Chapter 22

The warm breeze of late spring cooled Lucy's neck as she reached her apartment building. She swept a hand through her chin-length hair, pushing it away from her face as she climbed the front steps. She had gotten so used to the practicality and ease of having it short that by the time it had grown past her ears, she had decided to keep it that way. Her T-shirt clung to her shoulders with a thin layer of sweat, and the interior of the house felt wonderful after the morning run. She hadn't seen Steve in a few days, and the last time that they'd run together he'd seemed distant, and they had barely spoken.

After her first text had been answered with a vague, noncommittal reply that offered no explanation as to what—if anything—was wrong, she had left him alone. He'd seemed to need space, so she hadn't yet stopped by his apartment to check in on him. Maybe a couple more days, she thought.

A couple more days . . . She wondered if his sudden change in mood might have something to do with the new exhibit at the museum. She could imagine how surreal it must be to have your past—your life—being put on display, in great detail, for the world to see. A past so distant to everyone but the captain himself.

She pushed away the thoughts of how terribly different the modern world was to what Steve was used to—and how quickly he'd had to come to terms with it—before they started to drag her down. Instead, she focused on the stairs as she climbed, and her mind began to wander to her own life—her own past. And how far away it felt. If her relationships with her family and Lena went beyond phone calls and the occasional video chats, it would be another story, but she had effectively been cut off from them since she had made the decision to upend her life two years ago, and sometimes it felt like she was too accepting of this fact. Surely she could ask for some time off to visit her parents? Or maybe distancing herself from them had made the secret of her new life easier to keep, and she didn't want to risk exposure, so she didn't bother trying to see them. She could only imagine how many questions she would be bombarded with when conversations were no longer being held over the phone.

As she came to her landing, she was suddenly forced to halt and step aside as a young woman descended from the next flight up. The pretty blonde gave Lucy a sweet smile as she passed, and Lucy returned it.

They said nothing to each other. They rarely did. It's not that Lucy didn't like the woman. On the contrary, she seemed very nice, and Lucy had always gone out of her way to get along with everyone whenever she could. But there was something about her . . .

She had moved in recently, and shared a floor with Steve. Apparently she was a nurse, so she had irregular work hours. That was probably where she was headed now.

Lucy had overheard Steve conversing with her briefly one morning, their voices carrying down the stairwell as she had been leaving to meet Steve for a run. The interaction, naturally, was a pleasant one—of course, what woman in her right mind would have an unpleasant interaction with Steve Rogers?—and Lucy couldn't help but wonder whether the nurse recognized him as the much more well-known Captain America. If she hadn't yet, she was bound to soon, what with the exhibit sure to popularize the man behind the mask.

Regardless of whether the nurse was aware of her neighbor's identity, Lucy had felt a ridiculous and annoyingly painful pang of jealousy when she'd heard their brief conversation, for which she had chastised herself. She was now overly aware of when the woman was in the halls or on the stairs, as if her subconscious intended to monitor any further interactions between Steve and his new neighbor. It had grown tiresome and frustrating very quickly. It was none of her business whom Steve conversed with, spent time with, or was interested in—

Lucy put a stop to her train of thought before it got out of hand. Jealousy over the nurse upstairs was silly and pointless and would do nothing but distract her, and she couldn't afford distractions in her line of work. She and Steve were friends and colleagues, as they had been for nearly two full years now. If they were meant to be more than that, it would have happened by now.

She told herself that more often than she liked.

Once inside her apartment, Lucy made a beeline for the shower.

With the layer of sweat washed away, she emerged, hair still damp, and set to work preparing a breakfast of fried eggs and a blueberry bagel.

She took up the full plate and a glass of water, and made for the living room.

She hadn't even left the kitchen when pain shot through her skull. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut, and gripped the plate tighter, in an almost subconscious attempt to not lose her breakfast. The water sloshed and spilled as she stumbled against the counter, but she managed to blindly and clumsily slide it and the plate onto the solid surface before doubling over and sinking to her knees, cradling her head as she gritted her teeth against the pain.

Again?!

The headaches had steadily become more frequent over the last several months, and were now up to at least one every two weeks. They never lasted long, and fortunately they hadn't yet occurred during missions, or while she was running with Steve, but at this rate, it was only a matter of time. Back in 2012, she had brushed them off, and they had subsided and hadn't been a problem for quite a while. But she knew that she was in denial and couldn't put off notifying S.H.I.E.L.D. for much longer. It wouldn't look good that she'd waited as long as she had. Part of her was afraid that they would take her out of the field, deem her a failed "project." But as an agent, she had a responsibility to her team to speak up if something was potentially very wrong with her. If her performance suffered, she would be putting her team in danger, and she couldn't count on the headaches always saving themselves for when she wasn't chasing down terrorists and smugglers and gang lords.

The sharp pain continued steadily for several more long seconds, then receded, leaving Lucy's heart pounding as she pulled herself together and got back to her feet.

Her appetite was somewhat diminished, but she took up the plate and glass once again and proceeded to the couch where she could relax and replenish her energy after the morning's physical exertion, which would be followed by an afternoon of studying. If only she could inject the languages directly into her brain. Her multilingual skills had served her well in the field on many occasions, which always gave her more motivation to keep studying, but it never became any less tedious. Sometimes all she could think about was sparring with Steve and Natasha or taking a late-night tour of the city on the back of Steve's bike.

And sometimes her mind strayed to past missions. Past successes. Past mistakes.

Times when she had nearly been killed.

A dark silhouette with long dark hair, holding her up in a vice grip. Pressing her into the pavement. Choking off her air. Unfazed by her attempts at fighting back.

The feeling of being so powerless in the face of death made her chest constrict even now, as if the assassin still had a hold on her throat, about to slam her into the concrete.

Her new language skills sure had served her well in that situation.

The familiar spark of anxiety lit inside of her, making her antsy to train—to sharpen her already well-honed combat skills. She took a slow deep breath. She was safe. There was no assassin. She had other things to think about.

Like the frequently recurring pain in her head.

Lucy pulled into her designated parking space in the Triskelion's garage and turned off the car. One would think that not much would make her anxious after being a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. for so long, and being equipped with a certain amount of superhuman ability, but she was worried about the conversation that lay ahead of her. She hoped that her neglect of the issue of her headaches wouldn't make Fury or Pierce decide to suspend her. Or maybe whatever was causing the pain was serious and they would force her to take time off—maybe indefinitely.

When she checked with Pierce's secretary, she discovered that the councilman was not in his office today. She returned to the elevator. The nerves began to act up again. It's not that she was afraid of Nick Fury, but confessing her error in judgment to the somewhat more approachable and fatherly-seeming Alexander Pierce had been a bit more appealing.

She spent the elevator ride to Fury's office readying herself for the scrutiny and judgment of his steely, discerning eye.

He called out for her to come in as soon as she knocked on his door. She almost winced at the abrupt command and hoped that he wasn't in the middle of something important or stressful. Trying to exude an appropriate combination of confidence and humility, she opened the door.

The intimidating man glanced up from a file in his hand, leaning back in his desk chair as she approached.

"Agent Carlisle. I don't believe I've called you in today."

"No, sir—" She knew it: She was bothering him—she must be. But he had allowed her to come in, and he was waiting for her to explain herself. So she would take the critical glares, and she would bear the reprimands when they came. "I need to talk to you about something . . ."

Fury seemed to consider this for a moment, then laid down the file. She found it difficult to meet his eye fully. "Take a seat, Carlisle," he said, gesturing to the seating area in front of his desk. She made her way to one of the leather chairs as the director got up and joined her. Now that she had his undivided attention, she was even more nervous, but she didn't want to keep the busy man waiting, so she took the plunge with hardly a second thought.

"I've been having some . . . headaches . . . for a while now." She hurried on, "I thought that they weren't a big deal, that they would go away, after what the doctors told me after the procedure—but in retrospect, I know that I should have told someone sooner . . . I'm sorry, sir." She bowed her head slightly with embarrassment as she admitted her mistake.

"How long?"

She looked up. He seemed calm, but she couldn't tell if there was anger beneath it.

"They stopped for a while," she replied, "but they came back recently and have been getting more frequent over the past few weeks." She hesitated before regretfully adding, "They haven't affected my performance so far, but . . . at this rate, I'm worried that they might."

"Well, you're right; you should have reported the issue sooner. But, you are now, and since your team hasn't suffered because of it, I might be able to overlook your negligence."

Lucy was overcome with relief, hardly able to believe that it was that easy. "Thank you, sir—"

"However, I cannot allow you back into the field without first undergoing an examination to determine the cause of these headaches."

Her heart sank. "Of course, sir."

Fury got to his feet and walked back to his desk.

"It is pretty damn impressive, though," he said, "never having a problem on assignment, always completing the mission without incident. If you hadn't said anything, who knows how long you could've gone?"

He was teasing her.

She felt the hint of a smile touch her lips. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."

She had hoped to never again be in this situation: feeling like an experiment in a cold, high-tech lab. But she supposed that that was too much to hope for. As soon as she had become Artemis, she had probably committed herself to a lifetime of tests and reevaluations—to being an experiment. Maybe she had felt otherwise, up until now, because Steve seemed like his own person, involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. but not owned by them. She hadn't truly absorbed the fact that, despite having her own enhancements and feeling as if she were on nearly equal ground with the captain, S.H.I.E.L.D. probably considered her, in one form or another, to be their property. And when there's something wrong with their property, and the problem has been kept from them, they definitely aren't too pleased.

They put her under for a portion of the tests, and she spent her last moments of consciousness in fear, partly wondering whether she would wake up to find that days or weeks had passed. Maybe, she thought, that was the primary reason for her not wanting to report the headaches.

But she awoke later that same day, feeling normal. And she still had her hair. She was dismissed without receiving a verdict on her condition, but for now, her relief trumped her curiosity and concern, so she gladly left the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors and scientists to their work, trusting that they would notify her when they knew whether or not something was seriously wrong. As she drove back to her apartment, she felt as if some weight had been lifted from her—one that she hadn't really realized was there—now that she had one less secret to keep.

At least, one less secret to keep from some people. Steve still didn't know about her recurring headaches. She had been instructed to not spread the news of her condition until a cause had been determined—maybe to prevent knowledge of possible flaws in the project, she thought. Saying nothing wouldn't be difficult, considering how long she had already kept it to herself, but she had briefly entertained the thought of finally confessing this portion of her life to her best friend, after living with it—struggling with it—for so long, and she was disappointed when she was warned against it. Perhaps it was better this way; at least he wouldn't worry about her. He might even treat her differently on assignments if he were made aware of her occasionally debilitating condition, regardless of her excellent performance record. She certainly didn't want that. Still, it bothered her. Before, it had been her own choice. Now, the choice had been forced upon her. But she had made the right decision, telling Fury about the headaches, and she would simply have to live with the outcome. Just as joining S.H.I.E.L.D. had been the right decision—despite having been turned into a potentially faulty piece of property.

"Are you sure?" She stared at the director seated behind his desk, her brows furrowed in a slight frown, as he stared back at her with his single, uncovered eye.

"The headaches have nothing to do with the project," he clarified. "They're probably stress-related migraines, and you should treat them as such."

Her confusion and disbelief deepened. She was fairly certain that the episodes were not migraines. But Fury's no-BS manner informed her clearly that this was an irrefutable verdict, and that she was to accept it. Without question.

She didn't like this. She had never had migraines before in her life, and for them to start just after the procedure two years ago was too coincidental for them not to be related. And the fact that the doctor who had examined her after she'd collapsed on the field at the training facility hadn't said anything about migraines only added to her suspicion. But she would get nowhere by challenging the director on the subject. So she simply nodded. And when she was dismissed, she left the office, wondering whether this meant that she had a green light to finally share this secret with Steve.

But, reminding herself that he might treat her differently if he knew, she decided against it.

The chain rattled as Lucy landed one solid kick after another on the punching bag. She always tried to stay focused on technique, to not let emotions take over, even when she was alone, fighting an inanimate object. But despite her best efforts over the course of the past sixteen months to let it go, she still felt the effects of the intense loss that she had experienced in Stockholm, more often than she would admit. And occasionally, the mask, the dark hair, and the piercing eyes would appear vividly in her mind, and she would have to reign in her thoughts, or else she felt that she might rip the punching bag from the ceiling. Maybe it was a good thing that she wasn't as strong as Steve.

But if I were, I wouldn't have lost . . .

She started to swing her fists at the bag repeatedly, in rapid succession, unsure of exactly who she was punishing: herself and her weaknesses or the masked assassin.

She was so focused on her motions that she didn't notice that the door had opened, until a voice cut through the muffled blows of her wrapped fists on the padding.

"Fury has a mission for us. Get ready to leave. Briefing on the jet."

Lucy stabilized the bag as she looked over to Natasha standing in the doorway.

Natasha then continued, without waiting for a reply, "I've gotta go track down the captain."

She started to leave, but Lucy called out, stopping her. "He's probably still running."

The redhead nodded, and the door swung shut behind her as she strode off.

Lucy quickly unwrapped her hands and made her way to the showers. After rinsing off the sweat from her workout and making sure that she was dry enough, she suited up and met Rumlow and the rest of the team in the armory.

It wasn't long before Natasha arrived with Steve. He was wearing his form-fitting grey T-shirt and the black pants that signified his having been in the middle of a workout.

In no time, the team was boarding the Quinjet.

But Lucy's mind kept drifting elsewhere. Every time she looked at Steve, or felt him at her side, her mind nagged at her, reminding her of the secrets that she was keeping from him. When she had joined S.H.I.E.L.D., she had been forced to keep almost everything about her life secret from her loved ones, but the burden was always eased by the fact that she'd had nothing to hide from Steve. That had changed after the assignment in Stockholm. Over the subsequent months, the trauma had gotten easier to ignore, and almost forget, especially as other missions had come and gone, adding to her laundry list of dangerous experiences. But she still could not let go of what had almost become her death outside of that hotel, no matter how often the memory seemed to shrink back into obscurity in her mind. Some days, her desire to vent her fears and frustrations was stronger than others, and now, her one, big secret wasn't the only thing that she couldn't share with Steve. How many more times would S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols keep adding things to that list?

As she took a seat now beside the captain, and the Quinjet's engine hummed to life, she felt the pain of guilt and frustration form a pit in her stomach, and she wished that she hadn't just wound herself up so much in the gym.

When Rumlow called the team together for the briefing, Lucy was more than ready to get started, eager for the distraction from her rambling thoughts. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the captain as they crowded together around the computer screen.

"Target is a mobile satellite launch platform, the Lemurian Star," Rumlow said, manipulating the images on the touchscreen with one hand. "They were sending up their last payload when pirates took 'em. Ninety minutes ago."

"How many pirates?" Steve asked.

"Twenty-five," Rumlow replied promptly. "Top mercs, led by this guy: George Batroc." A mug shot of a surly-looking bald man expanded on-screen. "This guy's got a rep for maximum casualties."

Great . . .

Steve immediately began to give instructions to the team. "Alright, I'm gonna sweep the deck and find Batroc. Nat, you kill the engines and wait for instructions. Lucy, Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get 'em to the life pods, get 'em out. Let's move."

"STRIKE, you heard the cap. Gear up."

The team commenced weapons checks and equipped themselves with their body armor. Lucy glanced at Steve as she slipped on her fingerless gloves. After the last two years with S.H.I.E.L.D., he seemed to have grown even more confident in his position as a leader.

"Secure channel seven," he said, his voice simultaneously coming over the comm in Lucy's ear.

"Seven secure," Natasha replied as she finished gearing up. "You doing anything fun Saturday night?"

Lucy couldn't help but smile at her usual lighthearted small talk in the midst of a serious situation.

However, her smile slipped at Steve's reply.

"Well, all the guys from my barbershop quartet are dead, so—no, not really."

He might have meant it as a joke, but the statement still carried weight, and a knot formed in Lucy's chest at the broader meaning behind it. She knew that he still felt out of place, even after more than two years of adjusting to modern life.

"Coming up on the drop zone, Cap," came the voice of the pilot over the comms. Lucy's stomach did a small flip as she prepared herself. It wasn't her first time doing this, but she still wasn't a fan.

Then, Natasha spoke again, continuing the lighthearted back-and-forth, but as Lucy took in her words, her stomach dropped. She would have much preferred to dwell on the impending jump. At least that kind of stomach-plummeting sensation would have been more pleasant.

"You know, if you ask Kristen out from Statistics, she'd probably say yes."

Natasha meant well, but Lucy couldn't help the twinge of annoyance—and something stronger—that came over her. In the moment that followed, she practically held her breath for Steve's response.

"That's why I don't ask," he said, nearing the hatch as it lowered, the ocean wind whipping beyond.

"Too shy or too scared?" Natasha asked, raising her voice over the wind.

"Too busy!" he called back over his shoulder, before leaping out into the night air as if it were as easy as throwing his shield.

Now there was the drop that Lucy's stomach had been waiting for.

And it wasn't even her turn yet.

"Was he wearing a parachute?" the newest member of the team asked, staring after the captain in disbelief. A tiny smile managed to break through Lucy's nerves.

Rumlow smirked. "No. No, he wasn't."

Lucy finished strapping on her parachute. She wasn't sure whether she could survive a plunge into the Indian Ocean from this height like Captain America, and she wasn't quite ready to find out. So, although she disliked the feeling of being left behind, she was okay with settling for the longer way down, for now.

She moved to the open hatch and tried to ignore her pounding heart. Don't think about it, she reminded herself. It's always going to be the same. Thinking about it won't make it any easier. Just get down to that ship.

She steeled herself and walked to the edge of the ramp, the wind whipping her hair into her face. She felt Natasha and Rumlow come up beside her, and with one last deep breath, she wiped her mind clean and jumped.

Her stomach dropped, and the air nearly left her lungs, but she kept her muscles tight and focused on locating her target. The lights of the Lemurian Star were a beacon in the darkness, and she angled her body toward the distant glow, holding her breath against the wind that threatened to suffocate her. When she had reached the appropriate altitude, she deployed her parachute.

As she steered herself toward the ship, she was able to make out the figure of the captain efficiently clearing the deck of pirates, one by one. His shield flew with abrupt and violent accuracy, and Lucy was glad that she would never have to know what it felt like to be on the receiving end.

The adrenaline surged through her veins even more intensely as she drew nearer and nearer to the ship, keeping an eye on Steve the entire time. At the rate at which he was taking out the men, the rest of the team would have an easy entrance. The stress-tension began to leave her body. Nearly there—

She saw it a fraction of a second too late to warn him. One of the pirates had come up behind Steve, and now had a large gun trained on his back. Lucy's hand flew to the pistol strapped to her thigh as her feet made contact with the deck of the ship, but before she could even draw it, a sharp noise came from somewhere above her, and the pirate dropped. She looked up just in time to see Rumlow descend the last few feet to the deck, gun in hand.

Steve turned to face them. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Rumlow smirked, "you seemed pretty helpless without me." He and Lucy unstrapped themselves from their parachutes as Natasha touched down, followed by the rest of the team.

Free of her chute, Lucy regrouped with STRIKE as Steve set off to find Batroc, Natasha right on his heels.

"What about the nurse that lives across the hall from you? She seems kind of nice," Natasha said as she and Steve moved across the deck at a brisk pace, as if their conversation had never been interrupted. Lucy tried to ignore the comment and refocus on the next stage of the operation. It was one thing to casually suggest a random secretary or some other S.H.I.E.L.D. employee whose path was not bound to intersect with Steve's on a daily basis. But the new arrival in their apartment building was too close for comfort. Lucy told herself that Natasha was probably only joking—just taking the opportunity to poke fun at Steve a little bit. Only, the joke persisted, and Lucy had a feeling that the snarky redhead might be serious. But she couldn't dwell on that now.

Her gut did another unpleasant twist when she heard Steve's reply: "Secure the engine room, then find me a date," and she scolded herself mentally as she, Rumlow and the other men set off. Not my business who he goes out with, she reminded herself. And even if it were, now isn't the time to be thinking about it.

She refocused by adjusting her grip on her handgun as she followed their leader.

Part of the team remained on deck, while she, Rumlow, and the newest member of STRIKE entered the tight hallways of the ship.

They navigated quickly and silently until a voice—barking in commanding French—reached Lucy's ears from somewhere nearby, though it sounded muffled. The trio pulled up short. With his gun at the ready, Rumlow carefully peered around the corner. He gestured back at his team members, holding up one finger. Lucy nodded. One opponent.

In the span of a second, Rumlow lowered his gun to hang at his hip and pulled a black rod from his belt. Lucy and the other agent kept their own weapons at the ready, following their leader as he edged toward the corner. The authoritative voice continued its slightly muffled speech.

The single pirate that Rumlow had signaled about came into view as Lucy peered around the corner. The moment that he turned his back completely to the agents, Rumlow advanced. The pirate issued a replied to the muffled voice—which had come from behind a blue door in front of him—and as soon as the words had left his mouth, Rumlow crossed the small storage room, and, with the rod, delivered a zap of electricity to the unfortunate man, right to his skull. He went rigid and was rendered unconscious instantly. Lucy barely suppressed her wince.

Rumlow caught him before he could fall and draw attention, and the agents waited several long seconds for any sign that the shock-stick attack had been heard by the man behind the door, but no one came bursting forth to investigate. Rumlow silently eased the unconscious man to the floor, and Lucy allowed herself a slightly more relaxed breath, the tension easing from her muscles only slightly.

She and Rumlow took their positions and trained their guns on the door as the third member of their trio got to work silently attaching the explosive device.

"Targets acquired," came the whispered voice of one of the agents outside the ship.

"STRIKE in position," Rumlow confirmed for the captain.

"Natasha, what's your status?" Steve murmured.

Silence. Lucy breathed steadily, heart pounding in the quiet, tense atmosphere of the store room.

"Status, Natasha."

"HANG ON!"

Lucy cringed at the unexpected yell. Natasha must be in an unforeseen or seriously stressful situation for her to be snapping at Steve like that.

The tension mounted as the seconds ticked by. Lucy began to worry, though she told herself not to. Black Widow had it under control. She was fine. She had to—

"Engine room secure."

A good deal of tension eased out of Lucy's muscles. Everything was still on track.

A few seconds passed. Muffled commands in French issued from behind the door.

Then, Steve's voice came through the comms. "On my mark."

Lucy felt a new rush of adrenaline course through her as she stared at the door, keeping her hands steady.

"Three. Two."

Steady.

"One."

The sound of glass shattering inside the room was joined immediately by bodies falling as precise gunshots from the rest of the team—who were tethered to the side of the ship—split the air. The explosive device blew the door off its hinges, and Rumlow, in the key position, took out the man standing on the other side with a single squeeze of the trigger. Judging by the man's appearance, he was the leader. The assault was so brief that when silence fell once more, it seemed as though nothing had happened—aside from the lifeless bodies of the pirates on the floor and more than a few stunned and shaken hostages crowded together against the galley counters. Lucy spotted Jasper Sitwell, who looked much more composed than some of the others.

Rumlow urged everyone up, and they all filed after him, out of the room and down the hallway. Lucy took a second to glance around for a flash of red hair. Natasha should have been there by now.

Lucy flanked the steadily moving line of people, pistol lowered but at the ready.

"Hostages en route to extraction," Rumlow informed the captain through the comms. "Romanoff missed the rendezvous point, Cap. Hostiles are still in play."

Steve sounded out of breath when he spoke. "Natasha—Batroc's on the move. Circle back to Rumlow and protect the hostages." A pause and a heavy breath. "Natasha . . ."

A collision.

"Steve!" Lucy cried before she could think, faltering in her steps more than the rest of the team. She instantly reined in her panic, the rational part of her mind telling her that whatever had just happened, he could handle it. And she had her own job to finish. She met Rumlow's glance with determined resignation. He understood her intention and gave her an approving nod.

Finish the mission. Then check in with Steve.

The team emerged onto the deck, and Lucy and Rumlow swung around in the direction of the designated landing zone for the first Quinjet, keeping the former hostages moving swiftly, and keeping an eye out for anyone who wasn't Steve or Natasha.

The hatch opened and everyone was ushered inside, accompanied by a few members of STRIKE, while the rest awaited the second jet.

Lucy's eyes swept the deck, her nerves itching to locate the two Avengers. Steve hadn't contacted them again since he was cut off, and Natasha had been silent after notifying them of the status of the engine room. Although she had a feeling that she shouldn't worry about Natasha, it wasn't like her to miss a rendezvous. And no matter how many times she told herself that Steve could take care of whatever a pirate was throwing at him, the worry in the pit of her stomach would not abate. Not as long as she stood there, doing nothing.

She held a hand to her ear.

"Steve?"

Nothing.

"Steve? Natasha? Come in!"

Silence.

"Damn it . . ."

She turned to Rumlow.

"Permission to locate them, sir."

The STRIKE commander barely took the time to consider it. He gave her a nod. "Go haul their asses back here, Artemis."

She shot him a humorous smirk and took off as the second jet came in to take the place of the first.

The deck was quiet, but that meant nothing. It was unlikely that they had taken out every last pirate in such a short time, when there were so many places to hide on the ship. She couldn't take the quiet for granted. She kept her gun at the ready, but quickly realized that, despite her training, it would be more efficient for her to be able to run uninhibited. She was good enough at hand-to-hand combat that she could handle a straggler or two, and she could easily pull her weapon again when needed. She moved to slide it back into her thigh holster—and barely caught the sudden movement out of the corner of her eye.

The butt of a rifle swung at her face, and she dodged out of the way. Holstering the gun, she instinctively locking into a fighting stance as her heart pounded hard with sudden adrenaline. The pirate came at her again, and she deflected the blow, slamming her elbow into the side of his head. He stumbled, but before she could lay him out on the deck, she heard the rapid approach of footsteps from behind her, and spun around just in time to take an incoming fist to the face.

She stumbled in a sudden daze, blinking hard and shuffling away from her opponents to regain her senses before they could take advantage of her disorientation.

They rushed her at the same time, and her instincts kicked in. Blinking against the throbbing pain in her head, she maneuvered around the two men, dealing out a series of moves that Natasha had taught her, and in seconds, they were sprawled out on the deck. Still a bit shaken, she collected herself and wasted no time moving on, her thoughts once again focused on her friends.

Glancing around for any sign of them—or of more pirates—she raised a hand to her comm. "Steve! Natasha! Come in! What's happening? Steve—"

An explosion shook the air.

Lucy stopped dead in her tracks, whipping toward the direction of the concussive blast. She saw no fire, no smoke. But she did see something. A man wearing a heavily equipped vest sprinted from the control room. Even from this distance, she recognized him. Batroc. Her instincts told her to pursue him, but before she could, he was vaulting over the railing of the ship and into the waters below. Her heart sank that he had gotten away, but the feeling lasted only for a moment.

Steve.

Fear rushed through her, and a moment later, she was running—sprinting for the control room: the source of the explosion. Praying that neither of her friends was injured.

She hadn't yet reached the door when Steve emerged, shield in hand, mask-less, hair disheveled, brow furrowed. He didn't look shaken from the explosion, but rather . . . frustrated—annoyed. Most importantly, he appeared to be unharmed.

"Are you alright? What happened?" she asked with urgency, though, judging by Steve's manner, the situation didn't really seem to warrant it anymore.

He raised his eyes to meet hers, taking in her own appearance. His eyes caught on her mouth, and the creases between his brows deepened. "What happened to you?"

Lucy touched the corner of her mouth, and her fingers came away wet with blood. She grimaced. "Ran in to some stragglers on the way here." She hesitated before adding, "Caught me off guard. I'm fine." She then returned to her inquiry. "What was that explosion? Have you seen Natasha?"

Steve suddenly reached a hand toward her, and she went still. He touched her chin and gently wiped away the remnants of blood with his thumb. His fingers were warm. She tried to ignore the tingle that they left behind.

"She's fine. It was just a grenade." His frown deepened just slightly as he spoke, and Lucy knew that it had nothing to do with her minor injury. Steve was rarely in this kind of mood. At least, not that she saw. And not in the middle of an assignment, unless something went horribly wrong, which, thankfully, was a very infrequent occurrence. Although, losing Batroc might count as a failure in his mind, despite their successful rescue of the hostages. Then again, if he had been so intent on stopping Batroc, he would have come out of that control room at a sprint.

In spite of her nagging desire to know what had happened, she sensed that questioning him further was not wise at the moment. Instead, she said regretfully, "Batroc got away. I'm sorry, I couldn't get to him in time." He didn't reply. Hoping to ease the blow of the bad news, she brought the subject back to the task at hand. "The hostages are out. Our jet is waiting."

Though his expression was still troubled, his eyes cleared somewhat as he refocused on completing the mission. He nodded and walked past Lucy, in the direction from which she had come. She was about to go make sure that Natasha was alright, but a flash of red caught her eye, and she looked back the control-room door. Natasha emerged, seeming unhurt, wearing an expression similar to Steve's. It wasn't so unusual for Black Widow to look stern and brooding, so Lucy wouldn't have though much of it, if Steve hadn't been acting strange himself.

"Everything okay?" Lucy inquired warily as Natasha reached her.

"Peachy."

With that, Natasha followed after Steve, not attempting to catch up to his powerful stride, and Lucy brought up the rear, resigning herself to a long flight filled with tension and her own unsatisfied curiosity. And the lingering throb in her head.

Note: Finally! As usual, I'm sorry it took me so long. But I'm almost 1,000 words into Chapter 23 already, so that's good. ^^ It's Thanksgiving in the U.S., so happy Thanksgiving! :D I hope you're doing well~ Thank you for your continued interest in this story~ And just for existing. :) I love you all!

P.S. Again, you can always check my writing progress on my profile. ^^