Sitting in the passenger seat was an alien concept to Lucia, even with SHIELD one of her roles was the designated driver. It had been a joke at first, not to let Clint behind the wheel of whatever car they managed to steal to make their getaway, his driving erratic at best and since Natasha was usually the last to take her seat, it made sense for Lucie to take the driver's seat to be it road, air or water. The car she used in DC was slightly nicer than the ones she tended to commandeer, then again, this particular model had been liberated from her father's personal collection.

The view from the passenger seat was also a bit strange if not enjoyable. He was a better driver than Clint was and for that Lucie was eternally grateful until she realised that it was the first time that they had been alone together without Natasha or SHIELD as a buffer.

Lucie crossed one leg over the other and drumming her fingers against her knee to the rhythm of a song she only partially remembered but had been stuck in her head for most of the day. Beside her, Steve concentrated on the flow of traffic, methodically checking mirrors and maintaining a firm grip on the steering wheel without a single glance in Lucie's direction, even when they were completely stationary. They listened to the radio for a while, a pop music station that neither seemed keen on but nevertheless left alone.

The onboard GPS had been programmed to take them to downtown DC but Steve largely ignored it, following road signs instead. He was bound for a VA support meeting that Sam had invited him to a couple of days before and although he wasn't sure it was his thing, he was willing to try.

"I'm not sure I qualify," she said with barely any of her usual sarcasm

"They do counselling down there, it helps."

Despite his offer, Lucie had no desire to attend a support meeting, a decision fuelled unashamedly by paranoia and pride.

"I'm sure it helps a lot of people. I'm just not one of those people."

She didn't tell him that she had considered a therapist once before, not Bertrand but someone with the right security clearance. How could she explain her life to a regular therapist? How could she tell a civilian that she was an intelligence agent and assassin that enjoyed her job to such an extent that it terrified her? There was always the option of sticking to her personal life, which had always been full to the brim of drama, before she knew about SHIELD, Pepper had been badgering her for years to go to therapy. Instead, she did what she did best, avoiding the conversation entirely by diverting to another subject. It was far more likely that she would be locked away for insane delusions rather than get treatment, overall, it didn't seem worth the hassle.

Instead, she was determined to fill her day by checking out the information that Henry had given her. It was unlikely that anyone would comment on her absence from SHIELD or even notice it. If anything, avoiding the office was exactly what was expected of her. Even after a fortnight in DC, there were still loose ends to her new life to bring together, parts of her cover that needed to be patched up. There were still communities that she had to find her way into and her informant network in the city was sorely lacking. There was an old saying, "it's not what you know, but who you know" and that is God's honest truth. You can be the most intelligent person on the planet but if you didn't have the right contacts then it was all a complete waste of time.

While on the way back to DC, Steve had suggested that she come with him to the VA. He didn't expect her to be the most receptive, especially since he had attended her mandated therapy session the very first time they met.

She swivelled in her seat so that she faced Steve head-on, tucking her legs under herself so that she was comfortable and focusing on the one thing she had wanted to ask him since she first set eyes on him at Peggy's bedside.

"Are you wearing jeans?"

Steve rolled his eyes with a sigh, trying to make it sound like an annoyance than relief. He chanced a glance at her, taking his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second.

"Put your seatbelt on, are you crazy," he chastised.

Eager to get back to the subject, she turned back towards the windshield and pulled the belt across herself and clipped it into place before gesturing back to his jeans, as if his fashion choices were more important than her personal safety.

"Relax, I borrowed this from my Dad, nothing's getting in here."

Steve stared at the dash for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tighter and waiting for some form of technology to make its usual obnoxious intrusion but nothing came. "Sometimes I think you have a death wish."

The only answer she gave was a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. It was juvenile, she knew that but she couldn't bring herself to find it anything but comical. "So… jeans."

She smiled, the kind of smile she used to wear back in New York when she met him outside the library with coffee and pastries. It was the first time in months that she looked almost like herself, the version of her that he trusted, the one that was a regular person rather than an agent.

"Do they look that bad?" he questioned.

"I think it's a crime against humanity that you spent the best part of six months in sweatpants when this was the alternative," she replied, her mouth curving up to a villainous grin.

"Behave."

She was used to seeing him in tactical gear, the unforgiving leather and Kevlar that made up his uniform that only he was able to carry off. Anyone else in that suit would have looked purely ridiculous. She initially put a lot of it down to the custom fit but now she wasn't so sure. Captain America was a character, a persona he used for work in the same way that she used Lucifer, it would be considered unprofessional to find Captain America attractive in that way. Steve Rogers was an entirely different ball game.

"We have to talk about this. It's a very important conversation," she said, her face suddenly deadpan, letting the silence do the work for her.

Steve exhaled, relenting. "Shoot."

"Back in New York, you said you hated jeans, that they made you look like a farmer."

"I'm trying to blend in."

"It was Natasha, wasn't it. Did she make you do a little fashion show and parade around the store in different outfits?" she pushed, enjoying her interrogation far too much for his liking.

"Do you tell each other everything?"

"Did she take photos to use as blackmail?"

"Did you put her up to this?"

"She has blackmail on everyone!"

"Even you?"

Lucie gave a half nod twinned with a not so subtle shrug of the shoulders and they sat with contented smiles on their faces in silence until the air shifted ever so slightly like a crack in the ice.

For a few moments, Steve was sure that it would be Lucie who filled the silence by making another comment about his wardrobe. Instead, she just sat by his side wearing a content smile. It was comforting having her back like this, happy and relaxed, mercilessly teasing him. It was a shocking contrast to the woman he had discovered through SHIELD.

Everything about her was different when she was out of Kevlar. Her honied hair hung loose, pulled over one shoulder rather than braided and pinned tightly to her scalp. Rather than countless holsters and knives strapped to various parts of her body, she wore red skinny jeans and a white blouse and perfectly white and unblemished tennis shoes, nothing black in sight yet bang on-trend. It felt odd seeing her in colour rather than attempting to blend into the ranks of black SHIELD uniforms. Like this, she was not only inviting people's attention but demanding it.

"It was strange, coming to DC without you."

Her smile was gone, instead, she fiddled with the catch on her necklace that held a tiny push dagger in place while staring straight ahead at the traffic on the highway.

"I'm sorry," she hummed.

Steve said nothing, waiting for her to take it further than those two little words.

Considering her answer carefully, unravelling the layers of deception that she had allowed herself to hide behind, she settled on a decent answer. In a tiny pulled a hang nail free and winced silently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear to cover her discomfort. A line started to form on her tongue, a thick metallic taste that she tried to suppress. It would be easy to lie, to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. It would be easy to make him believe it, make him believe that she was sorry and that it wouldn't happen again. But she would lie again because it was in her nature and her training. Lies made sure that she survived, lies kept her safe. God was it lonely. She chose to keep it simple and to the point, allowing herself a second of honesty.

The image of him stood in her father's apartment after Loki's arrest was burnt into her memory. Still in his scorched uniform and covered head to toe in ash. She had offered to explain then, to tell him everything and answer every question he put to her. For some reason, it felt different as they sat in the car together and instead of wanting to be honest and accommodating, she felt shame for leaving the city without giving him those answers.

I don't want to yell at you, he had said. He hadn't been angry then, he was willing to listen, to hear her side and let her explain.

Then she remembered the look of disgust on his face when he left Banner's lab upon finding out about her connection to Tony. The betrayal. He couldn't meet her eyes, as if a fraction of eye contact with her would turn him into solid stone.

"The way you looked at me, I didn't think you would want to see me," she admitted, biting her tongue before it could contradict her.

It was quiet for a few seconds while Steve considered what she said, trying to decipher whether or not it was the truth. He wanted to believe her, that that was what she truly felt after the battle.

"I went over to your apartment about a week after New York."

Lucie froze.

It never occurred to her that Steve would come looking.

There was nothing more than a rough plan when she left New York. Nothing past abandoning her apartment and jumping on a train out of Grand Central. No clue to her disappearance other than a note that she left propped against the small clock on her mantle intended for Natasha.

"I forgive you," he said.

"Just like that?" she asked, waiting for the penny to fall through the air and drop right in front of her. Then she remembered who she was speaking with.

He nodded, keeping his eyes on the road as he took her hand in his for a moment and giving it a comforting squeeze, running his thumb against the back of her scarred hand.

"And SHIELD?"

"Peggy helped build SHIELD, you believed in it once. I wanted to make sure that it was still worth fighting for."

"And is it?" As much as she was asking Steve, she considered the question herself. She remembered the day that she had slammed her SHIELD ID down before the director and daring him to put a hit out on her.

"I haven't decided."

Lucie studied his face as the realisation formed, the way that he tested the grip on the steering wheel and shuffled slightly in his seat as if he thought the very idea of distrusting something built by Peggy was repulsive. This time, Lucie reached out and placed her hand on his lower thigh for a second.

"We'll figure it out."

"Then we don't lie to each other."

"No more lies," she promised, for once determined to keep it.

Veterans Affairs was fascinating to him, a quick internet search told him that it hadn't been founded until the late eighties, forty years after the biggest war in history. During his time, if a wound couldn't be seen then it didn't exist to the military as anything other than cowardice. He knew more men than he could count who came home damaged, guilt-ridden and broken. Some lost limbs, others had lost their sanity. He wondered how much the VA could have helped if they had been around back then. It seemed that not much had changed since he went into the ice. Even in the twenty-first century, they all managed to have that look in their eyes, frightened by everything that reminded them of the place that they had left their innocence, the same look on the faces of every battle-worn soldier throughout history.

He hadn't planned to stay long, just long enough to catch the end of the meeting and see Sam but driving back with Lucie had given him more time to listen. There were ex-service members of a variety of ages who had various roles. There were medics and soldiers, translators and aid workers, engineers and even a chaplain. All survivors of a brutal conflict who had left something behind in Iraq and Afghanistan. A thirteen-year long war with no end in sight

The ones that saw grocery bags as IUDs and barricaded themselves inside and drowned out the 4th of July with music. Most spoke of Iraq and Afghanistan, how they joined up after the attacks on September 11th, some had lost someone, others were just inspired to protect their homeland in whatever way they could. He knew the feeling, the need to step up, to put yourself on the line. It was what had led him to sign up, to try time and time again to enlist only to be knocked back.

It was well after dark when he pulled up into the empty space outside his apartment building, replaying the stories in his head and ignoring the chill that had arrived on the wind. He let himself inside and fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for his keys as he half jogged up the stairs to his floor, the stained wood groaning under his weight.

His DC apartment was no better or worse than his New York place and he had no clue of the price since Fury had insisted on putting the property on SHIELD's books rather than have Steve pay out of pocket. Other than a few records and a handful of books, everything else had been placed there by SHIELD, the perfect set-up for a bachelor in the nations capitol.

There was a nurse that lived across the hall from him who seemed nice enough but they only ever seemed to run into each other on the landing, usually when she had her arms full of laundry or groceries. They were friendly, said "hi" whenever they saw each other, stopped for small talk, that kind of thing. The one time Natasha turned up to his apartment, he spotted the pair chatting away as if they were old friends. He wasn't surprised when he traipsed up the staircase and found her outside her apartment with her phone balanced to her ear with her shoulder.

She smiled at him and swiftly ended her call, dropping it into the basket along with her scrubs and offering him her full attention.

"My aunt, kind of an insomniac," she explained, secretly glad to be off the phone.

"Hey, if you want, you're welcome to use my machine," he offered, gesturing towards the door behind him that led to his apartment. "Might be cheaper than the one in the basement," Steve added, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets when he realised it was a bit more forward than he would have liked.

"Oh yeah. What's it cost?" she asked with mock suspicion.

"Cup of coffee?" he hesitated, still unsure of the rules in the twenty-first century.

Was a cup of coffee considered a date? Had he put too much thought into it?

"Thank you, but I already have a load in and you don't want my scrubs in your machine. I just finished a rotation in the infectious disease ward, so…"

It was a kind rebuffal but she seemed happy enough to still be around him.

"Well, I'll keep my distance," he smiled, hands raised as if in surrender with a half-hearted laugh.

"Hopefully not too far."

Kate returned his smile and then turned towards the stairs, only to suddenly turn back as her foot hit the top step. "Oh, and I think you left your stereo on."

"Oh, right, thank you."

When Kate was out of sight, he turned towards the door and listened for a handful of seconds. The record player had been on in the morning, a Glenn Miller LP that he had found in a used record store downtown. It made no sense for it to be playing Kitty Kallen, especially after being gone for so many hours. The only explanation was that someone was in his apartment.

He studied the doorframe, eyeing the chipped wood beside the lock as if someone had taken a chisel and tried to breach it. Slowly, he pushed the door forwards with the tips of his fingers, staying out of the line of fire if someone was waiting for him on the other side.

Nobody was waiting for him with a gun aimed at his head. Instead, he found darkness, the faint outline of his furniture. The coffee cup he had left on the kitchen counter that morning, the book that rested on the arm of the sofa. Not a single light was on in the apartment and had it not been for the record player, he would have assumed it was as he left it that morning. Silently, he strapped his shield to his arm and skulked through the apartment, checking each room as he went. He kept his body low, making sure that he was a smaller target if he came across anyone. Kitty Kallen sang another verse as he came up to the living room and he carefully peered around the corner.

There was an intruder, although not who he had expected. Parked in the armchair in the corner, with his head dropped back and his arms crossed against his chest as Nick Fury.

"I don't remember giving you a key," he said, settling his shield by his feet as he tried to contain his anger.

"You really think I'd need one. My wife kicked me out."

It was possibly the most surprising thing that the director could have said to him. It was such a mundane piece of information. Nick Fury had never seemed like the kind of man with a family, if anything Steve would have assumed that his entire life was SHIELD.

"Didn't know you were married."

"Lot of things you don't know about me."

Fury sat up in the armchair, suppressing a wince of pain. He had calculated this moment, knowing that they wouldn't have much time face to face. Steve fussing over his wounds would do nothing more than the waste valuable time that they did not have.

Still stood by the door, Steve flicked the switch up so that the room was illuminated, walking towards the unoccupied couch.

"I know Nick, that's the problem," Steve sighed.

He saw the blood on his face first, a deep cut on Fury's forehead and friction burns across his cheek. The darkness of the room had hidden it from view before, something Fury was eager to get back to even if only to make sure that the conversation stayed on track.

Dozens of questions forged their way through Steve's mind. The Director had one of the most secure security details in the world and yet someone had got close enough. It was obvious that he hadn't been involved in anything as simple as a bar brawl but as the question formed on his lips, Fury switched off the light closest to himself and then typed a message on his phone.

The screen read EARS EVERYWHERE.

"Sorry to do this to you, I had nowhere else to crash."

As Fury spoke for the sake of anyone who may have been listening to their conversation, he erased and typed out another message, turning it to face Steve.

SHIELD COMPROMISED.

Steve tensed, the bottom falling out of his world as he realised that the one thing that kept him going day today was all a lie. He immediately thought of Lucie and Natasha and how much they knew. Were they aware of the fall of SHIELD?

"Who else knows about your wife?"

With his phone once again in his hand, Fury typed out a message while he spoke.

YOU AND ME

"Just, my friends," he said, struggling to his feet and holding onto his side in pain.

"Is that what we are?"

He had trusted Fury because he was the head of SHIELD, because when Peggy had retired she had left Fury in charge. Steve hadn't dare consider that she was wrong all those years ago.

"That's up to you."

Before Fury could say anything else, the wall behind him was blasted to rubble and he was peppered with spent ammunition. He fell forward with a grunt, dropping to the floor with nothing more than hardwood to cushion his fall.

Avoiding every stray bullet that was still hammering his apartment, Steve dropped to the floor on his crawled on his belly towards the director. He kept his head down but managed to keep a get a decent grip of Fury's jacket and used it to drag him into the kitchen and out of the line of fire. With no sign that the gunfire was going to stop, Steve chanced a look at the gunman, expecting to find a full firing squad but instead, there was only one man.

Fury held out his hand and forced something into Steve's hand, something small but obviously important, the reason he had come to Steve in the first place.

"Don't trust anyone," Fury spluttered as blood started to fall from his mouth, indicating just how much damage his body had been inflicted with.

The gunfire stopped, replaced by the front door crashing to the ground after being kicked free of its hinges.

"Captain Rogers?" came a familiar voice from the hall, one that rather than comfort, raised suspicion.

Steve raised his shield and slipped the Fury's thumb drive into his pocket, ready for a fight.

Still dressed in her scrubs, Kate stalked into the living room, handgun raised as she cleared each room and immediately locking eyes with the captain.

"Captain. I'm Agent 13, SHIELD Special Service."

"Kate?"

"I'm assigned to protect you."

"On whose order?" he growled.

"His."

Kate sunk to her knees and began assessing the damage. There was a worrying amount of blood soaking into the floor, more than enough for it to be fatal. In the few seconds that Kate had Steve's undivided attention, Fury had passed out

pulling out a radio from her pocket and speaking loudly into it.

"Foxtrot is down, he's unresponsive. I need EMTs."

Apparently, the part of her cover that was a nurse wasn't a lie because she started methodically checking over Fury's wounds and putting pressure on the worst offenders in hopes of being able to keep him alive long enough to transport him to a hospital.

"Do we have a 20 on the shooter?" the agent on the other end of the radio asked.

Steve paused for a second. Nobody said that Nick Fury had been shot, which could only mean one thing. It was someone at SHIELD that had orchestrated the hit.

"Tell them I'm in pursuit," Steve ordered, jumping to his feet and running after the man he had seen on the rooftop.

If anyone had any answers then it would be the shooter.