Steve jogged down the hallway, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He was pretty sure he'd gotten the musty, watery smell of the Raft off of his skin, but it had taken a few tries. He reached for his jacket that should have been draped along the back of the sofa but it was missing. He looked around, tensing slightly as he spotted the little Russian standing casually by the elevator doors, holding his jacket hostage with a raised brow. "You're a doorman now?" Steve asked, holding out a hand.
"You're headed somewhere awful quick," Natasha commented, surrendering his jacket. "Hot date?"
"Nice to see you, too." Steve shrugged it on, but Natasha was leaning in front of the controls and blocking his exit. "My shift is over."
"Rhodey's not here yet," she shot back smoothly, "so technically you're still on-duty. Three for three."
Steve's heart sank. She was right, of course. He was already drafting an apologetic text to Mab in his head as the Russian's face changed from her usual cool detachment to a friendly warmth.
"But," Natasha said slowly, "that would only matter if I saw you leave. Which, of course, would be impossible to see from my quarters." She stepped out of his way, giving him a meaningful look. "Have fun," she crooned with a knowing smile, "see you in four days."
Steve couldn't wait until she was out of sight to punch the elevator's controls, he was running late as it was. He could almost hear Natasha shaking her head in disapproval. A thrill of excitement turned his hands clammy as the elevator descended, but a quick check of the time sent that into a surge of worry. He was running very late - too late for the bus.
Luckily, he had other transportation options. "Friday, take me down to the garage, please."
Paul worked through the gigantic packet of medical questions. He'd cleared the first and second phases of this mysterious medical trial, earning first fifty then five hundred dollars. He could scarcely believe it.
The basement of Mount Sinai was as nice as the towering exterior promised it would be. There were no indications that Paul should feel anything but comfortable sitting in the waiting area with a collection of other patients, filling out the hefty binder of questions. The lights didn't flicker, the pens all wrote smoothly, and all the nurses smiled and thanked him for his participation every time he came in.
If he passed this round and continued to qualify, he would be paid five thousand dollars. Two months' rent for a cheek swab and a blood test. They hadn't even given him anything yet.
He paused at a question - buried in between family history and occupational hazards - that seemed more odd than the rest.
Do you now or have you ever consumed fish oil capsules?
Paul paused.
He couldn't remember ever taking any. Janice had tried to convince him to take a daily multivitamin, or to go vegan, or to go paleo, or to go keto, but he'd never strayed from his steak-and-potatoes lifestyle. He had the high blood pressure to prove it.
Paul checked the box reading 'no', and moved on.
Five thousand dollars.
He crossed his fingers that his luck held out.
Steve stepped through the metal detector without incident, pulling his jacket and keys out of the plastic bin as they trundled through the security screening, nodding to the ambivalent security officer who probably couldn't care less.
The museum was more expensive than he remembered. But then again, he remembered when milk cost a quarter per gallon. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he paid his admission and exchanged the receipt for a map and entered a hall filled with marble.
M: running late. Meet you by the Temple of Dendur.
He had to double back, he realized after a moment studying the map, weaving his way through the lobby to go in the opposite direction. The Egyptian wing fascinated him, and he paused briefly in front of a little turquoise hippo that he actually recognized. From a lifetime ago.
The Temple of Dendur, however, was something else to behold. The huge wall of glass looked out over falling autumn leaves in Central Park, tracing red in the gentle waters surrounding the stone structure. He could see why Mab had chosen this hall to find him - he could take a seat along the edge of the pool and wait, and the crowds were much thinner here than in the tight galleries. Much easier to negotiate with a wheelchair, and he'd be harder to miss.
He had no idea how long he'd need to wait for Mab. It wasn't difficult to resist the urge to wander and explore on his own - whatever he could see by himself he would certainly enjoy more with Mab. He pulled a slim book from his jacket pocket, and flipped open to a marked page.
He always carried a book now. It didn't distract much from the world, but at least reduced the number of things that required his focus. He could read, but also keep an ear out for the call of alarm, or the sound of helicopter descent, or the whisper of wheels approaching.
Listening for the faint sound of ocean waves - of leather on steel tire rims, of approaching peace - Steve idly flipped through the pages of his book. He could hear children whispering, and sneakers squeaking on polished floors. Canes tapped and creaked, and other guests folded programs this way and that to try and get their bearings.
"You know," a familiar voice came without the familiar call of the ocean, "it's sacreligious to read in an art museum."
Steve's head jerked up in surprise and the sight of her was so much more shocking that he sprang to his feet out of sheer reflex. He blinked, his mouth falling slightly slack.
Mab smiled, leaning slightly on a cane as she stood before him. "Hi."
But he couldn't say anything back. He had to check again, starting from the ground up - from her dark shoes planted on the polished floor, up long lengths of denim to the hem of a soft-looking white sweater, past the swaths of cream-colored coat and green scarf, to a delightedly wicked smile and blue-green eyes sparkling with unspoken laughter.
Her eyes; blue falling into green, as close as the first time he'd crouched down at her level in concern but found himself willing to dive into the waves and let them crash into him over and over.
Standing. Standing. She was tall, he realized, with her nose coming about to the level of his chin. She stood close enough for him to see the barest touch of sun on her nose, and the trace of a scar running just above her left eyebrow.
"Surprised?" she asked with a flash of teeth, the sly smile showing she knew he was. "I'm having a good day," she explained. "On good days I can get around almost normally with a cane." She lifted a black-and-yellow striped cane, the same pattern as her sporty wheelchair.
Steve found his voice after quickly clearing his throat. "That's quite the surprise."
"Yeah," she smirked, "I know." She stepped away, moving as smoothly as she might have drifted away in her chair. Light, lightly on steady feet, she beckoned him to follow.
How could he not? Her movements fascinated him as though he had never seen someone walk before. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked.
"You didn't ask," she replied, switching her coat to her other arm so the cane didn't get caught up in it.
"Are there any other questions I should have asked?" he asked.
Her lips twisted in a way that said 'yes' even before she looked away. "Come on; it's still pretty empty so we should see the inside of the Temple before it gets crowded." She ascended three steps to the entrance of the Temple and he followed. How could he not?
Stone columns twice his height guarded the narrow entrance, forcing them to walk single-file to enter the tiny entrance hall. Mab paused, staring at the carved walls with something somber in her eyes. The silence of the hall faded away inside the stone, leaving only an echo of breath to highlight their solitude there.
As Steve realized they were alone in the Temple, Mab seemed to realize it too. "I wanted to tell you, and I guess now is as good a time as any." She kept her gaze fixed on the wall as a weary sadness overtook her. "I know who you are."
The stone walls hummed with her faint words, giving them extra weight that hit Steve firmly in the chest. His first thought was to deny everything. "I don't-"
Mab looked at him and all denials died on his tongue. "Steve, there are hundreds of photos of you in dozens of museums, not to mention YouTube. I recognized you right away, that day on the bus. I've always known."
Steve clenched his jaw, fighting back the cold feeling in his hands and a frustration that was more painful disappointment than anger. She knew. He thought he could ready himself for what was coming next - that she was a secret SHIELD agent, or a reporter, or some other terrible possibility that explained her proximity to his life.
But that wasn't what came next.
"I hope you don't mind that I know," she said quietly, lowering her voice as a young couple entered the entrance hall and gave them a funny look as they passed into the offering hall. Mab let them pass before she continued. "You don't seem to mind that I've got… problems. I didn't say anything because I just liked spending time with you and it didn't matter to me that you're… that you're who you are. I'd really like to keep being friends, but I also wanted to be honest with you." Her smile was small, but warm. "I don't really have anything else to say. I just wanted you to know."
She looked away, glancing into the next room and its half-broken statue contained behind bulletproof glass. "If nothing else, I had a great time being your friend." She stepped away from him, entering the smaller offering hall. She left him with her words, giving him the option to leave or to follow.
Steve stood in silence as she moved on, trying to process what had just happened. The cold feeling in his hands that he had thought to be disappointment quickly turned into warmth. She knew.
She knew, and if he could take her at her word, then nothing had changed; nothing would change. Or, if her actions spoke as clearly, she was giving him a free choice to walk away.
His feet followed, even as he continued to process her words. How could he not? She knew.
If she had known from the beginning then he didn't need to worry that she might treat him differently. That he might lose that trenchant wit that made talking with her so easy, so honest. He'd felt like he could be more than a symbol of justice, so polluted now, more than the expectations that tried to strangle his words and stifle his values. And it wasn't like she lied; he had just never asked.
He understood why she'd kept silent about it for so long. He, too, remembered what it was like to be the weak one in a pair. He remembered how incredibly valuable his friendship with Bucky had been for all those years, and how much it had hurt when Bucky left for the front. He lost the one person who'd enjoyed his company for what little he could offer.
He followed, seeing the tension in her shoulders as she braced herself for his response to her admission. She kept her eyes fixed on the small headless statue - as still as her in that moment - like her life depended on it. He could see a faint tremor in the hand resting on her cane. It hurt him a little, but he understood it. He understood bracing yourself for the possibility that you were not wanted.
"The last time I was here," he started, keeping his voice low, "people were still really excited about the egyptian hippo - the blue one. It came to the museum the same year I was born."
Mab's eyes flicked up to him, blue and green drawing in every word. The waves of her presence drew inwards, but without any kind of forceful pull. That was her way; a presence not insistent, but consistent.
Steve continued, "but my favorite was Matisse. I liked that, even as a kid, my bad paintings looked as good as something that hung in a museum."
She nodded, but still stayed silent. Her eyes held the question and a fear he recognized plainly. A deep desire to be invited into something more than just the title of 'acquaintance'.
He held out his right hand. "Steve Rogers."
That broke through the tense fear in her eyes, letting a smile spread there as she took his hand for a gentle shake. "Mab Dumont." Her hands were cold and calloused. "Nice to meet you."
She let go and suddenly Steve didn't know what to do with his hands. He shoved them into his jacket pockets as he followed her into the final room - the Sanctuary - and let her lead him around the space, lingering in spots and moving swiftly through others.
Something occurred to him and he stopped in place. "So," Steve realized, "when we sat in that diner and you asked me what I did for a living… you just let me ramble along like an idiot?"
Mab snorted, and didn't have the good grace to cover her smile. "I'll admit, it was a lot of fun seeing you try and come up with answers on the spot."
Steve shook his head, thinking of all the ways he'd nearly tripped over himself trying to keep his secret when it had turned out to be ultimately unnecessary.
Sensing the moment was right to share in return, Mab leaned in, whispering secretively. "I have absolute garbage taste in food. If it's deep-fried I'll eat it; Oreos in particular."
"You also wear socks that don't match," Steve added as she leaned away again, and Mab looked aghast.
"By choice!" she defended. "It's not like I don't notice. I just like variety."
And they were back again. It could barely be called a brief hiccup, a righting of directions with a clarifying check of a compass, and all was well. Everything was still the same.
He followed her out of the Temple with a lightness in his step that he hadn't felt in a long time. She knew. She knew, and nothing was going to happen. Nothing was going to change. Nothing more needed to be said, but now he had so much more to say.
If you were to glance through a room, you might miss the easy presence of Mab Dumont. She blended in with the walls and furniture, but not in a visual way. She gave off the same feeling as a heavy morning mist; silencing the busy rumble of the world.
She drew him through halls and past statues, and all the questions and things he had thought to say just didn't come to mind. He wanted to see what she saw; to know all the things she knew about this delicate world protected by glass and guards. She didn't argue as he let her lead him around the museum, her stride smooth and steady, but much slower than when she rode on wheels.
In a back gallery, mostly abandoned if the lack of famous paintings was any explanation, it was impossible to notice that she was rapidly losing energy. "Do you mind if we sit?" Steve asked, in lieu of asking if she needed a break.
"Sure," she chirped. Mab sat down on the room's singular long cushioned bench, resting her cane against the inside of her thigh. Her breathing was a little rapid for Steve's comfort; like she was already winded. "It's funny," she said between labored breaths, "I love this painting, but I don't usually get much time to really look at it."
The large painting wasn't the highlight of the room, and it wasn't particularly dramatic or colorful, and nothing about it was especially unexpected. A woman in a fitted black gown, her attention drawn away, rested a hand on a side table for balance, perhaps. "Madame X", John Singer Sargent (1883-1884), was all the information a side plaque provided.
"I love art," Mab sighed. "You know exactly what it's supposed to mean when you look at it, but as soon as you look away it's just… gone." She snapped her fingers, letting the sound echo in the empty hall. "You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can't hold it."
"What's that from?" Steve asked. He didn't recognize the quote.
"Just something I'm working on," she answered vaguely. "Just look at it. You know what my favorite part of the whole thing is?" Mab curled her hand against the bench, just like the woman leaned against the table in the painting. "That hand. Is it desperation? Is it exhaustion? Why lean like that, and hold on in such an uncomfortable way? It's in the shadow of her, a place of unimportance, but it's where her real personality is hiding."
Steve didn't know what to say. As Mab described it, he could see that glimmer of the place of her meaning, but - just as she said - it drifted away as he looked away from the painting. Mab's cheeks flushed as she caught Steve's eye.
"Sorry, didn't mean to ramble," she muttered.
"Sargent made her a goddess," Steve said, ignoring her apology. "The gold bit over her head - it's a crescent."
"I think you're right." Mab squinted. "I never noticed that before. Huh."
"Excuse me, folks; we're getting ready to close." Steve and Mab both jumped sharply as a friendly voice called from the next room. A security guard peeking in made the low discussion suddenly feel like a very intimate moment.
"Oh my god, what time is it?" Mab cried, pulling her phone out of her pocket and dropping her coat in the process. She groaned in exasperation. "It's nearly five."
"What's wrong?" Steve asked, retrieving her coat from the floor.
"The bus is going to be so cramped," she explained, taking back her coat. "That's what I get for playing Museum Curator." She looked utterly exhausted, and the tremor in her hand as she moved to stand with her cane had nothing to do with fear this time. She wouldn't have the option of leaning back in her chair for the trip home, and a crowded bus likely meant standing the entire time.
The solution was obvious to Steve. "Can I take you home? I'm parked on the corner."
He expected her to refuse him, and he intended to insist, but it didn't come to that. She stared at him, squinting her eyes a bit, before sighing in defeat. "You know what? That would be wonderful."
Steve beamed, and Mab's lips twisted into a mock scowl. "Don't make that face like you won - I'm taking advantage of you, Steve."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, chuckling as her mock scowl turned into a real one.
Now it was his turn to lead. He drew her back through the halls, the map he'd memorized on first glance spinning in his head to provide the most direct route to the front door, to the outside, and to rest for Mab. She didn't question his path, didn't challenge the way he took her through little side rooms that opened up again in large halls.
He held her cane briefly as she shrugged on her long coat, tucking the edges of her scarf under the collar to keep them from flying away in the rush of cold air that met them on the museum's steps.
People spilled out into the streets as the museum began to close, each one touched by a stroke of a pen or the click of a camera. Steve was touched by Mab's hand at his shoulder as she laughed, pointing to a set of parents chasing a child down the stairs with a tiny jacket in hand; fighting the eternal battle of wisdom versus enthusiasm.
The best moment, that he had hoped for but couldn't have properly imagined, fell into place as Mab realized where she was being directed. "No!" she cried, her face a picture of delight as they approached the motorcycle. "No way!"
"You like it?" Steve asked, holding out a hand for her cane so she could take a seat. She surrendered it without a moment of resistance and swung her leg over to take a seat, beaming with an enthusiasm that made Steve's stomach flip.
"She's gorgeous!" Mab straddled the seat while Steve rigged a makeshift cane-holder between the handlebars. "What do you call this thing? The Cap-Mobile? Star-Spangled Motors?"
Steve hid a grin. "It's the Flying Avenger."
Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God - are you serious?"
"No," Steve laughed, pulling on his knots to make sure they were secure; he didn't want to lose her cane. It felt good, so good, to be able to invite her into those jokes. To be able to poke fun at himself, at the strange title he bore.
He sidestepped an irritated swat of her hand. "Now I don't have a helmet, so if you fall off and get hurt I'm gonna feel real bad for at least ten minutes."
She puffed out her cheeks. "Wow. Ten whole minutes. I feel so special."
"You should; I've never taken anyone for a ride on my bike before." She scooted back in the seat as he swung his leg over to sit in front. "So hold on tight," he instructed over his shoulder, colder for not being able to see her beaming smile.
"Yessir." She wrapped her arms around his middle and interlocked her fingers, and that warmth returned. A faint scent of perfume wrapped around him; something like warm cotton and a tree-lined street that touched on a long-forgotten memory.
He shook it off, turning the engine over and feeling Mab's grip tighten as the bike roared. "Where to, ma'am?"
"Greenwich Village, sir," she answered. "Sixth avenue and Thirteenth street."
He pulled away from the curb gently, letting Mab get accustomed to the sway of the machine and the pull of wind through her hair, throwing the tail of her coat out behind them.
Just like the streets opened before his bike, he could feel new avenues branching out. She knew. She knew. She knew from the beginning and he could only feel relieved by it. No more clumsy excuses and veiled descriptions; he would be able to call her and describe his hellish days and sleepless nights and not worry anymore that she might find his conversations lacking.
He opened up the engine as a series of green lights allowed and Mab cried out in delight and he knew that it felt like freedom as much to her as it did for him. He felt disappointed, then, as they made the last turn onto her street and Mab pointed to her front door.
He was still swimming in the glory of the bike's freedom as they pulled up to the curb in front of the brownstone. "Wow," he said, turning off the bike's engine, "this place is nice." A short strip of old brownstones with pristine sidewalks and old trees interrupted the usual parking lots and boutique stores he expected this far downtown.
"It's rent-controlled," she said like she needed to explain. Steve wanted to tell her she didn't owe him anything like that but she moved on, slipping off the back of the bike and smoothing away the flyaways in her hair. "Thanks for the ride," Mab said, head tilted and a broad smile on her face as she stepped up onto the curb. "It was so much better than the bus."
"Any time." Steve made himself busy with releasing her cane from the series of knots holding it to his handlebars. "Are you busy this weekend?" The question slipped out without discussing it with his brain first. Although, he realized as he waited for her answer, he didn't really need to think about it.
It made perfect sense to ask, to invite her into a place where she would never ask to visit. It made all the sense in the world because she knew. She knew. This odd weekend that had been barreling down on him was something he was certain he could handle with grace if she agreed to stand with him.
"I don't have any plans, why?" Mab asked, tilting her head with the question. "What are we doing?"
Steve held out her yellow-and-black striped cane, his fingers buzzing as they briefly brushed against hers. "I heard there's snow in the forecast, so I thought I could take you somewhere warm with me."
A/N: This one came out so quick because I had large portions of it already written by like… chapter two. We've been moving to here, to this place where Mab and Steve find themselves finally on the same page, and now they get to dive into this intense friendship/relationship that neither of them have really prepared themselves for or insulated against. They're strangely easy to write together and I'm not complaining!
I haven't decided if the next chapter should be from Mab's POV or Steve's. There's benefits to both, obviously, but I'd like your opinions. The next chapter is going to be somewhere warm ;) I'm sure all of you only need one guess as to where they're going.
Hope you enjoyed this just MASSIVE outpouring of fluff. You ready for some more? FLUFF TIME.
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