I am so tired and sleep deprived. Midterms are coming up and I've been studying like crazy. I've also had a couple tournaments that last a couple days, but we did really well so I'm proud. Sorry for the late update. I haven't gotten the motivation to write with everything going on.

But I think we got like 16 reviews last chapter, which is soo awesome! Thank you to Guest review, Beachgirl25, Rezan, PrincessMagic, Amir-015, Sugz25, salty milkshake, A, M, CookieWorkout, ShunGod, Archangel Writings, Yon-sama, jwmf, amy, and Miss Ianthe! Y'all leave such awesome feedback.

Steve had once thought normality in his life was impossible.

Everything had changed the moment they'd injected the super soldier serum into his veins. Along with a bulkier figure, he'd suddenly gained something else— responsibility. A responsibility to protect, which he'd accepted fully. So there would always be a new villain. Another Hitler. Another Loki, with an army of Chitauri. Another Ultron. Another fight to fight. Another battle to battle. He'd spent his whole life fighting for something.

Yet, as he sat at the diner, waiting for his breakfast order, he realized how much things had changed. Strangely enough, his definition of normal had shifted since his time in the ice. Now, normal was going on missions with the team. It was chasing after shady arms dealers and blowing up illegal bases. It was the lulling moments of quiet and peace in between, teaching classes at the gym or training with the team at the Avengers compound.

The press followed him wherever he showed his face, but he'd gotten better at disguising himself. Sometimes, he'd use the face-morphing masks at SHIELD. Technology in the modern age still never ceased to amaze him, even after all these years. But it was a hassle to put on and take off, so most of the time he got by with glasses and a baseball cap. Or maybe a fake beard if he was feeling it.

Steve didn't mind the looks of awe on kids' faces when they saw him. They'd ask him to pose for a picture or to autograph their possessions. He loved seeing their wide grins when he inconspicuously signed his name. It was strange that something so little from him could make their whole day. Steve had trouble thinking about himself in that way. He'd gotten used to the hero/idol/Avenger status, but it still managed to clobber him over the head in unexpected ways.

The waitress came by with his order. She smiled at him brightly and placed a cup of coffee in his waiting hand.

"Your meal will be here shortly," she said.

He thanked her, and she winked at him. They did that sometimes. That was strange, too. People were so forward these days.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Four times, in a specific pattern. Short-short-short-long. Bzz-bzz-bzz. Bzzzzzz. It was the custom vibrate setting Tony had shown him how to make. Steve used it for the emergency texts. He checked his phone. The notification showed the name Natasha Romanoff.

Nat wasn't much of a texter. She wasn't much of a caller, either. They saw each other frequently at the Compound, or at work— which was most often at the Compound. If she wanted to talk, she'd break into his apartment and root through his stash of old-school snacks. She only texted when it was urgent.

Steve swiped to see the text. It was short and concise, as always. Nat didn't like wasting characters.

Emergency. Safehouse in Queens, now.

It wasn't like Nat to need help from anyone doing anything. He couldn't recall the last time she'd asked him for help with something. It was more often the other way around; Steve would need help turning on the dishwasher, or figuring out what the different colored buttons on the fancy espresso machine did. If Nat was the one texting him, it must've been urgent.

Curious, Steve typed out: What kind of emergency?

A quick and completely uninformative response back: Important one. Hurry up.

Steve didn't know why he'd expected anything more. There was no use pushing his point. He doubted he'd get anything back. Resigned, he responded with the OK hand emoji.

Natasha Romanoff: Grandma emoji. I'm getting old waiting.

Steve Rogers: It hasn't even been a full minute yet.

Natasha Romanoff: At this rate, I'll be older than you by the time you get here.

Steve found the rolling-eyes emoji and clicked send.

He downed his coffee in one gulp, the hot liquid burning his throat. He binned the cup and came back to the table just as the waitress was coming back with his breakfast. It looked and smelled tantalizingly delicious, a platter filled with pancakes, syrup, eggs, hash browns, and sausages. Her hopeful expression dimmed when she saw him pulling on his motorcycle jacket.

"Sorry, I've gotta go," he said hurriedly. He began towards the exit, but stopped mid-step, skidding on the tiles. "Wait! Here."

He threw a handful of ones down on the table. Enough to cover the tip, and then some. He grabbed three pancakes, plus a hash brown, from the waitress' platter and dashed out of the restaurant.

"As I recall, you said this was an emergency."

Steve had sped across three highways on his motorcycle at breakneck speed, barely under the speed limit, nearly running over an old lady in the process. He'd pulled into a tiny parking space, ran up three flights of stairs because he knew the elevator would take longer, and all but smashed through Natasha's apartment door… only to find her lounging on the couch, watching a gory horror film Steve recognized.

"This is an emergency," Natasha replied, fixated on the screen. Onscreen, there was a flurry of movement. The camera zoomed in on a blonde girl, mouth opened wide in a blood curdling scream. She was covered in blood, a knife plunged into her esophagus.

Oddly, Natasha was in full Black Widow gear, a number of guns and knives and who knows how many other weapons strapped to her. She looked like she was going somewhere, yet she hadn't moved from her spot since Steve had broken in.

Steve made a show of looking around the apartment. (It was nice, he noticed. Well furnished.) "I don't see an emergency. In fact, I don't see much of anything going on."

"Shh. I'll tell you in a moment. It's just getting to the good part. This bitch, Stacy, is going to die in ten seconds."

Steve saw the remote laying on the coffee table, three feet away, and reached for it. In her peripheral vision, Nat saw it coming. She lunged for it as well, but Steve was closer. He snatched it and shut the TV down.

She frowned at him. "Killjoy."

"Please. You've seen that movie a thousand times."

"It only comes on at this time. You made me miss the best part."

"And you made me miss breakfast."

Natasha rose up from the couch. "We have coffee," she said, nodding to the pot. "And bagels." She snatched a bagel off a plate and threw it at Steve's head.

He reached out and caught it. He took a bite. "Blueberry," he noticed.

"The powers of observation are strong in this one," she mocked.

Steve finished the bagel and reached for another. "Was that a Star Wars reference?"

Natasha flashed him a small, pleased smile. "It was. I'm glad you're cottoning on."

"I cottoned on a long time ago."

"That's debatable." Natasha examined the broken lock on the door. There was a vibranium-shield-sized dent in the doorjamb where Steve had broken through. She threw a dark look at him. "You're paying for this, by the way."

"You didn't give me much of a choice in breaking it."

"There are other ways of opening a door. Such as, knocking politely. Pounding politely. Yelling politely. Breaking things needs to stop being your go-to."

"You specifically said there was an 'emergency'. I assumed the worst. And speaking of— where is the emergency?"

"Speak of the devil." Before Steve could decipher what that meant, Natasha pointed at something behind his shoulder.

"What's going on?" a young voice asked.

Instinctively, he turned towards the sound and came face to face with the last thing he would have imagined to come across in Nat's apartment. A kid. A young blonde girl who barely came up to his elbow. The first thing Steve noticed about her was her eyes. They were dark and oddly intelligent. Despite looking nothing alike, the bold, slightly arrogant, I'm-better-than-you tilt of the girl's jaw and steely expression reminded him of Natasha. She carried a mug of what smelled like coffee. It was half-empty. Her shirt had three ponies with wings on the first and read I'm a Pony Princess.

"Nat," Steve whispered, "you have a kid?"

The girl's attention snapped to him. "First of all, you don't have to whisper. I'm standing right here. I have two perfectly good, functioning ears attached to a perfectly good brain. Second of all, I'm not a kid. Third, no, I'm not her kid. That would be weird because we don't even look anything alike. Also, I'm really nice, and she's horrible and scary and has a ton of guns—"

Nat spoke to Steve. "The answer is yes, she is always this annoying. This is Cat."

"Spelled like the animal," Cat interjected.

Natasha was smirking. "Nice shirt, Pony Princess."

"Oh, shut up" was the girl's instantaneous response.

Steve's eyes went to Natasha. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a human being utter those words aloud to the Black Widow and walk away unharmed. However, Nat seemed more amused than angry.

"You did this on purpose," the girl, Cat, complained.

"One might argue I do everything on purpose."

"You know my entire class thinks that I'm obsessed with My Little Pony now?"

"Which one?"

Before Steve could decipher what that meant, Cat plowed on. "Both! First the backpack, then the shirts. What's next? You know what, don't tell me." She angrily snatched a blueberry bagel, set her coffee down on the table, and plopped down on the couch. "I'm going on strike."

"I don't think you know what going on strike means. One person can't go on strike. You need a whole bunch of people."

"Watch me." Cat took another bite.

Steve needed a moment to process this. Unsure of what to say or do, he fell back on his instincts. His manners reminded him to extend a hand to the girl and say, "I'm Steve."

She shook it. For a kid, her grip was surprisingly firm. Without hesitation, she responded, "No, you're not."

Steve, who had been relatively sure that he was in fact Steve, was taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You're Captain America. I've seen your face on TV." She studied him with a calculating expression. "You're taller in person. Did you know that?"

"I didn't."

"Yeah, and they draw you on cereal boxes, too. They get your nose all wrong. Why do you have a shield?"

He looked down at the mentioned item, strapped to his arm. "Because I'm Captain America."

"So you take it everywhere you go? Even in the bathroom?"

"Only when I need it."

"Have you ever needed it in the bathroom?"

"So far, no."

"Huh." Through a mouthful of bagel, she looked around and asked, "Anyway, how come no one's answered my question? What's going on?"

"I'm asking myself the same thing," Steve said, looking pointedly at Nat. "Someone told me there was an emergency."

Natasha pointed at Cat. "That's the emergency."

"I'm not an emergency," Cat fired back. "You're an emergency."

Steve stared at Cat. "I don't get it."

"I'm going out of town," Nat explained, throwing Steve a significant look that probably meant I'm going on a mission. "And someone needs to look after the demon."

"What?!"

Following Cat's outburst, Steve shook his head. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

Cat's jaw dropped in indignation. "Look after me? Am I five?"

"Nat," Steve objected at the same time, "I'm not qualified to look after a kid."

Natasha gave him an annoyed frown. "You're a national hero. I think you're qualified to look after a kid. It's not that hard. You only need to feed them at certain intervals, take them on walks, makes sure they don't get run over by a car—"

"I'm not a dog!"

Natasha ignored Cat. "I'm asking, Rogers." She met Steve's eyes unblinkingly.

Steve sighed. "Just this once, Romanoff."

"Hey! Is anyone listening to me? I don't need a stupid babysitter!" Cat turned to Steve. "No offense."

"None taken."

Cat launched back into her argument. "This is ridiculous. I've been fine all those other times you went away! What's changed?"

"You really have to ask?"

"Yes!"

Without answering, Natasha got up and started towards the kitchen. She opened cabinets and reached in, stretching her arm in further than the cabinet looked like it would allow, and pulled out various knives. She began stuffing them in her duffel.

Cat didn't seem perturbed by all the weapons loaded in the kitchen. She seemed more focused on convincing Natasha she didn't need a babysitter. "What? What is it?"

"Take a guess."

"I can't!"

"You snuck out at night and got caught by the police trying to sneak into a nightclub."

Cat sputtered for a moment. "Wh— You never said I couldn't do that!"

"Really?" Natasha raised an eyebrow. "That's your defense?"

"I'm not defending myself. You never said I couldn't do it. That means I didn't do anything wrong."

"That's because I thought it went without saying."

"Well, clearly you were wrong."

Natasha shut the cupboard and shifted her attention to Cat. "Why the hell did the idea even occur to you?"

"I just wanted to see what the big deal was!"

"About nightclubs?"

"Yeah! So?"

Natasha shook her head, like I can't believe this kid. "I'm leaving," she announced. She gathered her duffel and began towards the door.

"You can't just leave in the middle of an argument!" Cat yelled at her retreating back. "I am clearly winning!"

"Looks to me like you're losing," was Natasha's final reply as the door slammed uselessly against the broken door frame.

Cat was still fuming. "Can you believe her?"

Captain America shook his head. "I'm still trying to process everything myself."

Cat could hardly believe this was happening either. Captain America was standing in the living room, for God's sake. A few months ago, she might've gawked and stared like an idiot, paralyzed with amazement. However, in a matter of a few months, she had run away from home, been interrogated by Hawkeye, was currently living with the Black Widow, and shared chemistry class with Spider-Man. She'd accepted since then that her life had become a mess of craziness that she was no longer going to question. She wasn't about to give life the satisfaction of making her stride falter again. So suck on that, life.

"This is so ridiculous. Like, seriously? A babysitter?" Cat continued angrily. "Does she think I'm five?"

"How old are you?" he asked curiously.

"Nine, but I'm almost ten."

"That's only four years older than five," Captain America pointed out.

Cat narrowed her eyes at him. "No duh. I know how to subtract. I'm not stupid. You know who's stupid, though? Five year olds. They're useless. They can't read or write or contribute anything useful to society. Some of them need help going to the bathroom. There is a fundamental difference between a nine year old and a five year old."

Captain America nodded slowly. "Okay. I apologize."

"I forgive you, I guess."

"So… you don't seem too happy with this situation."

"You think?" Cat sighed deeply. "Luckily, I am a genius and I know how we can get out of this."

"Get out of this? What does that mean?"

"Look, Mr. America—"

"Please. It's just Steve."

"That seems weird."

He raised an eyebrow. "Weirder than Mr. America?"

Cat thought that over. "Good point. Okay, Steve. Don't get me wrong here, I'm a huge fan and all. But despite what Natasha thinks, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I've done it for a super long time. And the only reason the police caught me trying to sneak into that nightclub is because I let them catch me."

"I don't doubt that."

"And I'm sure your idea of an ideal weekend doesn't include looking after a kid you barely know."

"Well, not exactly, but that doesn't mean—"

"Good. Then I have the perfect solution for both of our problems." Cat walked over to the broken door, twisted the useless handle, and opened it for him. "Bye."

His brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

She gestured towards the hallway. "You're free to go."

Steve walked over and closed it again. The door thumped uselessly against the smashed doorframe. He turned to face her. "Look, kid. I get that you might disagree with Nat on this one, but I made a promise to her."

Cat crossed her arms. "You mean that promise you made five minutes ago? Not legally binding, so you're good."

"Maybe not, but I intend to follow through with it all the same."

"Okay, if Natasha's what you're worried about, then I guess we could strategize on how to keep her from finding out. It'll be a little tricky since she's got that whole I-know-everything spy shtick going on, but I think we can do it. So I'm thinking we could get some walkie-talkies, and when I see Natasha coming through the driveway, you could just spring over and—"

"I have a better idea," Steve interrupted.

"How could you possibly have a better idea?" Cat demanded. "Does your idea include walkie talkies?"

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a set of keys. "Let's go on a ride."

"Not a bad idea," Cat said as Steve's motorbike sputtered to a stop in front of an IHOP.

She'd never ridden on the back of a motorcycle before, but Steve assured her it was perfectly safe. He'd told her all the safety guidelines— don't let go of him, don't wiggle around, keep her feet on the footrests, don't lean sideways, blah blah blah. He'd given her his helmet to wear. It was a little big on her— it nearly reached her shoulders, even after he'd adjusted it to the tightest setting.

Riding on a motorcycle was the best. It felt like flying— or at least what Cat would imagine flying to feel. The vibrations of the motorcycle, the rumble of the engine, the wind ripping at her hair and clothes. They went slower than what Cat would've liked, but it was still enough to send adrenaline pumping through her, filling her entire body with a light buzzing sensation.

Cat got off, a little wobbly. Steve steadied her. He removed his helmet from Cat's head and set it on a handlebar of his motorcycle. "I assume you like pancakes?"

"You assume correctly."

He opened the door for her. The bell jingled as he did, and a rush of heat slammed into them. The heavenly smell of pancakes made Cat's mouth water.

"Still have your mind set on getting rid of me?"

"Actually," she said, "you might be my new favorite person."

They got seated, and a waitress came by their table. Her face was coated in a very thick layer of makeup, which looked like she'd done it in the dark. Cat could tell she hadn't done it right because it was cakey and rough in places where she hadn't blended right. Her eyes were accentuated with so much eyeliner she looked part raccoon. When she saw Steve, her eyes went a little wide and her cheeks, even through the makeup, flushed to the color of an unripe plum.

"Hi! I'm Melissa and I'll be serving y'all today!" she chirped. Her attention was solely focused on Steve. "You look familiar. You're that guy, aren't you?"

"That would depend on what guy you're referring to."

Her gaze raked over his arms. "Oops! My bad. I meant— you're Captain America, right? I'm a huge fan."

Steve gave her a polite smile. "That's right."

"Could you sign my…" The waitress fumbled around her apron and fished out a crumpled napkin. She unclipped a pen from her pocket and handed it to them. "If you wouldn't mind." She giggled, covering her face.

"No, of course not." Steve signed the napkin and handed them back to her. "Did you want to take our orders?"

"Oh! Yes, thanks for reminding me! Sorry, I seem to be a little frazzled today." She flashed him a bright smile. "Can I get you started on any drinks?"

Steve went with water. Cat asked for a Coke.

"Isn't it a little early for that?" Steve asked.

"Fine. One diet Coke, please."

Steve still looked disapproving, so Cat threw her hands up. "C'mon! It's not like I'm asking for a shot."

"Okay," he agreed. "A diet Coke."

They finished ordering their breakfasts. Cat ordered a stack of chocolate pancakes, and Steve ordered pancakes, waffles, hash browns, bacon, and eggs. Instead of leaving, the waitress lingered at the table. She placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, startling him a little. She nodded to Cat. "So is this your…"

"Oh, she's my friend's… um… kid. Well, not exactly. It's complicated. But anyway, she's gone away for a few days, so I'm just looking after her."

"Wow! That is so nice of you, to help look after her. You know how kids can be…" the waitress continued, as if said kid wasn't sitting right in front of them.

"Yup," Cat muttered under her breath, "it's a real hassle."

"So, what kind of friend?" The waitress leaned in. "A really close friend, or like, I don't know… a girlfriend?"

Cat threw her an annoyed stare. In her most polite voice, she said, "No offense, lady, but I thought this was a restaurant, not an interrogation."

The waitress gave her a fake, tight-lipped smile. "Our job includes making friendly conversation with the customers."

"Does your job also include mentally picturing yourself having their children?"

"Cat," Steve warned.

The waitress was now giving her a full-on glare. "Right. Okay. You know what— whatever! I will be right back with your drinks." And with that, she turned and walked away.

"Before you tell me that was rude," Cat told Steve once she was out of earshot, "she deserved it. At least now she'll get the hint."

He shook his head. "You remind me of Nat. She would've done the same thing. Still, you could've been less harsh."

"Agree to disagree." Cat squinted at him. "You weren't actually interested in her, were you?"

"No. Definitely not. Dating isn't really my scene."

"Does that happen to you all the time? Getting recognized, I mean."

"I usually have a disguise. Baseball cap and sunglasses. I'll throw on a beard if I'm feeling creative."

Cat snorted. "There's no way that works."

"You'd be surprised."

"Well, I guess you do have sort of a generic face."

His eyebrows came together. "I do?"

"Not in a bad way. You just look like the typical All-American guy. Blond hair and blue eyes and straight teeth and all that."

"Thank you, I think."

"Take it how you will."

He regarded her curiously. "Has anyone ever told you you're very intelligent for your age?"

"Only everyone. Some people say it less nicely. I'm going to two schools. My elementary school and Midtown High. Both are pretty lame. I'm only going because it's the only way Natasha will teach me how to fight."

"So she's training you, huh? That must be interesting."

Cat groaned. "That's one way to describe it. So far, it's boring stuff like running around and doing burpees. It's called 'conditioning.'" She raised her eyebrows mockingly. "She says my muscles are too pathetic to take a punch, so she won't teach me how to beat someone up until I can do twenty push-ups in a row."

"Sounds fair to me. But that doesn't mean you can't start learning proper technique. Maybe I'll take you to the gym and show you how to beat up a punching bag. It's not quite the same as beating up a human, but it's a heck of a lot safer."

Cat scoffed. "I know how to punch a punching bag. I see people do it all the time. You just—" She threw some fake punches at Steve's head. "Pow! Pow!"

"You think you know how to punch a punching bag," Steve corrected. "Here, try punching my hand." He held up his hand, palm out like he was going for a high five.

Cat gave it everything she got, but it was like punching a brick wall. It probably hurt her more than it hurt him.

"Okay, that wasn't bad. You've got a lot of force, but not a lot of technique. Give me your fist."

Cat put it in his outstretched hand and let him examine it.

"See, you're positioning your fingers wrong here. Your thumb needs to be right here, right over the two first knuckles. Make your fist as flat as possible— that's it— see how the knuckles are all lined up? You've got to hold your fist in line with your forearm. That way you won't damage your wrist..."

After pointing out about ten million other flaws in her technique, he released her hand. Cat had listened with rapt attention. She wanted to absorb all the knowledge she could get.

"It's harder than it looks," Steve finished. "If you position your wrist wrong, or don't tape your fists right, you could end up with a dislocated wrist. Possibly worse."

"Everything is harder than it looks," Cat dismissed. "You just have to learn not to be an idiot, and then you're good to go. Let me punch you again."

Steve held his hand up again, and Cat, recalling everything he'd told her, thrust her fist into his palm.

"It feels weird," she said.

"You're used to swinging mainly from your shoulder. You have to get used to it. After you do, it'll be much easier."

"Are you really going to take me to the gym?"

"Why not? Assuming Natasha won't mind."

"She won't," Cat said quickly. "She's not even my legal guardian, so it's really not her business."

"I've been wondering about that," Steve said. "I've never known Natasha to take in strays. How did you end up living with her?"

"It's a long story."

"We've got time."

As Cat explained the long saga of her life to him, from orphan to homeless to breaking into the safehouse, the waitress came by again. She was balancing two plates stacked full of plates and a syrup dispenser on a large platter. She set the plates down on the table, not very subtly brushing against Steve's shoulder as she did so. Cat hadn't realized how much food Steve had ordered until the entire table was filled with them.

The waitress reached for the syrup dispenser to place it on the only remaining space on their table, but somehow, she slipped. Despite handling the previous plates with care, as she reached down with the syrup dispenser, her hand slipped on the handle. Steve, not skipping a beat, reacted so quickly it seemed like he'd almost been expecting it. His hand was reaching for the dispenser milliseconds after it left the waitress's hand, and grabbed the handle seconds before it shattered on the ground.

The waitress gasped in shock. Her hand had made its way to Steve's bicep, where she was gripping it like it was her only lifeline. "Wow! That was amazing! You have such fast reflexes!"

"Thank you," Steve said, awkwardly handing her back the dispenser.

Her hand remained on his arm. "Seriously, thank you so much. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't done what you did."

"You probably would've just gotten another one from the kitchen," Cat told her.

To distract herself from having to hear another painful attempt at flirting from the waitress, Cat grabbed the dispenser. There was a disturbingly small amount of syrup remaining in it. She dumped all of the contents over her pancakes and set the empty dispenser on the table.

The waitress didn't spare her a glance. "How can I ever repay you?"

Steve waved a hand. "Oh, you don't have to—"

"Look, how about I just give you my number," the waitress talked over him, reaching for his phone. "I'll just type in my contact information so you'll know how to reach me."

"Put the fucking phone down, Melissa," Cat exploded. "Can you not, like, take a hint? He's clearly not interested, and watching you is making me want to throw up in my mouth. So, like, maybe actually try leaving and doing your job? Also, that foundation does not match your skin tone. It's way too dark and you need to learn how to blend properly. Are you using a makeup brush or a spatula?"

The waitress gaped, sputtering. "I— what—"

"Also," Cat thrust the syrup dispenser at her, "we need more syrup. Desperately. Thank you and goodbye."

The waitress clearly had more to say, but Cat cut her off before she could continue.

"Good. Bye."

Shaking her head, the waitress huffed and stomped away.

Steve shook his head exasperatedly. "Cat, you can't just…"

"I know, I know," Cat said before Steve could reprimand her. "That was mean and cruel and unnecessary, insulting her makeup was taking it too far, I promise to be nicer in the future. Now that the lecture's over, we can bet on how long we think it'll take you to finish all of this. I'm thinking at least eight minutes."

Steve gave her a hard stare. Cat thought he was going to pick up the lecture again, but to her surprise, he said, "Seven."

She grinned. "You're on."

I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes. I am so sleep deprived that I don't want to look back to all of the horrible mistakes I did. Anyway I wanted to get this to you guys as fast as possible so here it is. It's a pretty long one so cool. anyway bye o ya and review if you want i guess you dont have to but it would be nice like i always appreciate and blah blah i am so tired did i say that already i will probably regret posting this later ok anyway