Chapter 22

3 January 2018, Rm. 227, Starlite Motel, Someplace Else

Without turning around to see who had walked through the door, Rogers said with a wave of his hand in the direction of the chair beside him, "Sam is still stuck in Winnipeg, Nat. I just talked to him an hour ago."

Romanoff nodded. "I am sure that these were the best plans Maria could arrange, but times like this are when I miss SHIELD."

Rogers finally looked up from the tablet in front of him and gave her a lopsided smile, as he commented, "Maybe, but I don't miss their nasty parasitic infection, however."

Barnes held out a long black bag to Romanoff and asked, "Need to stock up on anything?"

She shook her head and began removing weapons from their various hiding places as she asked with a smirk, "Not unless you have some Semtex. Used all of mine."

Raising his head only for a moment, Barnes blinked very slowly at Romanoff. Then, as he turned his attention back to his weapon, he stated sardonically, "Are you actually attempting to toy with the Winter Soldier?"

Her smile indicating that she was quite ready to play, Romanoff said only, "Maybe."

Barnes looked up and allowed his eyes to roam over her analytically, then he shrugged and dropped his head back down to return his attention to reassembling his beloved Sveta. "Hair. Left ear. Left jacket pocket lining. Right boot. Belt. Watch. Can't see your back, but at a guess, two knives and one gun."

Romanoff shrugged, but her annoyance was obvious both to Barnes and to Rogers, who commented emotionlessly, "Just knives, I think."

That response was enough to genuinely catch Barnes' interest. He regarded Rogers with narrowed eyes—clearly attempting to figure out why Rogers was acting so strangely—and, by way of distraction, said tersely, "I have several handguns in your preferred size in there, Romanova."

Looking into the bag, Romanoff rapidly pulled out four blocks of Semtex and a Markarov PM—which caused her to smile delightedly at Barnes—as she asked Rogers with an appraising look, "So where are we going next?"

Rogers did not look up from the diagram on the tablet in his left hand, as he answered in a clipped tone, "Billings."

Having apparently reassured himself that Sveta was in fine shooting shape, Barnes patted her barrel and grunted in reply to Roger's comment. "Fun."

Smiling sarcastically at Barnes, Rogers clicked off his tablet and leant back into his chair. "Yeah, should be. You should know that Maria's contact seemed to think that our arrival is not a secret to Tony."

Romanoff looked at him even more oddly. "Did you expect it to be, Steve?"

"Not really, Natasha. Yet, if he knows that we are in the country, then he probably understands why."

Barnes stood up and walked over to the kettle, which he switched on. "Хочешь чаю, Наталья Алиановна?"

Romanoff nodded in reply to Barnes, then leaned a little more closely than usual towards Rogers and asked, "Do you have reason to believe that Stark would act against us?"

However, Rogers looked down at his tablet and said almost coldly, "No, I don't. Yet, I do think it is possible that someone else would." He gestured at Barnes' bag and the three guns in front of himself, "Hence the arsenal."

Barnes spoke seriously as he got out two white mugs and dropped a pair of Lipton tea bags in each, "Honestly, Steve, you really should arm yourself better now. I always said so when you just had Big Bertha, but now that you're shieldless, you gotta carry some better weaponry than a few handguns and a pair of knives."

Rogers pressed his lips together and glared at Barnes, almost saying something once and then stopping.

His sudden, genuine smile almost the only part of his face visible from under the curtain of dark, shaggy hair, Barnes explained to Romanoff, "He was just about to refute that his beloved shield had a name as unfortunate as Bertha when he realised what that would be admitting."

Despite her expression showing that she did not entirely agree with Barnes' explanation of Roger's reaction, Romanoff nodded agreeably. "You should never name your best equipment anything so ugly. Then you do not take care of it properly." She slid out a very unpleasant looking knife and placed it on the table. "For example, Nastya here is very well taken care of. And Irina…" She smiled dangerously as she pulled a very long, narrow golden pin from her braid and held it up for Barnes to admire. "Irina has been with me a very long time."

As he poured the tea water over a tea bag, Barnes commented dryly in his deepest voice, "I have not seen one of those in over 20 years, Romanova. A long time, indeed. She is very pretty."

At this comment, Rogers snorted with sudden amusement. "I can just imagine what Sam would say if he were here. Even when I had my shield, I didn't rhapsodise about her."

Barnes laughed. "Her. No, never."

"Of course, she was female. She was too beautiful to be anything else."

"Yep, deadly and beautiful. Man, what would you sound like if you actually rhapsodised about your beloved shield?"

"Aw, shuddup, Buck."

Romanoff smiled and, as she propped her feet up on the chair beside her, said, "How about we play a nice round of Assassin's Never Have I Ever: Weapons Edition? If the person we call out is not guilty than we have to drink from the last of that horrible Dutch vodka Sam got me."

Frowning with disgust, Barnes replied, "I thought you were going to throw that out, Romanova."

Romanoff shrugged. "I didn't have any other vodka to replace it yet."

After a pause in which he looked over at Rogers, Barnes then snorted with amusement. "Sure, I'm game. Steve, here's yours: Never have I ever slept with my shield in lieu of a pillow."

Rogers leant over the table and grinned as he said, "Absolutely guilty and not embarrassed at all. Bucky: Never have I ever felt such separation anxiety when parted from my beloved sniper rifle, beautiful Betty, that I tasked a private to stand outside my secure briefings with her, so I could rapidly be reunited with her the moment that I was done."

His expression thoughtfully reminiscent, Barnes replied with heavy sarcasm, "I know not of which incident you speak, pal. Ok, maybe twice." Not to be outdone, Barnes took a long sip of his tea as he considered for a moment, and then said, "Never have I ever used my giant, overly polished, ridiculous shield as a shaving mirror every single morning, after which I polished it again as I hummed a little song."

Rogers laughed sharply in surprise. "I didn't hum, did I?"

Barnes stared at him.

"Fine. Apparently, I'm guilty."

Romanoff said with a smirk, "Since Clint isn't here to call me out, then I'll have to do it myself. Never have I ever felt guilty because I realised that one of my favourite weapons hadn't gotten to come out to play at the party for more than two fights in a row. Sadly, I am guilty of thinking that more than once."

Rogers shook his head and gestured towards Barnes, as he said with an expression of faux-innocence, "We need psychiatric help. I used to be such a nice boy once upon a time. I always brushed my teeth and washed behind my ears. I never got into fights or used naughty words."

Nodding gravely, Barnes agreed with a mischievous look in his eye that he only ever allowed when teasing with Rogers, "That's right. We really were altar boys and we honestly did attend mass every morning before school. Fat lot of good it did us." Barnes handed the jam to Romanoff, who began to spoon it into her teacup.

Standing up so he could reach the coffee pot to refill his cup, Rogers pointed a finger at Barnes with the same serious look he typically used when meeting politicians. "Hey, I may be a fugitive and an accused criminal suspected to have helped four people escape from prison, but that doesn't have anything to do with Sister Bernadette or Mother John-Mary. Those are all my own questionable choices, Buck."

Now grinning broadly, Barnes explained to Romanoff, "Mrs Rogers was a fierce lady. Steve's still afraid of her even now."

Rogers glared at Barnes before he commented, "And Mrs Barnes would have beat you with the pudding pan for speaking ill of Holy Mother Church, Buck."

"She so would. Tabharfaidh Dia a hathair uaithi."

Rogers dropped his cup onto the table, spilling most of it, and barely managed to choke out, "I haven't heard those words spoken in over 70 years, Buck."

Clearly disquieted, Barnes reached over for a towel, which he laid on the spill, as he said with a frown, "Honestly, I didn't even know that I remembered them. Mam would have something to say about that as well."

"Your mother had something to say about everything, Bucky. She was a very opinionated lady."

Sending the balled-up wet towel flying through the air so it landed with a loud thwack in the tiny kitchen sink, Barnes closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose, as he said, "That she was. Perhaps that is why she took to you, pal." He got up, hoisted his shiny new over-under shotgun over his shoulder, and said seriously, "I'm gonna go take the next perimeter walk. I'll take the Mossberg with me, so I can get a feel for her. Just leave Sveta and Olya there for me, Steve, but you can put the rest away."

Romanoff looked up with a sharp intake of breath. "What do you name your knife then, Soldat?"

He stopped at the door and said without turning around, "Masha."

"Not Lena?"

"Нет, Наталья Алиановна. I have never named a weapon Lena." He walked out of the house leaving Romanoff fuming.

Mystified and startled by the exchanged between Barnes and Romanoff, Rogers said pointedly, "Nat?"

"That bastard. Нечестный мудак! He remembers."

"Yeah, he does." Rogers swallowed the portion of coffee that hadn't spilled and said grimly, "Bucky won't tell me about it, but he did say he remembers. I know Sveta was the girl he shared his food with and she got punished for it. I'm not sure who Olya was."

"I can't tell you about that, Steve. Don't ask me to."

Rogers nodded. "Ok. I won't."

"I didn't know Barnes did that for Svetlana, but it doesn't surprise me that they punished her. Kindness was ruthlessly discouraged. Admitting to the weakness of hunger would have been punished terribly, too. What is going on, Steve?"

"I think that's what I want to know, honestly."

"I'm really not interested in playing games right now, Steve. Something has you upset and you need to tell me what it is."

Rogers shook his head and regarded her with a mulish, angry expression. "Seriously, Natasha, I'm asking you what is going on here with us?"

Romanoff raised her eyebrows and said sarcastically, "It doesn't seem all that complicated to me, Steve. Several months ago, we started sharing a bed."

"That's how you see it? Okay. Alright, fine." Rogers stood up from the table and carried his cup to the sink. "If that is really all this has been for you, then I guess I've made an enormous mistake. I'm sorry." He turned around and, leaning against the grubby motel wall, he said further, "You should have been more upfront with me, Natasha. I told you exactly how I feel. I really didn't think that you would play that kind of game with me."

"I'm not; in fact, I have been unusually honest with you, Steve. But you cannot reasonably expect me to declare my undying love to you already, can you? This is all I have for you right now. I told you, Steve, I cannot do the kind of relationship that results in a house in the suburbs, children, and a dog. I don't know if I could ever marry anyone. Either you take what I am now or you'll have to do without."

Rogers pushed off from the wall and said gruffly, "You have known for a long time how I feel about you, Natasha. Yet, I still don't really know what you think of me. Twelve weeks ago, you said that you needed me, so I promised that I could be whatever you wanted. I was willing to meet you where you are. But Natasha, what you told Bucky…I don't know how to take that. And the worst thing is that, apparently, you didn't even think I'd care. I know you didn't assume Buck would NOT tell me."

Romanoff did not reply, but the way in which she tightened her hand on the gun in front of her made Rogers step closer and say, "Did you mean it? Honestly?"

"You should choose someone else, Steve."

He bared his teeth and growled, "Yeah, so you kept tellin' me every time you used to try to set me up with someone new. Answer the d*** question, Natasha."

"I know what I am and I know that I'm probably going to hurt you very badly. I've broken a lot of hearts over the years, Steve, and that has never bothered me before. Do you think that I've played matchmaker for anyone else, Steve? Ever? You should have listened to me and asked out Marilynn or Delilah. What is wrong with you? I'm not the girl you stay with long-term."

"Why the h*** not? You're the one that I want."

Romanoff turned her back on him and crossed her arms over her chest. "You're an idiot, Rogers."

"Tell me something original, Natasha. You've played that card far too often. Now, did you mean what you told Bucky?"

"No." Romanoff's shoulders sagged slightly and repeated, "No, of course, I didn't. If I wanted something casual, would I really pick you, Steve?"

His eyes narrowed and stance was tight as if he were prepared to fling himself into battle, while Rogers retorted, "Right now, I honestly don't know. What you said to Buck absolutely shook me. It was just cruel as h*ll."

Romanoff slowly turned around. She paused an infinitesimally short amount of time, but Steve still read her hesitation and balled his fists even tighter. Romanoff lifted one hand slightly as if waving away his reaction. "I've really never lied to you, Steve. I have withheld things. I've shaded things. I misdirected. I have waited a little longer than I should have to tell you a couple of things. But I have never explicitly lied to you, which makes you actually unique. I've lied to Clint dozens of times. I cannot promise that I won't, but the fact that I haven't is meaningful. I want to be honest, even when I know that will hurt you, since lying to you would hurt you more. I will never play you, Steve."

Rogers' posture was still incredibly defensive and angry, as he asked in a low, harsh voice, "OK, then I need you to tell me the truth now. Do you honestly feel anything for me at all or have you just been using me for comfort?"

"I would never use you, Steve."

Relaxing his stance and laying his hand on the back of a chair, as if he were simply casually talking with her, Rogers demanded dangerously, "Ok, so not option A or B, but, perhaps, an option C? So, what exactly is that then, Natasha?"

She stood very still and watched Rogers with a closed-off, stiff expression before she replied evenly in a quiet voice, "Not option C."

Rogers sighed harshly and carefully seated himself in the chair before he allowed himself to look at her. Then, all at once, he slumped forwards and propped his arms up on the table and dropped his face into his hands. "I'm not gonna change how I feel, Natasha."

They were both silent for a few moments. Then, Rogers lifted his head and stared directly into Romanoff's eyes challengingly, while he stated firmly, "I'm honestly ready to stand beside you forever, Nat. However, I acknowledge that you might not want this like I do. So, if you wanna pull back, then do it now. Otherwise, I'm gonna make assumptions and I'll be pretty d*** open about them."

Romanoff snorted and asked derisively, "You want to tell the world that Captain America is dating the Black Widow?"

"Yes, I absolutely want to tell the world that Steve Rogers is in love with Natasha Romanoff. You know, Nat, you do know that I'll take it as far you'll let me. All the way." Then, Rogers shrugged and stood up, as he said sadly, "Don't worry, I'm not going to blow your cover; I know that you want to keep this private. You can continue to keep me a secret, if that's what you need. But, Nat, do you think that I could ever be ashamed of you or how I feel?"

"Steve, I am a spy, an assassin, a traitor to the country of my birth, and many would say I'm a traitor just in general."

Rogers stepped around the table and put his hand behind Romanoff's head, as he looked down at her. "I don't give a d*** what they say. You are an incredible woman: intelligent, witty, clever, brave, confident, fearless, selfless, and ridiculously beautiful. I would be a fool not to want you."

Romanoff asked quietly, "Do you trust me, Steve?"

His answer was immediate and fervent, "Yes, I do. I do, Nat. That is why I couldn't bear what you said to Bucky. D*** it, Nat, you cannot imagine how much I needed to hear you tell me that it was a lie. But only if that is actually the truth. Don't start lying to me, Nat."

She let him pull her in, so Rogers' left arm was tightly wrapped around her lower back and his right hand was lightly holding the nape of her neck. It was nearly forty minutes later, but as Romanoff was heading for the small shower with her towel in hand, she stopped mid-stride and quietly said, "Option A."

3 January 2018, Ste. 4101, Avengers Tower, New York City

"Clémence."

She looked up from perusing a catalogue of baby clothing and asked with surprise, "Yes?"

"Come over here, please?"

Clémence immediately left the magazine and the shawl that had been draped over her knees, so she could sit down on the sofa next to Steve. "Yes, Alpha?"

Steve frowned. "Everything is fine, Clémence. You don't need to look so concerned. I had something that I intended to give you at Christmas. Unfortunately, it took too long to complete, which was why I bought you that necklace you liked. Therefore, I want you to have this for your birthday."

"But that's tomorrow."

"I know, but it is nearly midnight. By the time that we walk into the bedroom, it will be your birthday, my dear."

Her face lit up and Clémence smiled excitedly. "That is so sweet and romantic, Steve. Thank you!"

Steve replied quietly, "Will you come with me?"

She accepted his hand and walked with him into their bedroom. When she turned to look where Steve was indicating with his other hand, Clémence saw a long painting hanging over the chest of drawers beside them. The painting showed a young woman with long hair of Clémence's particularly rare silvery blond shade that was partly braided around her head while the remainder flowed around her like a veil in the wind. The white gown she wore had a shawl draped over it that seemed to blend in with the background as if it were a part of nature. Although her back was towards the viewer, the woman looked over the shoulder on which the garment was pinned in the style of the Byzantine-protocol—her pale cheek and an almond-shaped grey eye were just barely visible. In the background, just barely discernible beyond the drooping willow with long branches being blown by the wind towards the girl, was a distant soldier walking along a winding path. The colours were hazy and the figures were all nearly obscured by shadows, so the silvery hair and the paleness of the woman's skin and dress were almost shocking in comparison.

Clémence whispered with awe, "The painting? It is for me?"

"Yes."

"Wow." She walked up closer and stared up at it for a while. "Tell me about it?"

"What it means to me and how you see it might be quite different, Clémence."

"I know, but I want to understand what you meant when you painted it."

Steve started slightly, and replied, "I have never told you before that I paint. How did you know?"

"Because even though his face is obscured, I can tell the soldier there is you. And you would never allow another man to paint me like this."

He lightly touched her hair, then Steve replied quietly, "Happy Birthday, Clémence."

She continued to look up at the painting for several moments longer, then turned back to Steve with a confused expression. Finally, she asked, "Is it a message? It seems like you are saying…are you telling me how you feel?"

Steve replied grimly, "I have told you how I feel many times before, Clémence."

"I know, but this is different. Are you really so unhappy?"

He put his arm around her and looked down into her upturned face as he very seriously answered, "No, beloved, I am very happy to be matched to you. So much more than I am able to express. I think you must know that words do not come easily to me."

Clémence stared up at the painting again for almost a minute, then turned back towards him. "No one has ever looked at me like that before, Steve. My family was always disappointed with me. I am not clever like Emmanuelle or a beauty like Camille. I had trouble doing things right so often that I think that I was always on restriction or working on memorising a new remedial. No one has ever thought me worthy of that, Steve. Is that truly how you see me?"

Steve placed a light kiss on her forehead. "It is. Anyone that knows you, yet does not value you greatly is a fool, Clémence."

She wrapped her arms around him tightly and whispered with wonder, "I cannot believe that you painted me like that. It is so very beautiful."

Eyes closed and face taut with emotion, Steve held her for several minutes, then finally said quietly, "I am still worried about you, Clémence. You have not been well, my love. I know that I have overreacted at times or been harsh when I misunderstood your anxiety. That is not how it should be."

Clémence immediately dropped her head and stammered fearfully, "I am sorry, Alpha. I-I never wanted you to worry about me. I promise that I will do better."

Steve growled and pulled back to look Clémence in the face as he said fiercely, "My love, this is not your fault. You do not need to take the blame for my mistakes. I have not done a good job of leading you."

She was unable to look away for fear of upsetting him, but Clémence was also incapable of keeping herself from showing the fear she felt. "But I have messed up. I know that I have. I can do better."

Steve gently tucked a strand of her hair behind one ear and said, "No, I am not disappointed in you, my love. I am displeased with myself. My behaviour has encouraged you to believe that you cannot trust me with your true thoughts. Yet, I promise that you can and I would be happy for us to be closer."

"But we will learn, won't we?" Clémence took a deep breath and steeled herself to say, "I think…I think…maybe…perhaps I don't always know what you want because there are some different expectations because you are from a previous generation to mine."

"Yes. I suppose that is correct. I cannot really change that."

Clémence saw the pinched look around Steve's eyes and the firmness around his mouth and realised that she'd hurt him, so she fearfully stammered, "I-I really don't want you to change. Honestly. I just…I just want to better understand you. That is ok, isn't it? For me to ask, I mean?"

"Of course, it is, my love." Steve nodded and asked gently, "Was there something particular that you wanted to ask about?"

"No. No. I just meant that I might not figure stuff out as quickly as I should, since all the things they told me to expect are sometimes a bit different. And what you do seem to want is more like what we were taught in Traditions class or Formal Protocol lessons."

Steve sucked in a breath audibly and then said forcefully, "D*mmit, Clémence."

She clutched at his forearms and pleaded anxiously, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Alpha. I said that stupidly. I wasn't intending to insult you; I promise. In fact, I think your ways are so beautiful and much more romantic than the modern ones, but…but, you see, I failed those classes and had to do remedials to be allowed to continue to the next session. I don't remember what they taught us very well, therefore I'm always missing something or upsetting you. So…so, I'm sure by now you can see why my family always joked that I was a very sparkly but dim star in the family constellation."

Outraged, Steve asked sharply, "Your family said that about you? There is nothing funny about that, Clémence. You are not a joke. You are an incredibly special girl, especially to me."

Clémence flushed hotly and tried to hide her face when Steve laid his hand along her cheek. "Oh! But…thank you, but…but they just meant that I'm not good at learning things, you see. I take longer than everyone else, you know? And I worry about every step. Also, my family has always teased me that I'm a little obsessed with pretty things: so, sparkly but dim, you see?"

"No, I do not see that at all and I'm honestly livid that your family has made you to believe it."

"Well, I have four sisters and three brothers, all of whom were very good in school, yet I needed five remedials in school to be permitted to finish. I am the only one that didn't get mother's beauty, too. Please, I really didn't mean to offend you before, Alpha. I just meant that I need your help to follow along with your traditions, please, because I'm having a hard time remembering what to do. But I do want to follow you. So much."

Frowning first at the table in front of them on which a large vase of fluffy peonies had been placed, Steve then looked sternly at Clémence and replied, "I know that you do. Yet the truth is, Clémence, that in some way or perhaps multiple ways, I have not lived up to whatever you thought I would be. As you just pointed out, my expectations are decades out of date, but I have actually tried my best to adjust. Perhaps it is less my old-fashioned views and more me that has disappointed you. Steve Rogers is very different from Captain America. I cannot ever be who you hoped I am, I think, Clémence."

Clémence started shaking as she tried to pull away from him, but Steve did not allow it. Therefore, she went limp in his grasp, as she whispered fearfully, "No, that is untrue!" Then, Clémence dropped her head and presented her hands to Steve in the very dated manor that her Traditions instructress had taught would demonstrate submission to an Alpha of Steve's era. "I am so sorry that I offended you."

Steve frowned as he looked at her intensely, then he took her proffered hands between his with a sigh. "There is nothing for you to be sorry about, Clémence. I don't want you to be upset or feel bad about it, my love. You cannot force yourself to feel the same way that I do. The reality is that you feel incompatible enough with me that you do not trust me enough to talk about whatever you need. Since it is my job to do better and, despite my best efforts, I have not been able to, I don't even have the right to be angry about it."

Clémence's normally high-pitched voice was now almost babylike as she replied, "You want me to tell you what I want instead of trying understanding what you prefer?"

His expression was bewildered, as Steve replied, "I've repeatedly asked you to talk to me about your needs, Clémence."

"But am I not supposed to be obedient to the traditions so I can show you how much I respect you? I don't understand why you would not want me to do this for you. When I acknowledged your claim, my family brought Grandmama down from the compound, so she could teach me about what you would expect. I was so grateful for her help, too, since I wanted so much to do everything perfectly for you. And Grandmama said that it was never appropriate for me to ask that my Alpha follow my lead. She warned me that if I was too demanding that you would…"

Steve interrupted impatiently, "If that was what I expected from you, Clémence, then why would I have continued to ask you what you wanted? Why would I tell you that I want to see you happy and, at times, nearly beg you to tell me what would make you more so?"

"I didn't…but…that isn't how I thought you meant things. Grandmama was very insistent about the traditions that I needed to follow in order to be a good match to you. I've just been trying to follow your will like I'm meant to do. I thought I could make you happy by doing that. And my brothers made it very clear that they were not going to be forgiving if I had a bondmatch as contentious as Emilie's."

Steve grunted and responded sadly, "Well, at least you can say that you've pleased your brothers then, since we have never been contentious. Honestly, sometimes our bondmatch has felt as cold as the arctic and, trust me, I know just how that feels, Clémence. However, you should remember that your Grandmother Arsenault had an arranged bondmatch. Would you categorise ours as one? Were there pressures of which I was not aware from your family?"

Clemence placed both her hands on his chest, but Steve immediately stiffened so she pulled them away and covered her face. "No, no, definitely not. I absolutely wanted to be bondmatched to you. I was so happy when you asked for Courtship and thrilled when you made the Claim. I-I couldn't believe you had chosen me and, for once, my family was so proud of me. I didn't expect to ever have a match like you, but I have tried so hard to do things right for you."

He pulled her hands away from her eyes and kissed them before he said gently, "I may have been born in 1918, but I was frozen for seven decades. My mind and body say that I'm just a 30-year-old guy, Clémence. So, it doesn't really matter when I was raised. The way I saw it, I met an incredible girl and I thought we could be happy together. So, I have been desperately trying to make that happen, but no matter what I do, I just seem to make a mess of it instead."

"Is everything really that bad? I…but I thought we were doing mostly ok."

Steve shook his head. "No, my love. No, we are not. You are unhappy and frightened nearly all the time. I'm miserable because my match seems to think that I don't give a d*** what she wants and is so terrified that she won't even express a preference at dinner. How could you think that I wouldn't be bothered by that? Honestly, is that how you see me, Clémence? That I either do not care or, worse, that I don't even notice how my match is feeling?"

Her eyes wide with fear, Clémence murmured, "No."

Steve cupped her face in his hands and sighed as looked down at her. "I gotta wonder, Clémence, did you interpret your grandmother's advice to mean that someone like me would only want you to look pretty, keep quiet, and obey my every whim? Or am I that much of a jerk that you believed that I'd want that kind of life for you?"

She hung her head and said quietly, "No, but I...I…I don't know how to explain. I'm sorry."

"In my childhood, your grandmother's advice was an attitude in many upper-class families and with some of the traditional family-arranged matches. However, I grew up in a Brooklyn tenement, Clémence, poorer than you can imagine. No Alpha was ever rated above a level three if they came from my neighbourhood, ok? No Omega got above a B ranking. It didn't matter what your abilities and hormone levels actually were."

Shocked, Clémence asked, "They didn't have the standardised tests then?"

"No, I don't know when that came about. They rated us in school then. I went to a school that was designed to teach working class Irish and Italian kids just enough to work in factories or at the docks. We bondmatched to Omegas we met through formal courting dances or church Introduction teas. All we wanted was to make our match happy, have three or four healthy kids, and perhaps put enough aside to be able to retire at a decent age. I used to long for the chance to meet an Omega who didn't look at me as some kind of joke, since tiny, sickly guys like me weren't even supposed to be Alphas. I wasn't Captain America then, Clémence."

Clémence turned up her face, so she could look into his eyes as she insisted, "But…I didn't bondmatch to you because you are Captain America. I know that mattered to my parents and is probably why they allowed you to be a candidate. I probably would have acknowledged your Claim regardless, since you were clearly a good match for any girl. However, the reason I was so happy about it was because of you. I liked you and Captain America really had nothing to do with it."

"Ok." Steve took her by the hand and led her over to the small sofa on the far wall of the bedroom. After he settled her on the seat, he dropped down beside her and said with a sigh, "Ok, Clémence, I believe you. However, you're still miserable. I have failed you somehow. I'm clearly not who or what you had hoped I would be."

"No, Steve, that isn't true. It's my fault that things are wrong."

Steve miserably asked, "Do they still teach the phrase: Alpha heads the home, but Omega heads the heart?"

Perplexed, Clémence replied, "No."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It was old-fashioned even when I was a kid. Well, it just means that Alphas may make the final decisions for the family, but our match's happiness is what should guide our choices. That was how my mother taught me to think about my future bondmatch: the Alpha must do everything in his power to make his beloved's life as perfect as he can manage. My happiness is secondary and cannot truly exist if you are not satisfied."

"But that doesn't sound fair to you at all!"

Steve took a deep breath and then replied slowly—clearly struggling to keep his temper in check. "When has life ever been truly fair, Clémence? I am a topped-out Alpha. That is who I am at my most basic level. I cannot help that my drives are different than yours. It is how I was made; the serum merely enhanced that. Therefore, despite my other responsibilities, the very heart of me is bent on protecting you, providing for you, making everything as perfect as I can for you, and doing anything I need to do in order to keep our bond secure. I don't know how to relax or take a more laid-back stance about it. The bondmatch is the most primitive drive that an Alpha has and the higher-level that we are, then the more important our bondmatch is to us. In fact, we upper-level Alphas are incapable of being truly stable until we are bondmatched—a fact that we do much to obscure, so you may not repeat that. Do you understand any of what I am saying?"

Clémence shook her head, but whispered uneasily, "Yes?"

"D*** it, Clémence, I really do not know how to explain myself more clearly." Steve stood up and walked away to the window, where he remained looking out into the dark. After a few moments, he said harshly, "Even an Alpha who doesn't love his match would be completely bondmatch obsessed. Protecting the bond and keeping his match close is always the ultimate, driving concern of a level-4 or -5 Alpha above career, family, or even personal safety. So, understand that I'm as topped-out an Alpha as has ever been recorded. Only Buck matches me. And I am in love with my match. So, try to imagine just how obsessed I truly am about finding out how to make you happy, my love."

Clémence gasped and then suddenly began to cry messily. Steve stood at the window staring outside for a few moments longer, then he turned and looked briefly at her with a deeply miserable expression. When he crossed the room and sat down beside her again, Clémence stuck out her hands and snatched up both of his. "If it really is ok to talk, then I would like to now."

"Please. Please, Clémence, I need to know what you are thinking, my love."

Clémence sniffled a bit and then forced herself to sit upright and take several deep breaths before she said, "Thank you for explaining everything to me, Steve. I really did not understand how you would feel as a topped-out Alpha, but…honestly, it does make sense based on how both Agent Barton and Bucky act with their matches. However, I would like to, you know, say something about we AAA Omegas."

Steve smiled slightly to encourage her. "Of course, Clémence. I always want to know your mind."

"Well, our primary instincts are sort of everything, really. The teachers in school taught that AAs and AAAs need security more than we need anything else. But, when we AAAs used to talk amongst ourselves, most of us felt that the desire to please is equally strong, which separates us from the AAs like Emilie or my sisters for whom that comes second. I know that I make silly choices a lot and misunderstand things all the time. However, I really am trying so hard to do anything that I can to make you happy. It is important to me both because I am an AAA Omega, so that's my primary instinct, and because I care about you so I want you to be happy. Did I explain that ok?"

Steve nodded and cupped his hand behind her head before he leant in to kiss her. "You did, my love. Thank you."

"I never expected you to see me like that. Like the way you painted me. I never expected anyone to see me that way, but especially not you. I would have thought you would want a girl who was the ultimate North Shore beauty: all wit and cleverness and style like Eleanor. I can never remember who wrote which play and I am terrible at both harp and piano. I don't understand poetry and I can never quote it. I am such a bad dancer that the girls used to laugh at me. Even when it comes to style, I just like to wear pink or green. According to Mama, I have stodgy, dull tastes, since I like dresses with ruffles or bows. If I hadn't been a multigenerational legacy, then they would never have let me attend North Shore."

He moved even closer to her, as he said in a low, serious voice, "You intoxicate me, Clémence. I cannot imagine not wanting you. It is of no interest at all to me who wrote various plays or whether you can strum a harp and quote poetry. You can drop all of that from your mind. I want none of it. You are constantly on my thoughts and the only things that I am considering are what you are, not what you aren't."

"Do you honestly, truly think of me like that?" Her eyes were fixed on the painting as she waited for his reply.

"I thought of nothing but you as I made it. I needed to say to you what I am not quite able to explain. Words are still as hard for me as they come easily for Bucky. I didn't know if you would understand, Clémence, since a painting is such an indirect way of telling you something."

"I think that I do. And I believe that it is the most important gift that I have ever received, Steve. Thank you."