Beats on the Street
I do not own any of this or any part of Marvel or the MCU
Chapter 3 – Classifieds: Looking for Nothing, but Finding Something
Extra! Extra! Readers looking for irrational behavior by two rival journalists, look no further. Gumption meet stubborn. Competitive meet stupid. If keeping cards close to the vest is what you're looking for, then you've come to the right place.
A single female in her 30's was looking for nothing but found a match that seemed to drop out of the sky. It was curious and infuriating all wrapped into one. But their combative nature had been put to bed, right? Well, consider this beat of news classified. Because just as the writers anchoring their downtown papers, were closing the book officially on each other, this story broke wide open. Logical reason be damned, as a veteran journalist digs in and trudges forward. As the newcomer who's no rookie at all, turns the page. As their attempts to steer clear of each other prove more difficult than they'd ever imagined.
If the fully bloomed trees or birds chirping above didn't give hint to summer being in full session, then the approaching rain clouds would.
Forecast showed a light drizzle this afternoon and heavy storms for this evening.
That meant for a humid and overcast morning as clouds battled in the skies above.
Monday morning. The weekend came and went, and Natasha was resetting. No more hazing. No more aggravating jabs between her and Steve. It was stupid really. And for a brief moment, logic won in her head. A new week and a new lease on life. Or at least for this story she was chasing.
Natasha had a cheeky exchange with Stan, her newspaper man, after her run this morning.
"You're giving them hell in the funny pages, Red. Keep it up."
"Not as much as I'd like to, Stan. But I will. Speaking of hell…it's a hot and muggy one today, even at sunrise."
Stan chuckled, "Well, the dog days of summer are upon us. Best to keep inside today if you can."
Natasha wiped her face on her t-shirt, but it didn't help much as she smiled, "Stan, you spend your entire mornings outside."
There was a twinkle in his eye, "Sure, but I'm in my little stand. Besides, I'm old and don't use all my energy yelling at people in my running path or chasing stories all over the city."
Natasha finally caught her breath as she drank some water and laughed, "Now that I'm guilty of. You're sweet to read my stuff, Stan."
"Well, you may not smoke cigars and wear trench coats like the journalists from yesteryear, but you got the goods, Red. You always have."
Natasha took her coffee, "Keep charming your customers like that, and you'll have ladies lined up around the block, Stan."
That twinkle in his eye seemed to grow, "Nah, I save the sweet stuff for my favorites. Now here's a muffin with your coffee."
Natasha smirked and patted his hand, "What would I do without you, Stan?"
"Oh, the newspaper stand you'd find. We're a dime a dozen. The coffee, you could make on your own. But you'd probably starve, if I didn't make sure you got a little food in you a couple times a week."
She huffed out a breath and gave a warm smile, "Looks like those dog days of summer could have a break with rain today, Stan. Keep dry!"
Stan gave a wave, "Not my first rodeo, Red. Thanks though. You keep that Mayor and Governor of ours on their toes like always. Have a good Monday."
And Natasha was off, walking into her apartment building, as Stan was setting out the morning stacks of The Star and The Herald.
That dive into the workweek was underway, and Natasha sent off a few texts as her morning began. Getting ready, she texted her acquaintance Jane Foster, who was a forensics analyst that owned a private lab Natasha used as a resource over the years. It was more of a check in, asking if she would be ready at a moment's notice. Jane only responded she was surprised she hadn't heard from Natasha yet with the crash a couple weeks ago. But the police had been tight lipped and used their own analysts with the ongoing investigation.
'Ongoing investigation,' was becoming Natasha's trigger for a phrase, because it's what she'd been told along with 'No Comment,' by Jessica Jones and Frank Castle and anyone else she could get ahold of over the last two weeks.
Finishing her muffin and second coffee as she shut off Good Morning Chicago, Natasha texted another colleague she'd utilized many times over the years at Cook County Hospital's morgue. The pathologist, Yelena Belova could only be described as equally hardened and cynical as Natasha. But throw in a little spice, and somehow an even drier sense of humor, and there Miss Belova was.
Jane's lab was compensated above board and had a professional rapport. But dealings with Yelena at the morgue, were in addition to her daily job. Any favors she gave, she also received with under the table transactions and gifts. If someone called it a bribe, Yelena wouldn't care.
Custodians, truck drivers, cabbies, morgue workers, secretaries, and lab assistants. Like the workers at Union Station, these were the eyes and ears to the news in the city. And they were often turned to when other information pipelines were coming up empty.
Cops and lawyers and professionals would dry up, fearing retaliation and public images being tarnished if their names were attached to a story, or if they went against the company line. But the people who weren't at the top of the food chain, rather, were individuals who kept the city functioning on a day-to-day basis. And they were lifelines to someone like Natasha.
Yelena's text exchange was short and typical with Natasha.
Natasha – 7:30 am – "If I were to drop by today, would there be any information on the John Doe from 2 weeks ago, you could share?"
Yelena – 7:50 am – "If I could, you know I only would for something nice in return."
Natasha – 7:52 am – "Would a nice coffee and bagel sandwich and some gift cards do the trick today…or how high a price we talking?"
Yelena – 7:57 am – "Oh, I don't have anything for you. But just wanted to make sure you were still planning to pay the Pieper! Happy Monday!"
Natasha rolled her eyes as she got in her jeep. Yelena had nothing either and clearly thought of herself as the one in control of their dynamic, but regardless she chuckled at her words.
Starting her engine to take off for the morning, Natasha sent a quick message to her publicist, reiterating she'd fulfilled her obligations and wasn't doing any more book signing events.
And finally, her last text was sent to Fury after she pulled into The Blue Line station where John Doe had died. Natasha told Fury something wasn't sitting right, two weeks into this quiet story, and was going to see what she could turn up.
As many questions that still lingered from The Red Line train crash and causes right now, a big black hole surrounded John Doe. Unfortunately, unanswered questions weren't uncommon with suicides via public transportation in the city. But something about this felt off with the timing coinciding with the bigger Red Line accident.
Maybe it was nothing. But if it was something, Natasha was going to find out.
Stan wasn't kidding with the advice to stay inside today if possible. The warmth in the air reddened Natasha's cheeks as she took off her jacket. Walking up to the train station in her sleeveless top and capris, it was just another Monday morning as she took in the scene.
It hadn't rained like she'd thought earlier. But gray skies were overhead, full of moisture and that humid air. A person didn't need to go for a run to feel that heat either. Sweat was emerging on anyone spending more than 10 minutes outside. It felt like a swamp, and it wasn't even 8:30 am. There was a woman at the ticket counter, and there was a break in between train arrivals.
Natasha could see the tracks where the man died. And yes, nothing at first glance made this newsbeat anything more than the latest person taking their own life by the L Train. As tragic as it was, it happened often enough, that Chicago locals became somewhat numb if they lived in the city long enough.
Walking over to the small enclosure for a ticket booth, Natasha introduced herself to a cute black-haired girl named Darcy, "Hi there. Natasha Romanoff, Chicago Herald."
Darcy looked up from her glasses, clearly not impressed as she chewed on her gum while Natasha pressed on, "Darcy? That's a nice name. Pretty hard to come to work after a man killed himself two Mondays ago, I bet."
She cocked her head at Natasha through the glass in her booth. Okay, empathy and flattery weren't going to get anywhere with Darcy. Natasha flipped her notepad open and cut the ice breaking crap, "Look, the sooner you talk to me, the sooner I'm gone, okay? Were you working two Mondays ago when the man killed himself?"
Darcy decided the promise of Natasha leaving was good enough to answer as she leaned into her speaker, "Nope. Already told everyone else…I had a date the night before and called in sick that day…And the date was almost as awful as that guy's morning who killed himself."
Natasha stopped writing at the awful joke as Darcy attempted to walk it back, "I mean. I guess his morning was way worse. But yeah, my date was bad."
Natasha had seen and heard a lot of things covering stories, so it really didn't surprise her to hear the crass words. She shook off Darcy's comments, "Sorry about your date…And yeah, I did read that you weren't on shift that morning, and that this station was just accepting electronic passes that day. But it doesn't mean you haven't heard or seen anything out of the ordinary over the last couple weeks."
Darcy's eyebrow quirked, "I mean I saw a homeless guy piss on the tracks this morning. And I saw two teenagers going behind that old phone booth over there yesterday, to get a quickie in before they caught their train…but no. I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary about the guy's suicide."
Natasha scoffed, "Well it sounds like you've seen a lot. Your camera here has probably seen a lot of stuff too, huh?"
Darcy was picking at a nail, "Look, Lady, if you wanna see the camera recording of the guy jumping, just tell me. I mean, I think it's gross that you want to. But that's obviously what you're after."
Gotta love a gal that's been hardened by the city, bad dates, and her daily intake of human life at a public train station. But Darcy was onto the real reason Natasha had come.
Natasha shut her notepad and put it back in her bag, "Well Darcy, you're way too smart to be working at an L Station. That much is obvious. Here's my card if you do remember anything weird. And yeah, why don't you hit play for me."
Darcy looked at her for a second but took her card and rolled her eyes, "Suit yourself. It's gross. I'm not watching it again."
Natasha walked around the side of the booth as Darcy opened the locked door. The air conditioning was jarring in the booth, compared to the humid air outside as Darcy hit play on the recording. There was barely enough room for both of them in the tiny space, so Darcy turned her chair to look at her phone as Natasha focused on the screen.
It was black and white and a little grainy and kept jumping in and out of frame. Yet again, budget cuts and lack of maintenance on simple items like security footage was running through Nataha's brain. But she saw a man emerge from the footage. John Doe. He was carrying a briefcase and bag and was holding something small like a cigarette, or a pen or pencil.
White, middle aged, and average build. Dark hair. There wasn't a perfect frame of his face, but what Natasha could see was what had been given to the press. No distinguishing characteristics. No identifiable marks from the crappy footage. If this was all they would ever have to go by, John Doe may never be identified.
The man looked over his shoulder, away from the camera a couple times as he approached the platform. More skips in the footage, but Natasha was able to see, he did jump down on the empty tracks.
Natasha squinted, trying to clear up the grain in the images, but it was no use. Another second passed and then the train was there, filling the frame of the camera. You couldn't see the impact, but it was enough that Natasha winced as the train came to an alarming stop. Hardened or not, footage like that, or even the suggestion behind the footage still made her squirm a little.
Unfortunately, at first glance it did look just like it was reported by the police. A man committing suicide. The police report with the conductor's statements, all confirmed that it seemed pretty standard, as unsettling as that was.
"Any chance I can get a copy of that on my thumb drive here, Darcy?"
"No way, Lady. My boss told me the next time I do something like that, I'm gonna get canned. And I need the paycheck."
Natasha huffed out a breath and tried to ask again but was shot down with a glare as she exited. Darcy locked her booth and Natasha scoffed, letting her get back to whatever she'd been doing, which looked like watching YouTube videos on her computer.
Fully relenting to the humid air as she left the air conditioning, Natasha fanned herself a little. A sleeveless shirt and capris really didn't matter today. The clouds overhead only added a layer of insulation to the fog of heat below.
God it was sticky out. The word suffocating came to mind as Natasha wiped her brow, thinking of a cold shower. She pulled out her tape recorder from her messenger bag and took in the scene, talking to herself.
"Nothing at first glance causes any details to stand out. A man…our John Doe walks up to an empty platform, in between train stops. Appears to be a normal commuter. Details released in line with image on video. Unidentifiable marks or traits from footage. Briefcase in hand and bag on his back. Early summer day, just like today. Looks over his shoulder a couple of times, and then he walks into the middle of the track and is gone five seconds later. Is the victim's death one of his own choosing, or is something else at play? It sure seems like his own choosing."
Natasha groaned, wiping her brow and the back of her neck again. She stopped as the recorder dropped in her bag. Walking back and forth now, Natasha traced the steps of John Doe before he jumped. Looking over her shoulder, just as he did, all she could see were benches and the rest of the platform, away from the booth. Another cement wall was on the other side, and then a drop off into a deep ditch and open space across from where she stood. Back and forth, again and again, she attempted to almost imagine his every move.
Something about his movements though…Natasha couldn't put her finger on it. His jump looked more like a crouch and slide down into the tracks, to wait for the train. Something wasn't adding up.
Natasha blew out a breath, taking in the litter scattered along the tracks below and the worn-down yellow paint on the ground, directing passengers to stay behind these lines.
A couple of teenagers were waiting a few benches down for the next arrival. And a few other commuters were showing up too. It was fairly quiet, and all the rush of the morning traffic was gone for now.
Back and forth for another minute, Natasha paced as she cracked her neck and let out a sigh. Clicking her pen at her side, Natasha's habit accompanied her thoughts filled with tracks and paint and benches and cement.
Natasha paused as her pen stopped with a final click. Tilting her head slightly, she focused on something that caught her eye. There was a seam in the cement platform. Nothing out of the ordinary. A seam used between the slabs of pavement for it to dry and set properly. But here at the platform, the gap was wide enough…just wide enough for the trappings of passenger's belongings that fell.
Dimes and pennies turned on their side. Tiny pieces of paper. A button or bobby pin here. A wad of fossilized gum, or a pencil or pen there.
It was the last items that had caught Natasha's eye. Next to a pencil, a blue pen was resting right in the seam. And it was one she'd recognized because most office buildings in the city and really, the entire Midwest had these pens.
Midwest Pharmaceuticals was printed on the familiar, bright blue pen. The giant company's corporate headquarters were in the heart of the city, but its manufacturing plants were located just about 90 minutes north of Chicago, outside of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Natasha tossed her own pen in her bag, and instinct kicked in as she flashed to the image of John Doe at the platform…holding something small and miniscule before he jumped. Something like a pen or pencil.
It was a long shot, but a lot of instinct is knowing yourself well enough to act on it. That little surge was causing her spine to tingle right now as Natasha took a Kleenex and baggies out of her tote and secured the pen and the pencil safely. She looked back to see if Darcy was watching her. She wasn't. Not that she would have cared in the slightest.
The next L Train had arrived and was departing soon as she grabbed her recorder again, "Am I grasping at straws as this seems to be yet another suicide in the city? Or will this pen or pencil write future stories for this victim?"
Bad puns aside, Natasha chuckled at herself. She wasn't grasping at straws, but she was grasping at writing utensils. Time to leave. Instinct or not, Natasha thought the heat may have caused to her to go a little cuckoo this morning too.
She stood up and walked past the ticket booth, smirking at the only woman in the city who might be more cynical than Natasha. "Back into the heat I go, with nothing but a pen and pencil," she muttered. She was making her way back to the parking lot, as she bent over to swat a fly away from her ankle. Looking up from her crouched position, she could feel someone staring at her.
There he was. The unmistaken tall drink of water from the last two weeks. With his dark hair and a beard, and a navy tee and light jeans. Steve Rogers' blue eyes stood out against the gray sky overhead as he shut his own notepad to look down at her.
Steve and Natasha may have said they would steer clear of each other, but their paths had crossed the first workday after their separation on Friday. That bright beacon of fresh air, or whatever Pepper had called him, was staring at her now and had come to check out the same train station as Natasha.
Steve clicked his pen, giving a slight smile, "It's a hot one today, Romanoff. I'd ask if you were following me, but I think after last Friday, we made it clear to stay out of each other's way."
Natasha put her shades on as she stood up, "Rogers, you came up to me just now…If anyone was following anyone…"
She stopped herself before going off the proverbial tracks, five seconds into this run in. She blew out another breath, "Sorry. It is hot. And I know neither of us followed the other one."
Steve wiped the back of his own neck and put his sunglasses back on that were resting on his head. Natasha could see the hint of sweat under his arms through his tee, and she hated the fact the tension that emerged last week, was felt again right now.
Trying to keep cool, with some space between them, Steve looked over at the tracks, "Crazy that such a tragic death occurred there two weeks ago, almost at the same time as The Red Line crash, right?"
Natasha scoffed, blowing out a breath as she answered with facts, "You do realize there were over 30 deaths from the same cause last year in Chicago alone, right, Rogers? And nation-wide…"
The showoff inside herself, couldn't help it, but Natasha's internal boasting didn't even get a chance to take off. Because Steve was right there, meeting her where she was, "Over 350. Yeah, I know the facts. I was just trying to take the scene in and make small talk, Miss Romanoff."
Okay, Natasha's flex was met with his own, "I don't think I've heard Miss Romanoff since a priest called me that in confession in the 4th grade."
Any attempt at trying to be earnest about John Doe's death fell as quickly as Natasha's had with Darcy about 45 minutes ago. Steve smirked as he put his notepad in his back pocket, "What were you confessing?"
Natasha watched his shirt stretch and mold around his shoulders from his movements, causing a beat to go by before answering, "I took money from the weekly donation basket at mass. A nun caught me, whacked my fingers with her stupid pointy stick, and I had to go to confession."
Steve chuckled, "And now you've changed your ways, since all that repenting, huh?"
The slightest smirk was drawn, "I'd say I got smarter."
That charge was undeniable. And the humidity around them only made it more noticeable. Steve's shades lingered on hers, letting his own beat pass, "Yeah, I'd say…I bet as smart as you were, you drove the nuns crazy."
It was funny. Just as Natasha and Steve had tried to stop getting in each other's way, they naturally fell into the other's orbit. Beyond the combative and petulant nature of the 36 and 41-year-olds from last week, they found that easy chemistry again.
This news story was like a river, seeming to bring Steve and Natasha together time and again. It was the constant in their story. And while their rivalry ebbed and flowed over the last two weeks, right here, they seemed to settle in calmer waters. For a moment at least.
But it was only for a moment before hitting another current.
Natasha backed away from the somewhat civil exchange first as she stepped forward, "If you're here, Rogers…Then you're thinking there's something more to John Doe's death. Clearly the police don't think that, and I don't see any caution tape around. What do you know, and who's your source?"
Steve crossed his arms, "Because that would be the first time that the City of Chicago ever had a crime stay off the books, right? Let me ask you, Romanoff. If there's nothing to see, what are you doing here? What do you know, and who's your source?"
That familiar prodding was back. So much for staying completely clear of each other.
"I was just following up…closing the book as they say, on a two-week-old suicide."
Reporters had these types of bites all the time. Sometimes they didn't pan out. And other times, they turned into massive stories. Now Steve's smirk turned into an actual grin because he could tell Natasha was annoyed. He was here and had the same instinct as she did.
Neither had a scoop, but it was a little poke into the world of journalists in Chicago. The Red Line story was at a standstill for the moment. And Steve Rogers thought he had a bite of something with this suicide, and so did she. They just had nothing to go on right now. Which only drove their curiosity higher.
"I would have thought such an esteemed journalist wouldn't deal with closing the book on trivial matters. Romanoff, admit it…you have a hunch this doesn't smell right."
She took a breath, "Rogers, it's like 92 degrees today and it's not even 10 am yet. The humidity makes it feel like a sauna and everything smells ripe today. But you're getting awfully defensive with such a trivial matter. So, you tell me…what do you know?"
Natasha was a little more pointed the second time around, and Steve's response was equally so, "Geez, you don't even get to know someone before going after it, huh? Two weeks of pranks and seeing you're not the only one who can find a trail in this town anymore, you should know…"
Natasha cocked her head as their sunglasses met in a stare down, "Know what, Rogers?"
Steve smirked, stepping forward a little more, "You should know…I'm not one to kiss and tell, Romanoff. And I'm not one to share a source. No journalist worth their words would. So even if I had one, you wouldn't know."
Natasha felt it. He did too.
The heat beating down on their shoulders. The sweat forming at the napes of their necks. And the distance closing between them. That surge of tension clawed at them. And somehow, it suddenly felt hotter outside.
And sticky. So goddamn sticky.
More importantly, Natasha knew everything Steve was saying was true, and felt the exact same way. It didn't mean she wouldn't catch any slip ups from unseasoned journalists if they presented themselves though.
Unseasoned, Steve was not.
Natasha smirked, "Not even off the record?"
Steve shook his head and looked at the ground, "God, you're like a mule, even when you know there's nothing there."
"If I'm a mule, are you an ass?"
"I believe last week, you called me a little shit, Romanoff."
Natasha chuckled, and Steve did too. It was just enough for Steve to add, "So, off the record…you wanna tell me what you put in your bag before? I saw you pick something up."
Damn.
Beacon of fresh air or a thorn in her side, it didn't matter. He was sharp as a tack, just like her.
Steve wanting to know, only solidified her gut instinct to grab the pen and pencil. And that would remain her little secret for now. Instead, Natasha shrugged her shoulders and pulled out a tube of Chapstick from the bottom of her tote.
Steve chuckled, "You grabbed Chapstick from the ground?"
Time for her to really sell it, "I dropped it and was retrieving it…"
Before he had a chance to add anything, she kept going, "Look, Rogers. Fury has been on my ass to get something cooking with these L Train accidents from two weeks ago. Wants me to show that talented journalist from The Star, who's been in Chicago writing for over a decade."
A little flattery and deflection never hurt Natasha in a situation. Steve looked at her as she went on, "But there is nothing here. Look, we all think we got something sometimes. But this ain't it."
Steve looked off to the side, taking a deep breath, "You're probably right with this turning into a dead-end story just like the shell game the insurance companies were playing on The Red Line accident. I'd hate to keep you from showing up that talented journalist from The Star."
A smirk formed on them both as a beat passed and Steve added, "Just do me a favor. Don't use that Chapstick, okay? It's touched the same ground that all of Chicago commutes on daily."
She chuckled, knowing that she'd sold it, "Don't worry, these lips are safe. See you around, Rogers."
He responded, "If the last two weeks have proven anything, Romanoff, it's that yeah…you can count on seeing me around."
Natasha walked back to her jeep, feeling a little relief from the tension before, but couldn't help it. She looked back right as she got in and saw Steve watching her.
Damn again.
Her air conditioning was on full blast as she wiped the sweat from her neck. But it didn't matter. That feeling emerging from last week had just re-surfaced a moment ago. And it made itself clear.
Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff weren't getting in each other's way on purpose anymore. But they sure weren't going to be able to avoid each other either. Just like they couldn't avoid whatever that pull was.
Natasha let the air blow on her face for a minute before she texted Jane, letting her know she'd be dropping off the pen and pencil today to have it tested for prints or DNA or anything else she could find.
"So, it was another meet cute between you two?"
Natasha threw her coffee cup in her garbage and groaned, "Bucky, shut up. It was not another meet cute, because there was never an initial one."
Sam jumped in, "I think your exact words a couple weeks ago, were something along the lines of, 'The picture in The Star doesn't do him justice.'"
She threw a glare at Sam, "I think you're misquoting me, Wilson."
Bucky grinned, "Oh yeah, Romanoff. You find Rogers ugly as sin, I'm sure. I mean Wanda has even commented like three times on how good looking that guy is."
Sam added, "Yeah, and I've heard MJ say it too."
Both men were laughing as she shook her head, "Jesus, you guys are pathetic. Rogers is decent looking, okay? And as far as being able to hold his own, in a conversation with me? Yeah, he's passed for the last couple weeks and everything. But the next Pulitzer winner, Pepper Potts is making him out to be, he is not. I'm telling you guys, Rogers has nothing from the scene."
Bucky responded, "Yeah, but just because he had nothing, doesn't mean there wasn't anything, right, Romanoff?"
Natasha rolled her eyes as Sam added, "I mean, the man smelled enough smoke to show up, and you nabbed a pen and pencil from the scene today…getting them analyzed and everything. So that means…"
Bucky finished, "He's got a killer instinct like you…and you both think there's something there."
"Correction. I think there could be. That's why I stopped at Jane's lab. God you are both idiots."
Sam grinned, "And you're just pissed because you think Rogers might be more than quick on his feet. He might be good enough…"
"Good enough for what?"
Bucky sat back in his chair as he put his hands behind his head, "Good enough, Romanoff…to finally give you some actual competition in this city."
Natasha tried to fake her shock at that comment, but she wasn't fooling anyone. That was exactly what was swirling around in her head all morning long. For two weeks, it's what had been building. All adding to that concoction between them."
The fire was officially lit under her ass for the day as she grabbed her laptop and bag, pointing at both Sam and Bucky, "Whatever…he's not competition. And I'm about to prove it. Tell Fury I'm going to the diner to write."
Maybe she wasn't pulling a prank on Steve anymore. But she wasn't steering clear either.
And with that, Natasha left the office almost as quickly as she arrived.
Bucky was cracking up, "Alright, Sammy, two weeks into this little thing…Is it Rogers' looks or personality? I haven't seen Natasha this fired up in a long time."
Sam added as they watched her leave, "Doesn't matter. One way or another, he's gotten to her."
Steve Rogers did in fact, get to her. Because Natasha's front-page cover story the next day, was a deep dive on the last 10 years of deaths by suicide, involving the city's train system. She mentioned that John Doe's death should spark questions regardless of how much of a statistic he fell into.
What does it mean, that so many deaths occur by the suggested causality of this mystery man, each year, that we grow numb to it as a city? What are the city workers, and more importantly, what is our Mayor, Phil Coulson, and our law enforcement doing to try and de-rail this pattern of self-inflicted violence?
A question lingers, that has been building for two weeks since his last breath. Two weeks of not knowing who he is. Two weeks of any information surrounding his death, being held at a dam. And with each passing day, it only seems that his death…his reported suicide has been swallowed up with all the other statistics, and in the shadow of The Red Line.
Was John Doe's death a suicide?
Either answer is unacceptable. Either answer highlights the problems from both accidents two weeks ago. Shell games and lack of accountability from insurance companies. Slow walking and stone walling of details from authorities. Budget cuts and silence from the Mayor's office.
There were two accidents, resulting in six people's deaths. Five of them were laid to rest, but one has had nothing revealed about himself. Two weeks ago, two accidents led to questions, of which almost none have been answered.
Fury read Natasha's Tuesday article last night before she sent it to print. His text to her before she went to bed simply said, 'Great work, Romanoff. See you in the morning.'
She went to sleep with a smug smile on her face, yet again imagining Steve Roger's reaction when he read her front-page coverage. Suicide or something worse? The question was out there in the world of Chicago, officially. And whatever the story was on either end, Natasha would cover it.
Steve saw her article from The Herald that Tuesday morning as he grabbed his coffee on the way to work. He grinned during the entire train ride to the office. "God, she's good," he mumbled to himself while reading it.
Something had changed from two weeks ago. The overarching story had shifted from the bombardment of information that first comes out with an accident like The Red Line. Some of those follow ups were still out there, trying to find causes and threads. But the story changed its focus to smaller and more personal details.
But their connection had shifted too. It wasn't about the pranks or competitive nature between them. The hair pulling and name calling was under the surface with how they'd rivaled for two weeks, sure. But the shift was felt when that tension emerged last week. And then again, yesterday morning. Something was brewing beyond a rivalry. And it wasn't just the mutual attraction that Bucky and Sam liked to give Natasha a hard time about.
It was more than that.
Appreciation.
Natasha had been impressed by Steve's natural talent and ability to not only keep up, but outpace her at times. But Steve was equally impressed. Not just with their back-and-forth. And not just her looks, which weren't awful to observe either. It was her. Her tenacity and work. And her spirt.
Steve was feeling it now, sitting at his desk. He read her article again, truly appreciating Natasha's technique. That same fiery spirit in her personality he'd personally encountered time and time again, was on display in her words right now.
"Barton…our little Stevie has a journalist crush I think."
"Tony, I think crush was what he had a couple weeks ago when they started all these school yard games. I'd say he's downright smitten with her."
Steve folded the paper and groaned, "Smitten and crush are not words that should ever come out of your mouths."
Pepper fortunately saved him, "Rogers, you're the bright new journalist everyone in town is raving about, remember? If Romanoff is writing a cover story on suicide rates by train accidents in Chicago, she's trying to put people's feet to the fire. Which means, she thinks there's something with John Doe too."
"I know…Already on it, Pepper."
And Steve was. This unspoken game had switched gears, from pranks into showing off their talent to each other. It wasn't just Steve's turn to pull ahead. It was his turn to prove himself to Natasha in a deeper way. He wanted her to feel that same appreciation that he did.
That exact phrasing didn't go through his brain, but it was the underlying and unspoken sentiment.
Which is why on Wednesday morning, the delivery Natasha received had moved beyond goading and jokes too. A copy of The Star, with Steve's own front-page article, was waiting at her desk that morning when she arrived, along with a brand-new four-pack of Chapstick.
Natasha let out a genuine laugh.
Bucky and Sam looked at each other with raised eyebrows. It wasn't a gotcha prank, trying to take the other down a few pegs. Instead, it was trivial, based on an interaction between them. It was adding to, instead of trying to take the other down.
It was something…a little more.
Natasha took the paper with her and read it on the train. Steve not only addressed suicide rates with the trains in the city and what a growing problem it was, but specifically addressed murders that had happened in the past in Chicago.
Murders attempted to be covered up, that is.
And covered up, under the guise of suicide.
When the true stories of the past were revealed, victim's lives were put to rest and peace was brought to their families. Because that's what the truth does. It doesn't change the hard facts in a story, but it can add context and help the public understand. It can answer questions and clear up any misrepresentations. It is all our responsibility to ask these questions. Does the increased number of accidents in the train system over the years, reflect failings in our city and society? Or is this story only beginning to reveal its truth?
"Not bad, Rogers. Not bad at all." Natasha folded the paper and put it in her tote on her way to a meeting. For the first time since marking her territory on the city of Chicago with Steve, Natasha felt that sense of appreciation too.
Of course, she was still comparing notes and trying to beat him. That was ingrained in who she was. But what it really was, was respect. The fact she was using one of her brand-new tubes of Chapstick…well, she appreciated that too.
The game had moved past its initial set up, and this story had turned the page into the next act.
Yes, it was off to the races, but they weren't just going in a circle anymore. They were moving somewhere else in this tete-e-tete.
Thursday morning, Natasha sent a card to Steve's desk, with two funny mule's pointing at each other's asses, saying, 'I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.' She added a note to the side, 'Read your story…not bad for an ass, Rogers.'
It played into their exchanges and name calling, but she made fun of herself too. And most importantly, she gave him a genuine compliment wrapped up into the joke.
Steve's smile didn't go unnoticed as Tony mouthed 'Smitten,' to Barton.
Natasha got a quote from the Mayor's office in her next article, revealing a budget for the next fiscal year, showing plans to increase funding for public transit. It was top priority, which meant Natasha and Steve were truly putting officials' feet to the fire.
If Mayor Coulson was feeling the heat, then others were too as Steve and Natasha focused on not just the facts, but what questions weren't being answered in the public. Those tracksuits at Union Station were no coincidence, so the large crime lord employing them was reading their articles too.
A less combative exchange, a tube of Chapstick, and jokes more playful than obstinate.
Banter. Competition. Respect and admiration.
Potato, potahto.
That was all hooey to their co-workers though. It was outright flirtation if you asked any of them.
But whatever it was, it continued for another entire week.
Steve and Natasha lobbed their writing skills and talents back and forth at each other. Downright peacocking at each other at times. Steve sent the following Monday's paper, delivered with a coffee for Natasha and a note, 'Figured you'd need some caffeine since you're burning the midnight oil trying to keep up.'
Three weeks after meeting Steve, and a note from him was making her blush. Bucky and everyone else noticed it too.
Over a week of articles poured out, with them both still drilling away at all the unanswered questions from The Red Line. But adding to the conversation, was the angle of The Blue Line mystery too.
POLICE CHIEF AND FIRE CHIEF HOLD PRESS CONFERENCE: Lab Results from Red Line Debris Pending.
BLUE LINE INVESTIGATION CLOSED: John Doe Officially Ruled Suicide, with No Other Fault.
RUMORS OF EXPLOSIVES AT RED LINE SHOT DOWN: Could Be, 'Some Time,' for Results of Debris Tests.
A JOLT, A JERK, AND A THRASH: Red Line Passengers Recall Feelings of Explosions During Crash.
ISOLATION AND DENIAL RUN RAMPANT AMONG AUTHORITIES: Questions on Suicide and Crashes Left for Dead. Officials Hoping Public Moves On.
That last article really packed a punch and had the Police Chief calling Fury, demanding Natasha be reprimanded. Fury only yelled back at the Chief, telling him to, "Grow a pair and start answering some damn questions!"
Fury's words might not have had a direct impact that Tuesday morning. But that afternoon, The Police and Fire Chief held a press conference. Natasha was at the presser and to her surprise, saw Tony Stark. She didn't get a chance to ask before Tony said, "Rogers is still on the story, Red. Don't worry. He just couldn't be here. He thought I could handle recording these talking heads, since we know they won't answer any questions."
Natasha was going to throw some words back at him but was interrupted by the Chiefs' talking. Tony was right. They weren't taking questions. But they did reveal the results of some of the burnt metal from the train car that came off the tracks. Miraculously, after the fiery words from Steve and Natasha's headlines for a week straight, they suddenly had information to share.
Guess they listened to Fury and grew a pair. The public and journalists were not losing interest.
The results from the tests on the train metal, showed remnants from trace amounts of explosives. Similar to what's found in pipe bombs. Over three weeks into this mess, and the scape goat of natural causes or human error was dead as a doornail.
Authorities were leaning into the more nefarious angle. They wouldn't define it as any form of terrorism at this point, but they weren't denying it either. With The Red Line surely having something dark and deceitful tied to causation, it only threw everything else into bigger question.
Natasha found Jessica Jones after the conference, "Romanoff, do me a favor. When you throw accusations in your headlines, just leave my name out of it."
"Jones, there weren't accusations without backup. How many passengers injured, who survived from The Red Line, recall feeling a jolt or a thrash…like an explosion? A lot of them. They've been all over the news programs for two weeks talking about it. But there's been no factual evidence released until today, backing up those claims. I haven't even started on how many tracksuit sightings there have been."
Jessica was walking quickly to her cruiser, "Yeah, Romanoff. I was just at the press conference too. What do you want? A cracker for repeating what the Chief just said?"
Natasha chuckled, "No. I'd like something from you instead of, 'No comment.'"
Jessica let out a sigh, "How about…New phone. Who dis?"
Nathasha leaned into Jones' driver's side window, "Jones, let me just put it out there. If there's anything you ever want to share with me. You know I'd keep you clear of any articles. Just keep it in mind."
Jessica revved her engine, "Romanoff, I've been in this town just as long as you have, and not everything is a conspiracy."
"And not everything is as neat and tidy as a coincident or accident, Jones. This whole thing feels a hell of a lot more like my suggestions than yours."
Jessica put her sunglasses on, "Romanoff, I swear you would think the Chicago River turning green every March 17th was a conspiracy…but it's not. It's planned and organized and celebrated for this town to get drunk and celebrate St. Patrick's Day, whether they're Irish or not."
Natasha's face was about a foot away from Jessica's, "What's your point, Jones?"
"My point is…look around, I literally see two of those tracksuit wearing idiots, thinking they're in a remake of The Sopranos, over there."
Natasha looked behind her and sure enough, there were two guys in tracksuits sitting on the nearest bench, "You know families of The Red Line victims have seen them around their neighborhoods, right?"
Jessica went on, "Yeah, and the sky is blue, Romanoff. Those morons are like rats. They're all over the city…"
She took a breath and continued, "Do they work for Wilson Fisk? Probably. Are they here, because they're trying to strongarm the Chicago PD with the threat of stripes and velour? I'd like to see 'em try. But they're not. They're only here, to listen to what the Chief says. And as much as it annoys me, I can't go arresting people just because they're wearing a tracksuit. And we can't throw out accusations based on theories and speculation alone. You know it takes time to secure leads lawfully and make sure things are done by the book. Come on, you're smarter than that, Romanoff."
Natasha's hands drummed against the door where her window was down, "And you're smart enough to know, that if you see enough rats around, something is rotting nearby. Sometimes you gotta throw caution to the wind and say to hell with that book. I know you're shrewd as hell, Jones. Not everyone in this town has a backbone like you and Castle though. All I'm saying, is if you see or hear something…and feel like sharing, you know my number."
"Yeah, I do. Now back away before I arrest you for bothering a police officer."
Natasha's smirk was met with one from Jessica as she drove off. And she was left with more questions than when she came. But she was also thinking about Steve, wishing she saw him instead of Tony today.
The next morning, Natasha sent her article to Steve, which he admittedly was more than impressed by. She'd also sent a card that just showed a cartoon furiously typing away at a typewriter. Her note read, 'Is this art imitating life? Or just a picture of you trying to keep up with Miss Romanoff?'
Steve set aside Wednesday's newspaper after he was done reading her article but kept the card and note. And used it for motivation for the rest of the day.
The next day was Thursday. Deep into the fourth week since meeting.
They sent each other their own papers that morning, both having scathing commentary on safety and security in public transportation. They noted lab results hinting at an explosion, not being nearly good enough. And remarked at how the Mayor's office needed to step up his efforts before the election, to make the public feel safer. Next fiscal year's priorities were not helping people now.
In addition to her article that day, Natasha sent Steve the entire weeks' crossword puzzles with a note, 'Alright Gumshoe. You can put a couple words together and keep up with me in person, sure. But here's a true test…Never trust a journalist who doesn't enjoy a good crossword.'
She drew a winking face next to the note for good measure. Natasha's messages had grown from combative, to tongue in cheek, to cute and flirty. And now, she dashed in a touch of personal information too.
She loved crosswords. Of course, she did.
And Steve? Reel him in. She'd caught him, hook, line, and sinker. But he felt like he'd struck gold, finding out a little more about the red head on his mind.
This Thursday's edition of Steve and Natasha's flirting competition started off well. But Steve ran away with a victory today.
Waiting for Natasha at her desk that morning, wasn't a joke or even an underhanded complement. A beautiful delivery of summer flowers was there instead. Bright pink peonies and white roses and yellow daisies, with greenery embellished all around. The floral arrangement welcomed her, and only matched the creeping blush on her cheeks.
Steve's daily edition of The Star was right in the middle of the bouquet. The note by his article simply read, 'I know you have ways of getting this. You are the best sleuth in the city after all…but thought I'd put it out there anyway – S.'
And under the note, was Steve's phone number.
Natasha bit her lip, trying to stifle her smile. But it was of no use. MJ swooned to Peter. And Bucky and Sam looked at Natasha like she might have grown a third eye.
Let's just say, she didn't throw Steve's newspaper away that day, and those flowers made the trip home with her too.
Sam hit his co-worker, "I've never seen her smile like that, Bucky."
Bucky just nodded in agreement, "Text Stark back. If we weren't placing bets on first blood being drawn before, maybe we should start putting money down on first kiss."
That night Natasha typed out and deleted about five messages as she was completing today's crossword with a glass of lemonade, before she finally said, "Jesus Natasha, this isn't the first guy you've texted. Just send it."
Natasha - 9:12 pm - "My own crossword question for you, Rogers. What has 10 parts, and is a gift you've already received by the time you're reading this?"
Those three dots appeared, and Natasha smiled instantly as she drew her knee up in her chair.
Steve – 9:14 pm - "Do I answer with a question? Hate to tell you, Romanoff…while I enjoy crosswords, I would give the edge to Jeopardy."
Steve – 9:15 pm - "And the gift is one that really does keep on giving. Your number."
The smirk on Steve's face, who was enjoying a beer as the TV droned on in the background of his apartment, matched hers.
Natasha – 9:16 pm - "Well, you've definitely proven you can track down my number over the last few weeks and all, but I figured I should put it out there too."
Steve – 9:18 pm - "I'm glad you did. And for the record, I did complete those crosswords. Didn't want you thinking I couldn't meet your challenge."
Steve sent a picture back with all four crosswords completed on his counter, capping it off with an emoji with nerd glasses.
Natasha – 9:21 pm - "Gotta tell you, Rogers…liking Jeopardy more than a crossword? I can handle. Not being able to do the crossword? Now that would be a problem."
She replied again with her own nerd emoji, which drew a long chuckle from Steve.
Steve – 9:23 pm - "Thanks for the cards and puzzles. It's really started the mornings off great.
Natasha sent her next message with a picture of that beautiful vase of summer flowers. It was sitting on her table, right next to his paper from that day. The Star was unfolded, and she'd clearly read his article again.
Natasha – 9:26 pm - "Thanks for the flowers and reading material. You ruined my whole tough gal veneer to my co-workers with the smile they caused."
She couldn't help it as she added a winking emoji next.
Steve – 9:29 pm - "Then I'd say I was successful with my mission."
Natasha – 9:30 pm - "Very. Goodnight, Steve."
Well now, that just caused a smile as big as Natasha had this morning, to form on Steve's face. It was the first time she referred to him as something other than Rogers.
Steve – 9:31 pm - "Goodnight, Natasha."
It was Friday morning. Early at sunrise. Almost four weeks since the gumshoes ran into each other. And a full two weeks since they'd made the vow to steer clear of each other. A goal failing almost as quickly as their proposal to work together at Union Station.
Over the last two weeks, this honeymoon of a bubble had been growing. Flirting and gifts and hidden compliments. Reading each other's articles and showing off with their talent. Starting their days off with smiles, while they were able to avoid each other on the story beat for the most part.
That was because those beats on the street seemed to only be inching along right now. There hadn't been any big newsbreaks with this story in the last two weeks. So that bear of a beast, called competitive drive had been tempered. As temporary as this lull was.
Today that would change.
Five people died at the crash, and it was clear that authorities were initially hoping interest would die down from The Red Line after the victims were laid to rest.
It hadn't.
And according to officials, a man died from suicide at The Blue Line. And for whatever reason, the identity and autopsy results were being kept tightly under wraps, which only made Steve and Natasha's suspicions go sky high. But with no results.
But today was going to be a big break for Natasha. She just knew it.
The pen and pencil she'd collected was sent off last week, so maybe Jane's lab would have the results in before the weekend.
Early that morning, Jane had actually texted Natasha. She was out of town for a long weekend, but her new assistant would get in contact if the results came in. If the police weren't going to release the name of the deceased John Doe, then she'd have to dig around and find out a different way.
By fate or by force, something was going to break.
But that wasn't the only reason Natasha's brain was humming along on this summer morning. The humidity had finally broken, so she decided to take a different route on her early run. Lake Michigan's trail. It was beautiful and crowded at dawn, but worth it.
The crisp feeling in the air. The energy of fellow early birds. And not to mention, the high she was still on from her texts with Steve last night. It all added to the buzz of Natasha's morning.
Listening to the beats of her feet meeting the trail below, the sound of the lake and morning joggers surrounded her. The energy from the chase of a good story was on the horizon. And yes, those butterflies were fluttering away in her stomach when she thought of the flowers. And the texts. And his hands and…eyes.
Damn his eyes.
Well, yeah, the facts were piling up. The butterflies were undeniable. Natasha pressed on and kept going, pounding the trail with each step. Breathing in the morning air as her cheeks reddened.
By the time she was done running 45 minutes later, Natasha almost jumped when she saw someone else enjoying the break in humidity by the lake too. Steve Rogers was running from the opposite direction.
Was this life imitating art? The art of butterflies and their flirting? Did Natasha conjure up an image of him when she lingered a little too long on his eyes in her daydream?
Natasha was a gifted journalist. But not that gifted.
A timely coincidence was all it was, but it still caught her off guard. Thinking of her sweaty appearance, Natasha even toyed with trying to hide or run off and pretend like she didn't see him.
But it was too late.
Steve saw her and slowed down with the biggest grin on his face.
The sunrise was bright over the lake, and the city was waking on their opposite side. The summer air had them both in shorts and tees, and red-faced and glistening from their run. And this something, that started as nothing almost a month ago, had Steve and Natasha showing their pearly whites.
"Early bird catches the worm or something like that, right?"
Natasha shook her head, "Yeah…something like that. Sleep well?"
Steve looked down, wiping his neck as she caught her breath. It was a good thing the sun was hiding Natasha's eyes as she watched him. "Yeah, I slept great, Romanoff. Must have been something sweet that helped with that."
Natasha looked out toward the water, trying to hide her smirk, "So is a singing quartet going to be waiting for me with this morning's edition, Rogers?"
The playfulness was on full blast. Natasha thought she saw something like concern in Steve's eyes, but it passed quickly, "Well, I figured…we've been doing this for a bit. And if you want to read my article today, you're pretty resourceful and know how to get a copy. And then you can talk to me about it over drinks this weekend."
The glow of the sunrise was almost blinding as she peered up at him. The air around skimmed over their damp skin, but the space between shifted as he looked down at her. That familiar pull was felt. Steve was trying to decide if he should walk the comment back, but he let it hang there as he added, "I mean, only if you're not too busy, Natasha."
The way her name sounded with his voice, only caused those butterflies in her stomach to flutter a little faster. Maybe he'd referred to her first and last name in a jab early on as this competition sparked. But this was different, just like the texts last night. And she liked the way it sounded with his voice.
Natasha looked at the ground and then brushed a strand of loose hair behind her ear before finding his eyes again, "Yeah, Steve. I think drinks sound great this weekend."
This honeymoon of a bubble grew a little more. Natasha accepted as they moved to the next step in their flirtation game. Steve looked off to the side, not being able to hide his genuine smile, "Well, it's a good thing we have each other's numbers then. Have a good Friday, Natasha."
"You too, Steve," was all that came out of her before she drank her water to just do something. Anything besides stare at the sweat on his neck, or the way his arms looked through his tee.
But Steve broke her trance with a chuckle and winked at her, jogging off in the direction Natasha assumed his apartment was in.
Oh, this Friday was already off to a great start.
What Steve and Natasha had been doing over the last four weeks as journalists, was playing this competitive game, trying to beat each other and just show off.
And while yes, they'd gone back and forth with quotes and angles with articles about insurance company shenanigans and budget cuts from the city and suicide rates, neither had gotten a big break yet. A few edges, stepping in front of each other. A few quotes the other hadn't received. But their leads were tiny with the overarching questions of this story. Neither had a large enough break, to truly change the dynamic of the story.
The other story, was what they'd been doing as two people, who just happened to work at rival papers. That tale was a much longer game. Initially at complete odds, constantly proving each other wrong. It twisted into pranks and hazing, and then writing each other off. Which failed spectacularly, but something emerged in that failure.
This flirtation game.
Two games. One about the story and one about the two of them. And neither had a clear winner yet.
Flirtation without the weight of feelings or promises was a lot of fun, and they were sure as hell enjoying the ride right now.
Two games. But both were about to burst in different ways.
Natasha's morning was off and running with her great mood as she walked into The Herald that Friday morning. She surprised the hell out of Bucky and Sam with coffees she'd brought in for the entire office.
"Uh, morning Natasha."
"Good morning, Sam. Happy Friday."
MJ and Peter ran over to grab theirs as Bucky shook his head, "I'm just gonna grab this before you end up taking it back."
Natasha laughed, "Bucky, just say thanks. Why in the hell would I take a coffee back? It's called being nice?"
Bucky frowned, "It's called, being weird. Especially from you…and especially this morning."
Natasha looked at both of them, and then at Peter and MJ. Nervous stares were exchanged, and her cheery demeanor dropped instantly, "What's going on?"
Sam just looked at the copy of The Star on her desk. Fury had put it there, with a sticky note on it, telling her to come in his office as soon as she read it.
"Shit."
Sam was about to ask for his coffee, but she just shoved the entire tray into Bucky's lap and sat down immediately. Almost ripping open their competitor's Friday print, she saw the article.
Steve's article.
In bold letters, across the front page was his story.
FOOTAGE FROM MAN'S DEATH AT TRAIN TRACKS DOCTORED: Was the Blue Line Suicide a Cover Up?
A big break in the news had happened alright. Just not in her direction. And that honeymoon of a bubble was gone in a flash.
"Shit. Shit. Shit."
Bucky and Sam slurped heavily on their coffee as Natasha crumpled Steve's article and walked into Fury's office.
Unlike a month ago, Fury wasn't yelling at her now. He was just staring at her, and she started talking enough for both of them.
"Oh…he's good. Better than I thought. Him and all that, aw shucks, charm. Hell, I bet Rogers batted those baby blues at that ticket lady at the tracks…"
Natasha snapped her fingers three times, recalling the name and went on, "Darcy. That was her name. Yeah, I bet he just charmed her glasses off and asked pretty please, and she just handed him a copy of that damn footage."
There was no other way to describe it.
Natasha was reeling.
She was frustrated the happy haze she'd walked into the office with, was but a distant feeling now. She hated the way Fury was staring at her. And now? She was pissed off. Oh, Natasha was damn well, pissed off, that Steve Rogers had taken a big lead.
The game was supposedly sworn off as they got out of each other's ways, right?
Wrong. That game had merely been dormant over the last two weeks. It was clearly not settled.
Turns out Steve wasn't just a talented writer. He was really fucking good, and Natasha's notions of sincerity and butterflies were nowhere to be found anymore.
No matter how much her inner voice was telling Natasha to take a second and think this through, it didn't matter. It wasn't their rivalry, but her internal competitor that was in control now. That drive, that made her the journalist everyone knew her as, was officially in charge.
The game may have started with pranks and rivalries without too much spite. It was cheeky and cute, with Steve taking a step forward, only to have her take another one right after. Beginners luck, turned into an annoying itch, but that's all it was. Annoying.
And even two weeks ago, when they agreed to steer clear of each other at Union Station, it didn't really burn like this. Was she irritated then, wondering why she was so annoyed? Sure. But she wasn't infuriated.
But this stung. For Natasha, it burned for all the right reasons and for the wrong ones too. Her head was spinning as she turned the happy meet cute and flirtation from this morning into something toxic.
She chided his talent in her head, because that's what this was really about.
It was Steve who had the big break. Not her.
Fury hadn't said a word yet.
"Save it, Fury. Look, this happens. It may not be beginner's luck. And yeah, Rogers has shown he really is the fucking breath of fresh air Pepper called him."
Fury raised his brow as she rambled on, "But Steve doesn't have a smoking gun yet. I've got that pen and pencil at the lab, and the results should be in by the weekend at the latest. Steve doesn't know about that. And there's so many loose threads in this damn story, that one is surely about to unravel."
Fury's words cut through, "More than the one that unraveled with this morning's edition of The Star?"
If looks could kill.
Fury was poking an all too familiar bear as his words caused her to stop mid pacing. Her eyes narrowed as the determination came out with every syllable, "I'll have a Monday morning story that will knock your socks off."
Fury cleared his throat, "Romanoff, you've done great work this last month. Even exceptional at times. I'm not mad Rogers got a big break with discovering the footage was doctored."
Natasha did a double take, "Wait, you're not pissed off?"
Fury chuckled, "Well sure, but just in a competitive sales way. But I'm not pissed at you. Besides, this little rivalry has been good for you. I know you, Romanoff. You'll pull ahead and have Pepper feeling the same way soon."
Natasha was like a teapot, ready to blow out all the steam with the way her foot was tapping, "Yeah, child's play is over. I've gotta run, Fury."
"Keep me updated, Romanoff."
Romanoff went to her desk, stuffed her bag in a flurry as Bucky dared to ask, "You're not gonna do anything crazy like run Steve over with your jeep, are you?"
Natasha snorted, "He should only be so lucky. God, I'm an idiot. He even winked at me this morning."
Bucky jumped on her words, "This morning? Wait, you saw Rogers this morning?"
Sam interrupted, "Natasha, I mean…I don't think Rogers was playing you. Sources and people for intel? Sure, he seems like he's worth every word he writes as far as talent, just like you. But come on. The guy doesn't seem like he's trying to schmooze you."
Bucky added, "I agree, Romanoff. I think Rogers is actually into you. Just remember to separate the story from personal feelings, okay?"
She huffed out a breath, "If he's going to take a swing to try and own this story, he better not miss."
Sam and Bucky groaned as she stormed out of the office.
"Well Barnes, at least we got a free coffee out of her."
Bucky scoffed, "God she's scary when she gets super competitive like this. Text Stark back…this bet is back to who draws first blood."
Steve had texted her a couple times throughout Friday, to which Natasha only rolled her eyes, pushing away the sensible part of her brain each time.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
That was her answer to everything in question regarding Steve Rogers today.
Ignore his text messages. Ignore her brain trying to be logical. Ignore those butterflies that flew away but left ripples, telling herself that this little thing between her and Steve wasn't nothing.
Steve – 10:07 am – "Hey Romanoff, hope your Friday is going as good as it started."
His crossword emoji that he added only made her throw her phone into her tote as she showed up at the police station. The same one she showed up to week after week since the suicide was initially reported. She got the same answer as she had the entire time from front desk officer named Carol at the precinct, "Ma'am, there's nothing new to give you. Castle and Jones have your card."
Steve – 1:53 pm – "'Why did Dracula read from the local paper?...It had good circulation.' Thank you, Thank you. I'll be here, getting tomatoes in the face and thrown off stage for the rest of the workday."
That internal voice tried yelling a little louder at Natasha when she read his second text again, 'He's sending newspaper jokes. Just because Steve is a real challenge for you as a journalist, doesn't make him a bad guy.'
But she put her phone to sleep as she shoved her way past the Mayor's secretary, demanding some time with him today.
Phil Coulson was not playing today either as she burst into his office, "Look Romanoff, I know you think there's fire here. But all your digging is doing is creating a cloud of dust. It's not producing any results. Believe me, part of me wishes that man's death wasn't a suicide. Because it's a tragedy. But the best part of your stories from the last few weeks have been the focus on something needing to be done about suicide rates in the city. I meant what I said about budget increases for public transit. I think we can do something about mental health too. I think if we work together…"
Security had been called by the secretary as Mayor Coulson was cut off by Natasha, "Save the vamping for your acceptance speech in November, Coulson. I'm sure the city will lap it up with all the promises. But I need actual facts about what happened."
Coulson didn't have what she was looking for, and security was at the door. Natasha relented, leaving empty-handed. That voice was still rattling around in her brain, trying to knock her conscience into thinking straight. Steve working the story and using his charm to his favor, did not reflect any of his interactions with her.
But Natasha was impatient, waiting on the results from that goddamn pen and pencil, and was spinning in place.
Steve – 5:12 pm – "Hey Natasha. Headed out for the day. Meant what I said this morning when I ran into you. I'd really like to talk about today's article with you."
Damn.
Natasha's sensible side, that had no weight at all in any of her actions today, knew what Steve was saying. And she could read between the lines well enough, to know…he'd been reeling today too, for different reasons.
Because Natasha was ignoring him completely.
Her internal voice was actually yelling now, making her feel a twinge of guilt.
Steve started off trying to text her something cute, like they had last night. Then he tried to test the waters with a bad joke a few hours later. Then after she'd ghosted him all day, his sincerity came off in his last text. He was being genuine, and Natasha knew it…somewhere in her brain.
All her drive and energy got her nowhere today because the lead she was waiting on, was still in limbo. Maybe something would come of the test results. Maybe it wouldn't. Regardless, Steve just got to his big lead first.
And it wasn't personal. She knew that.
So maybe blaming Steve, for the eight-hour cycle of anger she was in, had finally worn off. She'd spent the day running all over the city, trying to demand answers that the Mayor's office and police precinct didn't have for her, and the edge was waning. That summer heat, going in her nose and down her throat all day, had finally tired her out. And enough pragmatism was left, to fight against her inner competitor.
Just as she was walking back into her office at the end of the day to close shop, Natasha actually thought about texting Steve back.
She really did.
Friday had come and gone in a flurry. And she was alone now, sitting at her desk. Natasha rolled her eyes at the empty space around her as she wrote a few drabbles on her computer. Bucky left her a sticky note, trying to do the same thing her inner voice was too, 'Do yourself a favor, Romanoff. Try to have a good weekend.'
Natasha pulled an old friend out, a bottle of Jack Daniels from her bottom drawer, and poured herself a small drink to close out the day. She raised her glass to the empty newsroom and muttered, "Trying to have that good weekend, Barnes."
She managed to pull out her phone and read through Steve's texts and even smirked at the bad Dracula joke he'd sent. And she started forming a reply...vampire emoji and all were going to be included.
First, she was going to try and pretend that she didn't have her phone on her, before groaning at how bad that would come off. A journalist not having their phone? Yeah, right. Natasha deleted that attempt.
Then she was going to just ignore all of it. She'd mastered how to do that. Act aloof and respond with a bad joke in return. Huffing out a breath, she took another drink and deleted that attempt too.
Last, she was going to try to over-explain in two paragraphs, describing how competitive she is and what she spent the day doing instead of texting him back.
"Jesus, this is why I haven't dated anyone in three years."
Laughing at herself, she deleted the paragraphs and was thankful she didn't have a slippage of the thumb to accidentally hit send.
Fury texted her, telling her to go home. There was nothing she could do about the lab results not being done. A break would come, but the story would have to wait until next week.
Blowing out a breath, accepting that was probably true, Natasha was about to text Steve. And she was gonna go with a more genuine route.
She really was.
But at 6:45 pm, by fate or by force…bad timing intervened.
Natasha got another text. This one wasn't from Fury or Steve though. It was from Jane's new assistant at the forensics lab, Hope Van Dyne.
Hope - 6:45 pm – "The results are in. Pencil was a bust, but want to give pen results in person. Meet me at Memorial Park at 9 pm."
Poof.
How quickly things can change. Logical thoughts and reason be damned.
Just like that, Natasha's sensible side went back into the drawer with her bottle of Jack Daniels. Hope's text was like a shot of adrenaline as she sprung up in her chair and called Fury. She filled him in, and he asked if she needed anyone to go with.
She laughed at his question, "Fury, I'm not some rookie. I've been through this 100 times before. I'll be fine."
Fury asked one more time, "I trust your judgement. But you know as well as me, if there really is a fire brewing behind this smoke screen of a story, there's going to be some pretty big twists in it."
"Fury, it's all part of the job. I'm gonna swing home for a bit, and I'll text you after I've met with Hope. Her not wanting to meet at the lab, has fire brewing, written all over this story."
"Yeah, Romanoff. I'm aware. I've been through this more thana 100 times too."
30 minutes later, Natasha threw her keys onto the counter in her kitchen and closed her door. Walking right past Steve's flowers, she took a long shower to clear her head. Throwing on some clean clothes, she ate a banana and a peanut butter sandwich, finally putting some sustenance in her after a long day.
Yes, even though she tried, Natasha's sensible nature, regarding Steve Rogers, was left back at her desk with her glass of whiskey.
Because the fact of the matter was, she was a journalist. It wasn't just a job for her. It was her passion and calling. And the thing Natasha loved most of all was this.
It was this edge, right before finding a big break in the story, and she could feel it. She'd been here before, and knew she'd have an even longer night ahead of her. Hope Van Dyne would give her this new information, and she'd spend all weekend researching, walking the streets around any connections she could make. And she'd try her damndest to get that Monday morning cover story by deadline Sunday night.
Natasha was almost salivating. Newshound? Abso-fucking-lutely. She was like a dog right now, catching a scent. And about to run on a hunting trail. It all felt so familiar.
What wasn't familiar to her, was the other game at play. Whatever was going on with Steve Rogers.
It was early enough in this flirtation game, but still. A simple smile from a man she found entirely too attractive, sent a buzz all the way down her spine. But it was also early enough, that she was able to wipe all of that away in an instant because nothing had happened, right? They simply had a rivalry, and an early separation. And then a flirtation developed. But that was gone now because she decided it so.
Poof.
Just flip the switch, and that would be that.
As ridiculous as that was, it's what she was telling herself.
That bubble had burst this morning when she realized Steve really did get the first big break on this story.
How The Red and Blue Line crashes were connected, if at all, wasn't known. Tracksuits lingering around and talks of explosions only sent speculation through the roof. Who John Doe was, and everything else surrounding his death may have been in question.
But doctored footage meant something blaringly obvious. The thought of something more nefarious being at play, was not only a possibility but a probability now. Nefarious meant danger, but it also meant juice. Juicy details, ripe for stories and reading citizens.
Natasha would be damned if she didn't take the lead back by Monday's print. And no amount of explanation or bad jokes for texts would wipe her drive away.
Reasonable, right?
Yeah, reason was long gone. So, instead of typing a simple text saying something reasonable like, 'Hey, need the weekend after a long day, how bout we catch that drink next week?' she leaned into that competitor inside.
Her conscience let out a dying breath for the evening, 'This is why your relationships never stick, and why you'll end up alone, Romanoff.'
Natasha simply looked at herself in the mirror and told that voice, "Shut up."
This game was more than afoot. This was her city. This was her story.
But could Natasha convince herself that this something between her and Steve, really was nothing?
They weren't looking. Neither journalist was advertising anything beyond an acknowledgement of each other a month ago. But that wasn't what they'd found. And now, as much as Natasha wrote and believed in the truth in journalism, she sure had a hard time being honest with herself.
But what she thought before was true. She was great at ignoring. At pushing anything messy and unknown away. Text Steve back? No chance now. Instead, Natasha focused on what she knew best. The chase and the story.
End Note:
A pen, a late meeting in the park, and all the stubbornness one can ask for from our characters. Natasha's level of thickheaded behavior might be winning over Steve's…for now :)
Thanks for reading and supporting this little side world.
I love hearing from readers, so help a writer out and leave a comment with your thoughts.
Have a great week!
Cheers! ~~ Kat