"After all, crime is only…a left-handed form of human endeavor."

-Alonzo Emmerich (Louis Calhern, The Asphalt Jungle, 1950)


When Steve comes to again, his first thought of is to feel for the crisp thin sheets of a hospital bed and to listen for the beeping of a nearby monitor. But he doesn't hear or feel these things; he can't identify the telltale signs of a sterilized room. So he groans, and tries to stretch, but finds a blistering heat and weight on his back and it is only then that he remembers. And grieves. He lets his head fall down in the minimal space that he has and feels his forehead hit something soft and warm. Diana.

Carefully, he frees his arms from under her and puts them at her sides so that he is in some makeshift push-up position. And he pushes, and the library groans above him, but otherwise nothing else moves. He reels in another breath and tries again, but to no avail, nothing budges and he falls onto his forearms once again. He can feel something swelling in his chest, but he smothers it down and forces himself to focus. With his ears no longer ringing, he listens to his surroundings and catches sound of distant sirens. Always sirens.

Steve turns his head and coughs some of the smoke out of his lungs. He's had worst happen to him, but for some reason, the weight of his awakening, New York, Peggy – time – it's all building up and the dam he has quickly and meticulously constructed is falling apart minute by minute. He signed up to help end a war. To help save his best friend. But this?

"Do bombs normally follow you everywhere, Rogers?" There's a gentle coughing and movement under him. He looks back down at Diana as he tries to maneuver himself to give her more space. He's fortunate enough that the bookcase has steered away the bulk of the crumbling building off of them, but he is unlucky in the sense that it has trapped them in a convex triangle. "This is the second one of the day."

Steve could hardly believe it's only been a day, and that he's only known this woman officially for two, but he doesn't comment on that. Instead, he tries to push against the weight on his back again. "You wouldn't happen to have some super strength with that lasso would you?" He doesn't know if it's too early to bring up that tender subject, but the time they spend buried under the rubble of the library, the more time Rourke has to finish his plan. In the fading light, he catches her eyes gleam.

"You must be a lucky man then, Steve Rogers," Diana says after a pause. "Move your legs and maybe we can both push our way out."

Steve obeys, and waits for Diana to maneuver herself beside him. With a quiet countdown, they push against the slab of stone together and it groans but it moves, and the sounds of New York City come back to them to his relief. He doesn't think the city should ever be quiet, and hopes it never does. Steve stretches up to his full height as he examines the damage left behind from the explosion. Fortunately, it is not extensive and the better half of the library is still tall and proud. Again, New York will have to rebuild a part of its history again, but he is glad that not all of its past is lost.

"I think they can take care of this mess, don't you think?" the woman beside him says. His eyes turn to her figure already picking through the minefield of rubble and ashes. He follows her, partly because he has nothing else to latch onto, and because he knows that while he could help, he would only be wasting time. Rourke is still out there, somewhere. With stolen documents and an uncovered plan.

"We should stick to the plan," Diana spouts out. She steers them through the mass of onlookers, managing to play both inconspicuous wallflower and moving idol. For his part, he keeps his head down and hopes that the public has long forgotten the face behind the mask.

"Everett has not stopped since he has disappeared. We shouldn't too."

And he agrees. He makes sure he hears her tell her so, but he also thinks that with the fading light – more bad than good will fall on their search. However, he doesn't tell her that. He knows enough about Diana to understand that some words are just filtered out of her comprehension. So he proposes dinner – a break, under the intention that they should pass on the bulk of their work to JARVIS so that they may evade arousing anymore explosions and unwanted attention from the public.

Diana only passes him a second glance before she concedes to his alternative, and asks where their rendezvous would be. "What do you mean?"

"Are you asking me to dinner, Steve Rogers?" Diana is tall. Her head tilts, and her eyes darken with the shadows dancing across half of her face.

Steve feels the burn on his cheeks, but he doesn't stumble and keeps pace with the woman beside him. "It would just save us time, trying to meet up afterward and all – but," he doesn't want to push anything on her, the word, 'elusive,' coming back to his thoughts.

"Are you cooking?" Diana asks.

"I could," Steve can't stop his thoughts from leaving his lips. He can't cook, his mind hurriedly reminds him. For most of his grown life he has lived off of canned food and canteen slop. He can't recall a time where he has had to make more than the typical eggs, bacon, and toast. "But I shouldn't. JARVIS usually has something ready when I go up for dinner."

"Modern technology suiting you well then, Captain?" Diana stops walking and raises a hand to hail a cab. "Or should I call it cutting-edge technology? It is Stark's work after all, and he is the leader in all things automatonic."

He shrugs in reply as his hand automatically reaches out ahead of Diana and opens the taxi door for her. There is no hesitation as she slides into the backseat, leaving enough space for him to follow suit if he wanted. He does, and he tells the driver the first street over by the tower before settling down. The precaution is unwarranted. Stark Tower is an obnoxious needle that is just a bit too tall, large, and shiny in the haystack that is New York City. However, old habits die hard and he hopes the woman next to him does not mind the extra block of walking. His head tilts back against the seat. Although, he pushes down the sigh as he reseats himself into a more proper position.

"It's fine," the woman next to him speaks softly. Her gaze is on the passing streets, but her attention is on him. "Even heroes need to rest."

"And is that what you are?" he asks. He shouldn't broach the subject, he knows, but she had not erred away from it at the library.

Dark. Her eyes have always been dark, but when they settle on him, they are blurry. Seeing, but not seeing him. On something far away. When she speaks, it is hardly above the noise of the air conditioner and he has to lean in to catch her words. "I was never the hero, Steve Rogers."

She turns her head away from him, but her palms lay flat out on her lap. In the time that he has known Diana, she has never allowed for small quirks such as body language, to reveal her innermost thoughts. But here she is, betraying her beliefs to allow a Brooklyn-born experiment to try and understand her.

"Have you ever had pizza?" He glances out the windshield. They are close, but not too near Stark Tower to be able to go through with detour instead. Although, his mind has made up the decision already and he feeds the driver a new address. The older man grumbles that he will be charging them more, but Steve waves off the fee and pushes for the pizzeria.

"I have had pizza before, Steve." Diana comments as the interaction ends.

"Yeah, but not the New York pizza," Steve replies, and soon enough, they have parked on the corner of some overlooked trodden street. He pays the taxi driver and tells him not to wait on them before he turns to usher Diana toward the haughty neon lights of one of New York's many local pizzerias. He lets her in first, the smell of fresh dough and Italian herbs overwhelming the musk of the streets. The aroma gives way to the plump faces of a husband and wife and an atrociously cheap rendition of a five-star restaurant. He catches Diana's dubious glance, but nonetheless, he seats her at one of the plastic covered tables before heading over to the couple.

"Got a hot date, Steve?" the man welcomes with a grin. His hands are caked with flour, but he seems mindless of that as he reaches over the glass counter and pats him on the back. Steve laughs and shakes his head.

"No, no, just a friend," he supplies.

"Is she single?" Marcurio chortles louder as the woman beside him unleashes her white towel on his shoulder. Her husband has the good cheer to 'recoil' and return to rolling out his dough.

"The usual, then?" Lisette smiles.

"Two slices?" he says aloud, looking back to stop Diana's perusal of the dining area. She flashes Lisette one of her pedicured smiles as she raises three fingers in correction.

"A woman after my own heart," Marcurio comments as his wife rounds on him once more. Steve laughs. "Make that six slices then, and I'll take a smaller box to go please. Half pepperoni and half margarita." He recalls Natasha's own peculiar tastes and can't remember which she preferred. She has ordered the two types before, has zealously guarded them at some points during their time together – but has made no clear distinction as to which she preferred.

"Got it, I'll be over with the water soon, sweetie," Lisette obliges.

Steve nods in thanks as he rejoins Diana. She stops her inspection of the place as her fingers carefully entangle with each other. "So how long have you been coming here? Since you were young?"

Steve chuckles. "Um, no – I just found this place during one of my walks." He looks over at the synthetic roses placed in the small glass vase between them. "I –" He pauses. "I never really got to eat pizza that often when I was younger." Him and his mother never had the money to really splurge on pizza back then - nor was it ever sold as cheap as it is now.

Diana's eyes are sparkling when they meet his. "I know that, Steve, I was joking," she smiles appreciatively as Lisette comes over with their water and only speaks when she is gone. "If they had been around since you were born, I would be asking where the owners are hiding the fountain of youth."

Steve leans back in his chair as his own fingers curl against the glass of water. The perspiration on the outside easily melds against his palm, but he doesn't let go. "Oh," Diana smiles. "You thought that I did not know about your history, Captain America?"

Steve gives a miniscule shrug. "I'm just not used to it I guess. When I went under, no one really knew outside of the military who the guy behind the stripes was – thanks, Lisette," he cuts himself off as the woman saunters over to hand them their plates.

"We tried our best to fit all three slices on there, and the takeout will be at the counter whenever you are ready," she nods off. Both patrons watch as she walks over to the front to greet their newest customers, noticing a sort of routine passage embedded into the red carpeting of the pizzeria. Normalcy at its best.

"It must be so nice to have something to go back to," Diana ponders aloud. Steve looks over at her, lifting a slice of pizza and carefully taking a bite out of it. No mess, no awkward trying-to-avoid the grease fumbling, and sighs.

"It's just weird," he finishes. "I'm still a boy from Brooklyn but I'm not."

"Not to them," Diana nods. "Heroism comes at a cost. Dramatic as yours was with the last phone call and – sorry," she stops herself as she notices the sudden rise and curl of his shoulders. "How long has it been since they woke you up?"

"About a month," Steve answers. "And it's fine. Peggy has always been a sore subject for me, but I have to face it one day or another." He sees the question in her before she can ask it and she smiles. "And I have seen her," he admits. "She's old but well."

"That is all we can ever ask for those we've left behind." Diana acquiesces. There is no music in the Italian pizzeria. Just the gentle murmur of chatter from the passing patrons and the husband and wife. Just the droning noise of habitual tasks and banter. Diana looks up and catches the attention of the wife, Lisette.

Steve sees her making her way toward them and sighs. "You go on ahead and grab the pizza, I'll pay."

"Thank you," Diana nods and does just as so. Steve takes his time pulling out his wallet. It's a commonplace task, one that doesn't require his attention to be alleviated from Diana's lithe form as she rises and moves towards Marcurio. He even speaks to Lisette, a well-rehearsed script about promises to come again and such, but regretfully his focus is not on them. Diana wears red on her lips too.

He makes this realization as he hugs Lisette and raises a hand to bid farewell to Marcurio. This observation stirs something within him, and Steve doesn't know if he wants to discover what it is. He moves quietly toward Diana, a moth to a memory, and smiles. He lets her open the door for them and wonders when he had started letting go of what could have been and whether or not he should be so bothered about the lack of guilt that's coming with it. But remorse absent or not, he shakes of the ghosts of his past and focuses on the present.

When they breach the pervasive loudness of New York City again, they don't bother to add to its noise. Diana zips up her coat and Steve reaches for the plastic bag in her hand. She lets go and he leads them back into the open streets – away from their temporary reprieve. And when he lets her into Stark's tower, he wonders if he should be surprised at JARVIS' all-knowing welcoming. The AI lets them into the elevator without further interrogation and ascends them into the main top floor. Still, it is quiet – but Steve doesn't mind.

And then suddenly, the metal doors slide open, and he wonders if he should be surprised to see the red-haired spy caressing the wine glass in her hand.

"Steve," she greets. Her green eyes slide over to his companion. "Diana."

Steve steps forward and he gives the bag in his hand a shake. "Got pizza for you," he moves past her and takes out the box to pop it open. Miraculously, the pizza is still warm and buzzing with the scent of salted meat dancing with fresh mozzarella.

"Grazie," Natasha thanks as she reaches for a slice. Diana takes a brief moment to herself to take in the glass-walled room as she saunters over to join them. "The windows aren't one way, but this high-up – who's there to see us?" Natasha comments after a bite.

"Stark likes to enjoy what his money can get, can anyone blame him?" Diana rebukes.

"No, but his ego is big enough that it does need a few beatings." Natasha replies.

Beside himself, Steve snorts as he leans against the counter. "A few?" He says, earning a pair of rolling eyes from the former assassin.

"I'm trying not to scare our guest here too much, Steve," she chirps mirthfully. "So how was your day, the two of you?"

"Well," Diana looks at Steve – at the smudge of dirt still lingering on his shoulder - staining his shirt. "Explosive is one word to call it."

A fine eyebrow rises up much to Steve's embarrassment as he shakes his head. "There was another bomb at the library," he quickly adds. "It went off a few minutes after you left."

Natasha looks at him one more time, as if assessing whether one more lewd comment was able to work its way into the conversation, before she gives into the levity of the situation and sighs. "I heard, it was in the news. I'm glad the two of you made it out okay."

"This can't have been at random," Diana reasons, crossing her arms.

Natasha reaches out for one more slice as she observes the other woman. "It isn't, you're right," she admits. "As of now, a total of four bombs have gone off in this city. The other being at Central Park –"

"Rourke can't be –"

"Hold on," Natasha cuts Steve off. "Before you go on your frustrated rant, I went ahead and collected some evidence and ran more diagnostic testing on them," she wipes one hand on a napkin as she touches an obscure elevated circle on the counter. It gives rise to a projected screen. "The bombs all either came from different sources, or made by hand – the interesting part is when they were inserted into the places that they were put in." Her index finger deftly moves the projection to show the gym.

"This," she zooms into one unimpressive brick wall. "Is where the bomb was. Diagnostics on the surrounding mortar, plaster, what have you show that this area was put together recently compared to the rest." She zooms out of the picture and onto a new site, an unassuming walkway at Central Park. "Same here," she taps onto one spot by a bench." The pavement here is new compared to the rest."

"What you are saying –"

"Takes time and work," Natasha confirms Diana's suspicions. "JARVIS suggested we do thermolumenscience dating to see how long ago they were planted but that testing takes hours neither of us can spare. So I ran some data searches for recent construction on all the sites that were hit. And lo' and behold," she pulls up four different documents for the four sites.

Steve leans in the space between Natasha and Diana. "Am I reading this right?" Because he refuses to believe this.

"All of these sites were hit during the New York City attack and were fixed a week or so after they were damaged." Natasha finished her slice and closed the box.

"So they weren't premeditated, at least not extensively," Diana postulates.

"But who would do that?" Steve still can't believe the information before them. "Why would they do that? Right after New York too?" Because he had been a part of the attack, and witnessed the aliens' capability for destruction. He had seen the carnage, felt the slick blood against his fingers - heard the ragged last breaths of victims. His fingers curled against his bicep.

Who would attack their very own home after just seeing death visit it?

"More than likely, whoever planted them just exploited the opportunity to be able to do so. All the companies that participated in the repairs of these sites are small; their workers may be undocumented and volunteers at this point." Tracking is impossible. Steve heard between her words.

"But we know who it is already, right Steve?" Diana says, trying to cajole him back into the conversation. She uncrosses her arms and fumbles with the obsidian ring on her index finger. "The documents that were stolen – the request for them did not come in until a few days after New York and –" she looks at Natasha. "Was the museum hit? During the attack?"

The redhead shrugs but she quickly calls JARVIS to find out for them.

"No, ma'am," the automated voice replies. "40° 42' 50.1959'' N –"

"That's all JARVIS, thank you," Natasha cuts him off.

"Rourke wanted those documents specifically," Diana reorganizes her thoughts. "We hesitated to send them over to Dr. Javier because his specialty was not in Greek theology. But he made a case, and they agreed as long as I was the emissary."

"And what did this Rourke study then? What did Javier study?" Natasha narrows her eyes.

"Dr. Javier's studies focused on Roman history, and would only reach out to us if we had an artefact on display or in-house that he needed. But it never had to do with Greek theology or –"

"Rourke's dissertation," Natasha cut in. "Is on the Greek influence on Roman theology with a focus in the post-mortem rituals – morbid." She closes out from the projection, letting it dissipate completely to refocus on her two companions.

"You've been silent for a while, Steve," she comments. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Death and chaos. That is what Rourke is leaving as his legacy, and Steve cannot understand why a man would ever wish that to be left in the wake of his name. He had saved the world, to give rise to bigger monsters – is that what it is? He wants to laugh, punch a wall – dive back in the ocean as cowardly as that sounds. He wants to disappear and forget that this is the world he fought and lost his life for. Sacrificed his buddy's life for; lost a dance for.

The portion of the counter trapped in his fist gives a bit and he suddenly pulls away from it. He feels the eyes of the two women on him, on the crumbs of marble falling, but for once he is apathetic to the damage and their opinions of him. If he had let the world fall apart, would Natasha have been saved from her bloody past? Would Diana be less calloused and cynical about heroes and good? Did people even believe in genuine goodness anymore?

"We need to find him and see if there are any more bombs he left behind," he finalizes. He knows it isn't healthy, to curl up the wild demons in his head into a tiny ball and throw away in a corner, but he has no choice. He is more afraid of what would happen if he let them out over the reality that could have been if he hadn't stopped the Red Skull.

"I've had JARVIS look into the other smaller reconstruction projects done in the city and sent them to what SHIELD agents are leftover to check out, as for finding your guy – he could be out of state for all we know, Steve."

"Although, SHEILD has been alerted to keep an eye out for him."

"Thanks, Natasha," Steve breathes out. At least the public is safe from further harm. He looks at the red-haired assassin first, notices the deep well under her eyes hiding behind a veneer of makeup and shakes his head. "Thank you," he repeats. "You really didn't have to help us."

Natasha rolls her eyes at him, but she knows to push off the counter and drop her glass of wine into the sink. "It's a con of working for the better good," she says. "Goodnight you two." And with that, she disappears into the elevator.

Steve turns to Diana, and recalls the conversation that broke them apart earlier on.

"I'm assuming sleep isn't in your plans tonight?"

She turns the phone in her hands around. "First dinner, and now this? If I didn't know any better, Steve Rogers," she stares at him.

"I – I didn't mean it like that, I meant –"

"I know what you meant," she stops him. "And I can only hope it is. I will see you tomorrow," she begins to walk the same path as Natasha.

"You have my number?" he calls out.

Diana turns around, the same slow smile stretching across her face. "No, but the universe has a funny way of having us run into each other."


A/N: sorry, sorry for the long wait! I was helping out in R&D over the summer among my own project and classes but here it is! The calm before the storm!