is it?" came Rumlow's reply, a few feet to her right.

"He's headed for the hotel, and he doesn't look dressed for the occasion."

Then, a second voice came on, sounding winded. "I'm going to intercept! Back me up!"

Lucy's eyes snapped to Rumlow.

"Go," he said sharply. "I'll handle things here."

She turned on her heel and made for the door, catching her superior's last-minute "Be careful!" as she left the room.

The voice of the agent in pursuit of the potential assassin came again in her ear. "Hey! Don't move!"

"Where are you?!" Lucy asked as she ran.

"Out front!" the man replied, then, "I said, stop!"

Gunshots.

A pause.

Then a grunt of pain and a yell that sounded awfully like the agent.

Lucy ran harder, unholstering her gun and chambering a round.

Heart pounding—not merely because of her pace—she dashed through the lobby and into the revolving door, preparing herself for a fight.

She got one sooner than expected.

The instant that the door opened up to the night, she froze. She barely had time to take in the sight of the large man before her—his broad shoulders, black combat suit, and the black mask covering the lower half of his face—before he lunged forward, right hand outstretched. She threw up her left arm to prevent his hand from closing around her throat, and he grabbed her forearm, pressing her backwards, into the revolving door, simultaneously knocking her gun from her other hand. It clattered to the ground as her back hit one of the panels of glass. She tried not to let fear overwhelm her as the man's eyes bored into her, piercing through a mask of black war paint, and framed by dark hair just a bit longer than her own.

She saw his left arm move, and she ducked aside to the best of her ability, her own arm still in his vice-like grip. She barely avoided his fist. It collided with the glass—and shattered it. Her eyes widened. He didn't seem fazed by it at all. Instead, he grabbed her shoulder and swung her around, into the curved wall of the revolving door. She braced herself, but some of the air was forced out of her lungs upon impact.

Unable to wrench her forearm out of his bruising grip, she tried to shove his left hand off of her shoulder. When that merely caused his hard, powerful fingers to squeeze her harder, she yelled in pain and aimed a solid kick at his midsection. He didn't budge. She kicked him again, and he responded by lifting her off of the ground, sliding her farther up the glass wall. She shoved hard at his stomach with both feet, almost growling through clenched teeth with frustration and increasing pain. She was fighting a solid wall of a man. The smuggler that she had wrestled to the ground hadn't been nearly as sturdy.

This was more like fighting Steve.

She brought her knees up, and attempted to gain leverage with her feet against his chest, but he retaliated by slamming her back against the glass again. And again. Pain burst in the back of her skull, but she continued to struggle in his powerful hold.

She latched on to his left arm with her free hand and squeezed, hoping to at least cause him a fraction of the pain that he was inflicting upon her. But to her shock, the flesh beneath his black sleeve was hard as stone.

With desperation, she went for the only thing that she could: his face. She thrust her hand out, and the assassin moved his head a fraction. Her fingers brushed his mask.

Before she could try again, he lifted her from the wall, swung her out of the revolving door—then let go.

She flew through the air for a terrifying second before landing hard on the cold concrete in front of the hotel. She rolled for several feet, then gasped for air, fighting the pain and disorientation as she tried to locate the assassin. By the time she laid eyes on him, he was upon her once again. He came down on one knee, and his right hand went for her throat.

She thrashed on the pavement, clutching at his hand, eyes watering with panic. She kicked and caught him in the back and shoulder, but he barely reacted.

Steve—! Steve!

She screamed for the captain in her mind as she saw her life slipping away. Could she not see him one last time? Before she . . .

No. She couldn't die here. Not like this. She couldn't do that to her parents, to Lena—to Steve.

But she couldn't beat this man. She could only try and fail.

So be it.

If she was going to die, she would do it fighting.

With renewed determination, no matter how useless, she glared straight back into the man's intense gaze, and began to knee him repeatedly in the back, willing him to release her. He tolerated the blows for a few more seconds before lifting her off of the cement, as if winding up his arm. She braced herself for impact, ready for the end.

Then, he froze.

His eyes flicked to the left, as though he were thinking. Or listening. She heard nothing but the blood rushing in her ears.

Then, he did the unthinkable, and released her. She gasped and coughed and watched as he stood, turned, and walked away, as if he had completely lost interest in her. After a few seconds, her brain seemed to start working properly again, and she had a moment of fear when she realized that he had not yet completed his goal: assassinating Beringer. She struggled onto her side and tried to push herself up, wincing at the pain that shot through her hip and shoulder as she looked in the direction in which the assassin had gone.

The hotel was the other way.

She didn't have the energy to be confused, so she chose to be relieved. Relieved that she had survived. Relieved that perhaps the assassination had been thwarted. She let herself collapse back onto the coarse pavement and felt utterly relieved that she would be able to see Steve again.

She didn't know how long she had been lying there before Rumlow and a few other agents were at her side. As they helped her up, she informed them, as well as she could, of what had just happened, and was glad to know that the agent who had encountered the assassin before her had also survived, though not without his own bruises. Rumlow said that the rest of the party had been called off, after the violent incident had been witnessed by more than one employee, and the authorities had been called. Security was on high alert, and S.H.I.E.L.D. was pulling out. Another thing for Lucy to be relieved about.

Rumlow stayed by her side as they made their way back to the Quinjet, keeping a hand on her arm in case she stumbled or collapsed. But she didn't. She walked through the sharp twinges and the aches, and was rewarded with a comfortable chair on board the aircraft.

One of the agents checked out her injuries and applied some salve to the cuts and scrapes on her hands from when she had been thrown. The bruises weren't bad enough to warrant her stripping down to get them treated. Besides, the discomfort would fade when sleep came.

And it did.

It was dark again when they arrived back in DC.

Lucy pushed herself out of her seat and exited the jet as the engine finished powering down.

She and the team made their way to the armory. She was glad to be free of her suit—both suits. She unloaded her gun, which the others had retrieved for her, and replaced it on its rack, then headed for the showers.

The bruises looked worse than she'd hoped. The one on his shoulder, made by the assassin's rock-hard left hand, was particularly dark. Steve would ask about it the next time that they sparred. She would have to wear a T-shirt that covered it well, or he would be worried.

A lump rose in her throat, and her breath hitched. She wanted so desperately to tell him about the masked man, about the fight. About almost being killed.

But she didn't imagine that disclosing anything about what had happened on the mission would be looked upon kindly by Pierce. Maybe someday she could tell him. Someday. Just not when she really needed to.

At least he was aware that she had been given an assignment, and he knew that she couldn't talk about it. That would at least make it easier for her to follow the rules.

The masked face of the assassin and the sound of shattering glass flashed through her mind yet again, and she squeezed her eyes shut beneath the stream of water. For a moment, she felt as if he might grab her from behind, but she pushed aside the groundless fear and turned off the shower.

Driving home was the last thing that she wanted to do, but she was afraid that if she called Steve, she might break down and say things that she shouldn't. So she shut herself inside of her car and took a few moments to gather herself before pulling out of the garage.

She drove more cautiously than normal, through streets bustling with partygoers and an abundance of traffic. Though it probably would have been more intimidating had she not just survived a fight with an assassin.

When she came to a stop in front of her building, her eyes went immediately to Steve's parking spot. The bike was gone.

It was just as well, she thought. If he had been home, she would have been tempted to see him. She briefly toyed with the notion of going down to the Lincoln Memorial, but what she really needed was her bed.

She didn't even feel like eating anymore.

The steps creaked slightly as she climbed. It seemed to take her a little longer than usual to reach her landing. Odd, since she could walk just fine now.

She stepped into her apartment, closed the door securely behind her, and locked it, pausing for a few long seconds afterward, her hand on the knob, as if to make sure that nothing would get in. Then, she retreated farther into the apartment.

After a long drink of water—her first since boarding the Quinjet to leave Stockholm—she made her way into her bedroom, bringing a sleeve of crackers with her, in case hunger decided to rear its head again.

She crawled into bed and checked her phone. Lots of "Happy New Year" messages awaited her. She halfheartedly replied to Lena's and her parents', her written words appearing to be in much brighter spirits than she felt, returning their sentiments and wishing them well, and letting them know that she'd had a very long day at work and was going to bed.

She closed her eyes and relaxed into her soft mattress.

Minutes passed.

She repeatedly shoved down thoughts of the night's events.

After what must have been well over an hour, her mind was still reeling, refusing her body what it needed most.

She saw the masked man bearing down upon her, arm outstretched for her throat.

She felt her back hit the concrete.

She saw his eyes behind the black paint.

His cold, intense eyes. Ready for the kill.

She realized that her heart was pounding, and she clutched at her chest, taking deep breaths. Her apartment seemed so quiet.

Suddenly, distant explosions broke the silence. She flinched, and realized what they were a moment later. She reached for her phone again, and checked the time.

12:00 AM.

A new day.

A new year.

Then, a notification appeared on the screen.

As soon as she saw Steve's name, she opened it.

'Happy new year!'

She stared at the message for a moment.

Then, the tears came.

She released everything that she hadn't known that she'd been holding in for the entire day—possibly longer—and was briefly glad to be alone.

When the tears lessened, she pulled herself together and sent the same message back to Steve.

His reply came almost immediately.

'You're home?'

Her throat constricted.

'Yeah. Just got back a little while ago.'

'How did it go?'

She stared at his words. She could tell him. She could spoil it all right here, spill her guts, tell him about the pain in her shoulder, about the eyes that wouldn't leave her alone.

'You okay?'

More tears began to fall.

Someday. Just not today.

'Yeah. It went well. Mission accomplished!'

'Good job. I knew you'd be fine.'

She choked back a sob and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, she felt a little steadier.

'Thank you, Steve. That means a lot. And thank you for checking in on me. I hope everything went well tonight, and I look forward to hearing about it, but it's been a long day, and I'm ready to sleep.'

'Of course. Have a good night. And it went fine; though it's probably not as exciting as you're thinking. P.S. Next time you're up for a run, let me know.'

Smiling through blurry vision, she told him that she was looking forward to it, then put her phone on the bedside table and closed her eyes once more.

Her mind seemed to have calmed considerably. Maybe it was the crying, or maybe it was Steve. Either way, it didn't matter.

As she drifted off, she tried to focus her thoughts on Steve, but inevitably, images of the masked assassin forced their way through, and it was almost as though the two men were fighting each other when deep sleep finally claimed her mind.

Note: At last, we've reached the end of the first arc. Thank you, everyone, for sticking with me so far. :') I can't believe that it's been a year! I hope that you'll continue to enjoy the story as it moves forward, and I hope that you're all doing well. :) Thank you again!