"Show me a person who hasn't known any sorrow and I'll show you a superficial."
-Tennesse Williams, (A Streetcar Named Desire, 1947)
The scrap of charcoal against textured paper disrupts the prevailing silence in Stark Tower; lines, both faint and stark, smudged and worn, draw a picture of a fictitious woman. She is neither smiling or frowning; her brow free of lines and eyes devoid of judgement and full of reservation. She is not the traditional sort of beauty seen on movie posters and magazines. At least not in today's media, that is. Her face is slim and angular, hard and unbroken. Confidence seeps out of the sketch as thin lips loftily touch each other to convey an untroubled mouth. The nose is prominent and straight; a profile rendition would perhaps belay nordic and Eurasian roots, but Steve did not want to dwell too much on the inspiration instigating that design choice. Despite his careful additions of slightly elongated ears and effervescent skin, his sketch is already laden with the bluntness of his thoughts.
The elevator doors whisper open and heavy footfalls resonate too quickly for him to hide his drawing. "I knew she was trouble." The sketch pad is taken out of his hands, much to his protest as the redhead spy heavily glares at the drawing. The frown on her lips deepens, marring lines onto her face that Steve does not know how to smooth out. So he does what he can and closes his book, hoping to take away a reminder of the perpetrator of her troubles.
"What did she do, Natasha?" Steve inquiries as he turns in his seat to watch the spy head over to the minimalistic bar. She swipes no alcohol off of the restocked display, but takes a glass to fill with water. Steve is observant, though many tended to overlook it with his build, but he sees what most do not. While Natasha is a seasoned spy, possibly one of the best in the thinning field, he can see as much as she would let seep from her control. In his presence, she showed enough and Steve is able to read her body's lines; the sudden curve of her shoulders, tremble of her mouth, and stray fibers of her curls. Natasha is angry and - confused?
Suddenly perplexed, Steve watches her back ease into a slouch as her eyes soften and her lips form into a thin line. "Nothing," she murmurs, almost too quietly for him to hear. "She did nothing," she repeats, and slams a closed fist on the counter, before that too, relaxes into an open palm. Her dark eyes meet Steve's in a leveled gaze. "I said it once and I'll say it again, Steve - you keep interesting company." And with that, she calls out to JARVIS. The AI is instant, and soon, a blank screen is rolling down one of the many wall-length windows in front of Steve to display SHIELD's newest acquired intelligence. The picture is old, yellow and dated to a time he is all too familiar with.
There are faces in the photo, strangers all smiling with a tiredness that his body responds to in a ghostly ache. He had not paraded much around the battlefield as a newly augmented Steve Rogers and titled Captain America. But if he closes his eyes now, he could probably imagine the setting - the laughter silenced by the crumble of bricks and home. "How?" he finally asks, looking at the only face he knows.
Diana.
Clad in gear foreign to both the past and present, she stands in the center of the photograph, no doubt in the company of friends as they all lean towards her and bear the shared happiness so exclusive to working military unit. He wants to think the woman in the photograph is a relative, a long-past grandmother who Diana resembles like a twin. But no excuses would work, not if Natasha had decided that this picture is evidence enough to warrant -
"You talked to her?" The better word is investigated, maybe even interrogated, but Natasha shows no outward sign of successful retrieval. If anything, her nursing the injury on her head speaks volumes of the elusiveness of Diana Prince.
Nataha nods. "I tried to. I asked her to come with me to SHIELD," she leans her back against the counter. "The woman can punch." Surprise, Steve understands from her words, had won Diana the altercation's favor. Looking back at the picture, Steve knows he should have expected the most after her brief exhibit of physical prowess in the burning building. He chuckles quietly to himself, quickly recalling the addition of her golden lasso. He supposes he should have known better to think her capabilities are limited to enhanced physiology.
"What now?" he asks. "She's not an..enemy, is she?" He doesn't want to think the worst of the woman, but being exposed to so much in such a brief period of time, he has learned at least to expect the worst when it comes to those with powers. He briefly wonders if it comes to it, would he be able to restrain Diana? Put her down, if SHEILD deemed her a danger?
"No," Natasha sighs, answering both Steve's questions and tumultuous thoughts. "Aside from appearing every once in a while in some photograph or newspaper mention, she's rightfully on the side of justice and good." Ignoring the false saccharine tone of her voice, Steve breaks out a small smile.
"Good, that's good to hear."
He didn't think he would be able to take her down. He could try, but would he be able to make her stay? That too, he did not think so.
And staring at the corpse of Everett Sterns the following day, he knows that while Diana is both wind and art - elusive and memorable, she is anything but bad. Returning to Stark Tower, calling Pepper to affirm that the case is closed, he thinks back on his sketchbook and picks it up as he assuages Pepper's concerns about him turning into a recluse. Politely ending the call, he flips open to the previous night's sketch and thinks how wrong it is. The poorly disguised portrait of Diana is in fact, not her. The siren stares back at him, eyes devoid of the enchantment, and Steve falls back down on the sofa; book in hand and pencils within an arm's reach, he resumes his work and finishes the drawing for what it is: a drawing. Not a memory or a thought. And with that he resumes his work, and if Natasha has noticed the note carefully tacked into one of its pages, she does not comment as she delivers to Steve his newest assignment and site: Washington D.C.
"Have you heard?" he hears over the COMMS. It's been a few months since his reassignment to the capital, but he's hardly had the time to explore it as much as he would have liked; Fury keeps too long of a list for him to be able to spend enough time discovering the little restaurants and parks of the city. The mission he is currently on demands stealth and recon; fewer people means increased efficiency. He quietly takes out one sniper as he signals for Natasha to continue. "Thor has taken Jane to his home."
"Space?" Steve questions, wondering how the brilliant scientist would fare. Thor...From what he has seen,Thor is a good man. Despite being a lesser proponent for thoughts before actions, he knows the man or in this case, god, would do no harm to the woman. Smitten and rightfully enraptured by her, he knows the god had been having trouble returning Jane's love. Apparently, being a few planets apart tested the notions of long-distance relationships far too much.
"No," he hears Natasha's mirth and the snap of a bone. "Asgard, idiot." He hears a few muffled shouts and patiently waits for her to finish her task. The doors in front of him slide open in unison with her reply. "And guess who she'd been in contact with prior to all this?"
"Stark?" Steve hesitates in the hallway as he eyes the two guards chatting in front of his targeted room. He could incapacitate them easily, but that would mean more work for Natasha when she comes this way.
"Diana," Steve hears as he ducks under a punch. The other soldier backs up, raising his large gun with both hands, but Steve is already a few steps ahead and hurls his comrade into him. A few sporadic bullets hit the other soldier, and in the following shock, Steve has run his elbow against the other man's head. Both foes go down quickly. "Our little historian is apparently well-versed in Greek mythology."
When Steve enters the intelligence room, it is vacant of soldiers and agents. Shoulders tense, he sticks to the walls as he stalks towards one of the larger computers. As he hacks himself into the system under the instruction of Natasha, he asks the bigger question: "How do you even know about this?"
He wonders if he is imagining her buzzing chuckle in his earpiece. "Oh, Steve. I've got little spiders everywhere, don't you know?"
A white lie? Steve accesses one of the surveillance cameras and spots Natasha finishing off the last of soldiers littering the perimeter of the camp. Based on previous conversations with the Black Widow, Steve knows she prefers to work alone. Aside from her occasional mission with their rotating team, the Avengers, and Barton - she mostly took on independent missions. Efficient on her own, he could not berate her for preferring her shadow versus the company of others; less blood to worry about if the only one of concern being spilled is yours. Especially with the type of missions she took on - but spiders? Spies? He knows Fury as the top spymaster, the one with eyes encroaching on every type of data available. So while he lets Natasha's bluff slide, he wonders quietly to himself why SHIELD and Fury considered Diana enough of a concern to keep her on their watch.
"- something about some æther business, or so Darcy told one of the agents." He hears the click of the door first before he spots the gas pervading the room. Deciding to store away the information for later contemplation, he notifies Natasha of his predicament before he arms himself against the gas and searches for a way out.
Although as they sit in the jet after the completion of the mission, knees knocking into each other due to the smaller model, he finds that he has no time to further pry more information from the spy. After cutting off a private call, she abruptly unstraps her harness and flashes Steve a brazen grin. "See you later, Captain."And before he can ask where she is going, she is off into the lower engine of the plane. Looking out the window, he glimpses the smaller craft attached to theirs dislodged and flying off to the East, the pilot's red hair reflecting the sun's light in burning vibrancy.
With no one to ask about the woman, Diana becomes a forgotten afterthought until his unexpected encounter with one of the national museum's exhibits: Scythians: The Real Amazonians. Moving off to the side, he steals one of the descriptive placards in front of some faded pottery and reads:
"Scythian art often depicted animals….As Greek and Persian influence was observed by the culture, the art that once individually portrayed animals now changed to show them fighting each other. These changes showed a heavy hand in realism, as the cartoonish style faded over time."
Moving onto the next available display, Steve reads on who exactly these Scythians were: "Amazonians are largely popularized females that were popularized in the twentieth century. While only existent in Greek mythology, scientists have recently excavated burial sites of Scythians, revealing an uncanny resemblance of their culture to the televised Amazonians. Scythians inhabited the lower half of Siberia and were a host to radical differences than their neighbors. For one, their women often fought in battles…"
"Um, excuse me?" Snapping out of his linear focus, Steve looks up, mistaking his company for someone taller until a tug at his sleeve draws his gaze lower and at the large eyes of a curious child. "Are you, you know?" he whispers, and Steve acquiesces to the subterfuge and bends down. The boy, to his entertainment, leans forward in reply as his eyes conspicuously dart back and forth at their surroundings. "Captain America?"
Unable to help himself, he laughs and nods his head. "Yes, I am," he whispers back.
The kid, alighted by the confirmation, jumps back and flashes him a large grin. "I knew it!" he exclaims, then mindful of suddenly drawn attention, leans forward again. "You were so cool on TV," he admits.
"Thanks, kid," Steve rearranges the cap on his head, knowing how futile is disguise-not-really-disguise is in the crowd of perusing eyes.
"I mean it," the boy continues in front of him. "The shots were horrible," he pouts briefly, "but they were awesome! You did this," he mimics a punch. "- and this, and this, and -"
"Careful, kid," Steve glances an apologetic look at an older woman victimized by the young kid's mimicry and steers him away towards one of the benches. "Thank you, but I was just doing my job," he admits.
"I wanna be like you." The idolization almost deters Steve but he takes it with pride and gratuity.
"You are like me already," he smiles. "What do you think my job is…?"
"Stephen," the kid fills in. "Your job is to be a superhero right? Kick all the bad guys butts and put them in jail?"
If it were all so simple, Steve ruffles Stephen's hair. "No, not really," he dissuades. "My job is to protect everyone that I bodily can," he surmises. "And that job isn't just my job, that's everyone's job. We all have to protect those that can't protect themselves. You would protect that little girl from crying if she got lost, right?" he points over to one child, tightly holding onto her mother's hand as her big eyes absorb all the details and exhibits in the museum.
"I mean…" Stephen drawls out.
"You would because I know you, and you're a good kid," Steve confirms for him. "So I'm not a hero, Stephen." He never thinks of himself as one - could not even bear the title if it were shoved onto him. No...Steve is not a hero.
"Then what are you?" he asks.
"Just a human - just like you," Steve responds lightheartedly. "Maybe taller and older, but just like you," he jokes.
Stephen rolls his eyes but gives another grin, just a tad bit smaller and more sincere than the previous one, in reply. "Alright, old man."
In good nature, Steve swipes another palm against the boy's head as he dismisses the new title. "So you know where your parents are, Stephen?"
"Yeah, yeah my mom went to the bathroom and my dad's getting the car. I told her I'd wait by the information desk…" his eyes dart there. "I should probably go." he says, not getting up.
"Want me to walk you?" Steve offers.
"Yes, please!"And Steve does just as so. He waits with Stephen, who is bobbing up and down to catch sight of his mom, by the information desk. After, it does not take long for him to find the woman with the thick curls and he easily grabs her attention. Cheeks red, either due to Stephen's actions or him, the woman thanks Steve for his help and quickly ushers herself and Stephen towards the exit.
Steve merely grins at the boy's exclamation to stick to his promises and only leaves the museum just in time to catch his scheduled visit with Peggy.
Dear Peggy…
She smiles at Steve, belaying no inkling of her war with her disease as she pilfers through his offered sketchbook. He finds while the sorrow is still there at the unconquerable "what-if," he is still grateful for their time together now. He is happy. The woman of his heart has found a prolific life, more deserving of awards and accolades than his, and she is now settled; no regret, no misery. Steve is happy.
However, when her eyes gloss over, giving temporary reign to her inner disease, he finds that his happiness is still shakeable. He takes his sketchbook, her hand, and her disbelief at his presence in stride with a wavering smile. "I'm here, Peggy. I'm here." He promises.
He would be until the end.
