A/N: Being ONE HUNDRED PERCENT honest here, I have no idea what this is. It's just an idea I had for a Steve/OC story that kind of spiralled out of control to the point where I couldn't help but want to write it. I haven't actually read many Steve/OC stories so I have no idea how cliche this is lmao.

A lot of this is just me wanting to step out. For the past month now I've been writing Hidden in Plain Sight SOLIDLY and, while I love it, it can get a bit tiring and I had this idea instead. Obviously, Hidden in Plain Sight is not stopping, I'm just getting into the fun mystery now and I don't want to lose that. But, I also want to write this too. New OC, new storyline and, more adult at that.

Ida's quite different to other characters I've written mainly because I usually write teenagers and she's an adult and is able to form much more mature relationships with people (specifically Steve but this is gonna be a slowish burn lmao). She doesn't have any powers, but she's smart (not in a Tony Stark way, in her own way) and her past does connect to another Avenger but we'll get into that. Who she really is will be revealed gradually but, for now, enjoy…

PART ONE: FUCK IT, I LOVE YOU

"So I moved to California, but it's just a state of mind

It turns out everywhere you go, you take yourself, that's not a lie

Wish that you would hold me or just say that you were mine

It's killing me slowly

Dream a little dream of me

Make me into something sweet

Turn the radio on, dancing to a pop song

Fuck it, I love you"

Chapter One: The Woman of Whispers

Washington DC

November 17th, 2013

Just before Midnight

It was raining that night. Thick and heavy, and the city couldn't handle it. Water streamed down the roads, gutters overflowed, turning the streets into something that resembled a river. No one was stupid enough to stay out in this weather, especially not at this time at night. And, those who had gotten caught out in it, didn't hang around long, using bags and briefcases to shield their heads as they ran to shelter to wait out the rain. But the rain wouldn't stop, not until the very early hours of the next morning.

The rain had created a strange mist too. Not quite as thick as fog, but it left the already dark night feeling darker, especially down below on the quiet streets where the shining lights of DC's skyscrapers were so far away. It added to the empty feeling, anyone still left hanging around on sidewalks were just silhouette shapes in the rain with no discernible features. Even the white glow of street lights could not pierce the misty darkness, neither could the brightest of car headlights. None of DC's iconic traffic crowded the streets, not in this visibility. In fact, there was only one car, that became visible when it was already too close, white headlamps reflecting off the heavy rain.

The black SUV drew up to the curb, its wheels splashing the stream of water overflowing from a gutter as the driver pulled the breaks. That said driver stepped out, and pulled open a black umbrella before closing the door behind him. He then proceeded to walk around the car and open the door to the backseat.

The woman stepped out onto the sidewalk with an air of elegance hanging around her. Her heeled boots did not disturb the puddles of water around her, nor did any of the rain get a chance to fall on her head, as she took the black umbrella from her driver's hand. She was a fairly tall woman, with a thick head of blonde hair which, despite being long, was kept in perfect waves. Her skin was a light olive colour but, despite the general fairness of her features, her eyes were impossibly dark. So brown, they were almost black, and it narrowed her features, making her face seem sharper than it actually was.

She wore a long, cream coat, probably too light-weight for this weather, but it hardly seemed to bother her.

"Will you be needing company tonight, Miss Delgrave?" Asked the driver.

The woman, Delgrave, shook her head and glanced out from underneath her umbrella to peer up at the grim sky.

"No, Martin," she shook her head. Her voice carried a slight lilt, saying that she wasn't American, but she spoke English well enough that any accent had almost completely bled out of her voice. "I'll be alright. Do you have the briefcase?"

Martin nodded and opened the passenger side, pulling out a black briefcase and handing it to her.

"Thank you," she said, taking it off of him, "stay in the car, out of the rain. I should only be ten minutes."

"Yes, Miss Delgrave."

Her name was Ida Delgrave, but no one called her first name, not for many years. She was fine with just Delgrave or the Woman of Whispers or the White Shadow. And there were many other names for her, that was inevitable with the kind of work she did, the kind of reputation she had. Some were kind and described her beauty, her sharpness. Others were not so much. But she cared little for what they called her.

She held the umbrella in one hand over her head as she walked down the wet street, the other hand holding the briefcase. Despite the fact that the sidewalk was drenched and water from the lashing rain ran down it like a river, she barely seemed to get wet at all. Any particular deep puddles of dark rainwater, she avoided with ease. And, any that were too big to simply walk around, she stepped over with elegance and grace.

She stopped at the entrance to a dark alleyway, where a young child was slumped underneath a make-shift cover made from a cardboard box, a silver tin out in front of him. Ida bent down to drop a few dollars in, and the child looked up. A young boy with scruffy brown hair, looked up.

"They're down in the bar, ma'am," said the boy, with a thick american accent, "heard 'em talking when they got out that car—" he pointed to a black Land Rover parked nearby. "Said they get the information and get rid of any loose ends."

Delgrave sighed. It was expected news, but annoying all the same.

"Thanks, Oscar," she said, "you can head back to the orphanage now."

He jumped back to his feet, taking the silver tin with him and began to dart away when he paused.

"You really gonna go down there on your own, Miss Delgrave?"

"Don't worry about me, Oscar," she said, "head on back."

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded and ran down the street, vanishing into the mist.

Ida watched him go for a second, before heading deeper down the alley to where there was a metal door guarded by a pinpad. Uninviting and unwelcoming to outsiders, but Ida was not an outsider. She put in the code and the door clicked open.

The inside was an incredible contrast to the horrific weather from outside. She emerged from the misty grey streets into a warm, glowing bar lit by yellow lamps and wallpaper, adding to the cosy feeling of the place. It was quiet, only a few people in, and one man working at the bar. He was cleaning the beer faucets when Ida entered and hung up her umbrella and coat. He nodded to a booth in the corner of the bar and she nodded in return as he got back to work.

She walked over to the booth where the barman had indicated and sat down with a coy smile on her face.

Three men, all in suits. She paid no mind to the other two, there was little doubt in her mind as to why they were there. The man sitting between them was the one she cared about. He was just over middle-aged, with thinning grey hair and a thick mustache. He had a smug air around him, one that reminded Ida of a pig. Unlikeable, to say the least. He had clearly thought he had gotten ahead of her, clearly thought he knew more than she did and he was in control of the outcome of this evening.

But they didn't call Ida Delgrave the Woman of Whispers for nothing.

"Gentleman," she greeted his two other men, tilting her head to the side slightly, focusing on the one in the centre, "Mr Newland. It's good to see you got here safely."

"You're late," grumbled Newland.

She checked her watch. She supposed she was.

"Sorry about that," she said smoothly, "caught up in business, you know how it is."

"We have business right here, right now, Miss Delgrave," he growled.

He wasn't polite, he obviously didn't see it necessary. It wasn't necessary, of course, but most of her clients preferred to have the Woman of Whispers on their side, so treating her like this would not help his case.

"We do indeed," her voice remained sickly sweet. "So, let's get down to it. First, my money."

"I—"

She raised her finger to silence here. "I understand that your a first time client, Mr Newland, and you do not know how I do things. But I take my money before I give the information. That is how it works. If you are unsatisfied, then you can try to find the information I have elsewhere, but I can promise you that that will end in failure."

This seemed to shut Newland up, though his wrinkled face remained a tight scowl. He nodded stiffly to one of his men, who bent down to pick up a brown briefcase of their own on the floor. He passed it across the table to Ida, who clicked open the lock and peeked inside, feeling satisfaction as a smirk spread over her features. It was filled to the brim with fifty dollar bills.

She closed the briefcase and picked up her own, black one, passing that one over the table.

"Inside, you'll find copies of all the files the CIA have made about you and your group," she said.

Newland opened the briefcase to check this himself, flicking through the files inside. He nodded to himself, satisfied and looked up to Ida.

"How much do they know?" He asked.

"The files don't go to extensive detail," she said, leaning back in the booth. "But they are aware of the hideout your group have in the Zagros Mountains, and the weapons and artillery you hold." She glanced between the three men. "They don't plan on attacking."

"What?" Newland looked up, "there must be a mistake."

"I'm afraid your planning was miscalculated, Mr Newland. Your men are surrounded by mountains and, beyond that, surrounded by Americans who will most certainly mow them down if they emerge. They're trapped there, and their resources are slowly depleting. The CIA are waiting for your men to surrender."

"They wouldn't surrender," Newland scowled, "they believe in—"

"Men tend to lose faith when they are starving in the heat," she said sharply. "You're no fool, Mr Newland, most of these men are only boys and, when it came to life and death, they will choose life." Newland contemplated this, as she continued. "Your boys in the mountains have been negotiating through secret channels so you won't catch word. Peace negotiations. Their weapons and artillery, as well as the names of their commanders, in exchange for their lives and freedom."

Newland's mouth curled into an ugly frown, he seemed torn between worry and disgust at the actions of his soldiers. Ida remained sitting there, a small smile on her face and raised eyebrows. The outcome of the fight between Newland's group and the CIA had little effect on her.

"I imagine," she said, "that, by secretly dropping more resources to your men, their loyalty will be persuaded once again." She then glanced at her nails, long and pale pink, inspecting them. "But it's not my place to comment on strategy."

Newland remained silent for a few more seconds, but when he spoke again, Ida lowered her hand to look at him.

"Thank you, Miss Delgrave," he nodded, "this information is… invaluable."

Her eyes flickered from his face for a second as she spotted the man to his right shift slightly, and the men to his left clutch the handle of the briefcase she had given to them. And she looked back at Newland, the small smile growing into a fuller smirk.

"That's why I get paid," she dipped her head, "will that be all, or do you boys care to share a drink?"

"While it's a lovely offer," he said, "I'm afraid you won't be joining us."

The man to right pulled out a handgun, pointing it right at her. She didn't even flinch, regarding the weapon for a moment before focusing back on Newland.

"Mr Newland," she said, "you're a new client, I understand that, but I didn't take you for a fool. Lower your weapon and we can both leave with what we want. I have given you the information, you needn't know more."

"You can easily tell the CIA that we know what their planning now," he said, "no lose ends."

"I wouldn't see the CIA, Newland," she scoffed and laughed at the idea, "I'm not American loyalist. I couldn't care less about what happens in the Zagros mountain range."

"You would tell them if they gave you a decent enough price."

She sighed, nodding, "well that it is true. Oh well, I see how this ends now."

"Yes, I think we both do."

Before he could even gesture for his man to fire, Ida had clicked the heels of her boots together, and a knife shot out the front of her left boot. She dug into the shin of the man holding the gun, causing him to yell out in pain and drop the gun. She snatched it off him before it could hit the table and shot him and then the second man both in the head before either of them could comprehend what had just happened.

She turned the weapon to Newland, now without his bodyguards, who had his hands in the air.

"New clients," she said, "must it always be this way? You underestimate me, Mr Newland, I know everything. Your men have been killed for nothing."

Newland's face showed both fear and anger.

"I see why they call you the bitch of Whispers now."

Ida Delgrave was called many names, this didn't bother her.

"Remember who's holding the gun," she said, sweet tone never dropping. "Now, you can either leave with this information and do with it what you will, or you can die here and lose everything. I'm a woman of my word, I have my payment, you have the information. You, Mr Newland, are not a man of your word. You can change that now."

Disgust flickered on his face but then came defeat, he knew full well that Ida had him cornered. And, while Newland wanted to cut off 'loose ends' he had learnt a lesson today.

If there was one thing he couldn't call Ida, it was a loose end.

He snatched up the briefcase and stormed out of the bar, slamming the door shut behind him. No one else in the bar took any notice, this seemed like it was regular to them. Ida watched him go, smirk remaining on her face before she glanced back at the two men and sighed.

"What a mess," she muttered and glanced at the barman. "Henriek? Can you get this cleaned up?"

"No problem, ma'am," the man dipped his head, "do you care for a glass? We just got a new bottle of wine delivered over from Southern France, said to be one of Europe's favourites."

She shrugged and smiled, "can't hurt."

The Triskelion, Washington DC

The Next Day

Early Morning

"How did the mission fair, Captain?"

"Easy job," said Steve, who was sitting down across from Fury in his office. "We infiltrated the camp without much difficulty. STRIKE team and Romanoff freed the hostages, I arrested their leader."

"In and out kind of job?"

"If that's how you want to put it."

Steve, Romanoff and the Strike team had worked late last night to infiltrate am American camp of drug and people traffickers camped in the desert, near the Mexican border. Their plan was to sneak into the opposing country and sell drugs and slaves to gangs and businesses in the country. The effort had been SHIELD, thought it had the backing of both the Mexican and American government.

It had been quick and easy and Steve had gotten back to his apartment with enough time to crash for a few hours, not that he needed much sleep. And then it was back into work early the next morning to hand his report into Fury, who hardly seemed interested in the matter anyway.

"Well, I hope your well rested," said Fury, "because your needed in the briefing room in half an hour."

"Another mission?"

"Just looking into something," he said, "I was originally going to send in Romanoff alone, but I figured she could use the extra muscle and she didn't mind the idea. Again, you'll meet her in the briefing room in half an hour."

"Yes, sir," said Steve, not really disguising the weariness in his tone.

"You're dismissed, Captain."

Steve had been working for SHIELD for a few months now after the DC attack, it seemed the most appropriate job for him. He was no master spy or deadly assassin, like Clint or Natasha. Nor was he an agent. He remained an Avenger and remained Captain Rogers or, as the public still called him or one of his teammates while on jobs, Captain America.

It was… a job. He would never say that this line of work was enjoyable. Beating up people, arresting them, witnessing civilians get caught in the crossfire and not being able to save everyone. But Steve had long accepted that that was just what happened, and while rescuing as many as possible was key (though the Strike team often disagreed with that), finishing the mission and saving everyone was most important.

Sometimes, it could be especially frustrating. And that frustration was rarely compacted on those he worked with. The Strike team, while a rather violent group of people, were good to talk to and worked together in sync. Rollins, for example, was a formidable fighter. And Rumlow was the same, though had much more charm than his ex-KGB teammate. Most of the problems originated from people like Fury. His boss who tended to not give the full picture and send out strange orders without explanation. And people like Natasha would follow it without question.

But, most jobs were frustrating (Tony had told him wisely despite being the man who had spent his entire life as his own boss) and Steve just had to put it up with it. So he did. Sometimes. Other times, going against orders was necessary, even if it pissed of Fury.

However, he obeyed them this time. Arriving in the briefing room in exactly half an hour, only to find it empty. Sighing, he shook his head and sat down.

Naturally, his eyes flickered to the photos on the wall. The briefing room was probably the most decked out room in the entire triskelion. Lots of up to date technology, maps and information covered the walls. But, there were also photos too. Steve could see them now, honorary SHIELD members.

Peggy was up there, young with her iconic red lipstick on, making his heart clench a little. He had visited her in the hospital the other day, and she had remembered him being alive this time and the two spoke like normal. About all the exciting adventures Peggy had gotten up to while Steve was away. Those that she could remember, of course. And, sometimes she would mention people. People like Howard and the Howling Commandos and talk about them as if they were right there. Alive and well. Not like they had lived out their lives and died years before Steve had woken up.

Steve knew Peggy was gone. His Peggy at least. They were in modern times now, and she was an old woman suffering from dementia and stuck to bedrest. The elements of the fierce woman were still there of course, but she had moved on and married and had kids and grandkids. Steve thought that was pretty remarkable, that she was able to move on from the war and build her own life and reputation as a respected founder of SHIELD and a force to be reckoned with. Steve was happy for her.

He sighed and looked at a few more photos. Howard Stark, a few more of the Howling Commandos and a couple more, recognisable faces from the old days, as well as a few new ones that he didn't know.

"Reliving the good ol' days?" Asked Natasha when she walked in. Steve only heard her when the door closed behind her, she could be incredibly silent when she wanted to.

"Wouldn't say they were the 'good old days,'" he said, "no one's dying of mild fevers anymore which, you know, is better."

"I suppose," a small smile quirked the redhead's lips.

Despite her sometimes cocky, mysterious nature being frustrating, Steve had worked closely with Natasha. She was a formidable fighter, far more skilled than anyone in the Strike team and, despite everything, easy to get along with. As they were both Avengers, bantering back and forth came with ease, even in life or death situations.

"So," Steve said, "what's this new mission."

"There's been rumours," said Natasha, "of terrorist activities in Russia."

"What, and Russia has asked us to help out?" He gave her a doubtful look.

"Not quite," she shook her head and sat down across from him. The only two in the briefing room that was made for a lot more people. "Fury just caught word and asked me to look into it a little more. I asked for you to help because things tend to go a little sour when I start asking about the Russians."

Steve nodded. Fair enough.

"So," he said, "how do you think we'll look into it?"

"I have my sources," said Natasha, handing him a rather thin folder containing only a couple pages of files.

Steve flicked it open and saw a zoomed image of a woman. It was blurry, out of focus and obviously taken from a distance. From what he could tell from the low quality photo, she was blonde, blonder with him, her hair bordering on platinum with olive skin. And that was about it. Sunglasses covered her eyes and the photo didn't allow for any more detail than that.

Steve inspected the file closer and read the name next to the photo, "'Ida Delgrave?'"

"She's better known underground as the Woman of Whispers," explained Natasha, "she knows almost everything about everyone. And, if she doesn't, then she'll find out somehow."

Steve read the file closer, "looks like she's got links with almost every government… and every terrorist cell."

"Yes…" Natasha trailed off and shook her head. "She sells secrets to any party offering a high enough price. Government secrets, terrorist secret and any other secrets you can think of."

"So she's a criminal."

"So am I, technically."

Steve sighed at her, "yes, but you work for SHIELD now, you saved the world. This woman," he pointed to the file, "is putting people in danger for money."

Natasha just looked at him, "you can't arrest her, SHIELD and the CIA and FBI wouldn't allow that. She sells information about them as she sells information to terrorists. On most missions, her knowledge has been invaluable."

There was something in Natasha's eye that made him ask, "do you know her?"

"We have a past," said Natasha.

"Oh yeah?"

"She's a Russian," the redhead supplied, "we, er, trained together for awhile. And then, a little while later, I was ordered to kill her."

"But you didn't."

She shook her head but elaborated no further. Natasha kept her past close to the chest. Steve didn't know the woman that well, and didn't want to push her into saying anything she didn't want to.

"You believe she'll have information about this terrorist activity then?" Asked Steve.

"I think so," said Natasha, "if anyone does, it'll be her. All I know is that, whatever's happening, Moscow isn't aware of it, and there's a terrorist cell located a few miles out of Krasnoyarsk."

Steve's eyebrows shot up, "Siberia?"

She nodded, "what they have planned, I don't know. I don't even know if it's anything more than rumours."

"Well," Steve leant forward, "I'd like to find out."

"Me too," nodded Natasha and smirked. "I'll get in contact with her, organise a meeting for tomorrow. You can take that file and look into her if you want, no doubt she knows everything about the two of us anyway."

Steve nodded and looked back down at the file. Ida Delgrave. Underneath it had a list of 'codenames' and, sure enough, the name Natasha had called her by 'the Woman of Whispers' was there, as well as several other, some quite harsh. But it was the second one that caught Steve's interest. 'The White Shadow,' it was a strange name to go by, but he didn't linger on it too long.

Her list of contacts or, to put it better, people she had done deals with, was longer and one he would have to go over in detail tonight. Oh well, not like he had any other plans.

Ida had dreamt last night, which was unusual. It had been a loud dream, filled with pain and ballet music. When she had woken up, she had down her best to forget it. But, forgetting was difficult to do when you lived alone in a too-big apartment and the only person around was yourself.

Well, yourself and Circe. But Circe wasn't very chatty because she was a cat. And a rather grumpy one at that. She was grumbling to Ida now, who had elected to scan through a few files and eat breakfast before feeding her.

"Hush, Circe," she said to black cat who glared ruefully at her, before stalking off.

Rolling her eyes, Ida turned back to the file. Work was her main distraction, and an effective one at that. She worked to her own schedule, the head of her own business, which meant she was working almost all the time and it paid off. The apartment itself proved how good she was. Expensive, right in the heart of DC with large windows which allowed for an expansive view of the sunrise over the city. And it wasn't like this was her only apartment either.

She had been working for years now. Gaining power, gaining money, gaining a reputation as the Woman of Whispers. And Whispers she did hear. If any government was keeping secrets, Ida already knew them. If a terrorist cell was planning something, Ida already knew about it.

And that made her dangerous. She knew things that no one was ever supposed to know. But no one ever came for her because everyone wanted to know what Ida knew. But her secrets never came free. Everything had a price.

How she got her information. Well, that was through many means. Means of which she kept to herself.

She was reading information now. She had a meeting with a client in the afternoon, a Ukrainian official who wanted information on the location of a rebel group in the East of the country. The specific political circumstances, while she was aware of them, she didn't care for it. Whether people would get hurt or not, she didn't care much for either. He was offering plenty of money, and that was all that mattered.

She stood up and stretched, before walking over to a wall and pressing a button next to a speaker.

"Martin?" She said.

"Yes, Miss Delgrave?" Came his voice over the speakers.

"What time is my meeting with Mr Kushnir?"

"Three thirty, ma'am."

"Alright," she glanced back over the file, "thank you, Martin."

She wasn't entirely alone. Martin was her driver, assistant and (sort of) a butler. He had been working for her for nine years now and was possibly the only other person in the world she trusted. He was an ageing man with sprinkles of grey in his dark hair, and a polite voice and posture. He was also the only one gutsy enough to chide Ida and come out of it with both of his kneecaps. She appreciated him.

She fed Circe because the cat was pretty much yowling in her face at this point.

"You're miserable," she said, "you know that right? All you do is complain."

The cat looked up, flicked her tail in response and went back to eating. Ida glared back at her.

She entered her bathroom, eyes flickering up to the reflection in the overly large mirror. Long, almost-platinum, blonde hair fell far past her shoulders in neat waves and framed a rather tired-looking face. She hadn't done her makeup yet, and she usually did. Most of how she looked how dressed was to maintain reputation. Ida Delgrave had to look beautiful because it made her job a lot easier.

She pushed her hair back a little, revealing the side of her face. A long scar next to the hairline, running from her left temple to left ear. Looking at it reminded her of the dream she had had, and her knuckles clenched a little. It was fine, she would forget about it and, tomorrow night, she wouldn't dream.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. Her own (well, one of her own, she had various burner phones used by various contacts).

She let her hair fall back across her face and took her phone from her pocket, turned from the mirror and leant against the sink.

The number was unknown but she already knew who it was.

"Romanoff," she greeted, "it's been a while."

"Delgrave," the woman returned the greeting without much warmth, but she wasn't a warm person.

"I'm guessing you're not calling for a spot of lunch, though," Ida checked the time, "I am free around one so…"

"I'm not looking for lunch," said Natasha, "but I'll get back to you on it."

Ida smirked, "so, what's going on then? It's rare I get a call from the Black Widow herself, especially since you've become a superhero now."

"I need your help with something."

"You need my help or SHIELD?"

"Both."

"Well, Romanoff," she left the bathroom and stopped in front of the window in her lounge, which gave an expansive view of the city around her. "You know my information doesn't come cheap."

"It'll be compensated. I just need to meet with you. As soon as possible."

"I'll see you tomorrow then," said Ida, "six. My office."

"I'll be bringing a friend."

"Well," Ida said, "I can't wait to meet them."

A/N: Ta-da! Chapter one is done, chapter two will be up soon as it's practically done, I just need to sort out one scene. And, yes, Ida will be meeting Steve in the next one. I will be updating Hidden in Plain Sight first for any familiar readers but for now I hope you enjoy this and please leave a review :)