Beats on the Street Chapter 6: Letter to the Editor, an avengers fanfic

Beats on the Street

I do not own any of this or any part of Marvel or the MCU

Chapter 6 – Letter to the Editor: Stating the Obvious

Stark,

I'm sure you weren't expecting an email from me, but nothing should surprise us, with as many years as we've been in this business, right? After careful observation and consultation with colleagues, I have come to a conclusion. A conclusion about a particular journalist at your paper and a certain stubborn one at my own. For weeks, I have seen more of a consistent smile on that stubborn red head I work with. Maybe more than I can honestly remember. But with the development of this story that Romanoff and Rogers are chasing, I really thought that was all gone, and I was going to have to deal with her being cranky all the time again.

Just curious to see if you've noticed the same behaviors on your end as well. Personally, I think this whole rivalry schtick between The Herald and The Star, is more for show between your girlfriend and my boss. We're really all on the same team of trying to stay in print. Anyway, never thought I'd be writing, asking your opinion on the romantic possibilities between our co-workers. But here we are.

The things my wife encourages me to do. To be honest, Romanoff has been a surrogate sister to me for well over a decade. So even though I want to staple her mouth shut a fair share of the time, I can't deny the thought of her being happy in her lot in life is…appealing. If I need to force Rogers and Romanoff to sit at a picnic table and have a couple beers again, so be it. I'm afraid to say, I'm not above it.

Just wanted your 2 cents, and I wondered if you had any ideas besides Barton and Wilson participating in a betting pool with us. Make no mistake, Stark. I still want the bet. I'd be happy to take your money any day of the week, whether it's on first blood being drawn or first kiss occurring. But if Romanoff and Rogers can get an assist from the friendly confines of their co-workers, and a second family in my case...than feel free to indulge and respond.

-Barnes

Steve – 6:15 pm – "17 across - 5 letters, Namesake shared between ghoulish family & kind of apple. Why am I drawing a blank, Romanoff?"

Natasha – 6:18 pm – "Rogers, I don't know if I should answer you or write a letter to NYU's school of journalism to question their teaching abilities."

Steve – 6:19 pm – "Punch a guy while he's down why don't you. Clearly, I have a bad case of writer's block for me to come to the master herself…"

Natasha – 6:21 pm – "Steve, who was our 6th President?"

Those three little dots appeared and disappeared a few times as Steve tried to answer. Natasha was curled up in her chair with the TV on. She was more interested in her phone than anything she'd been surfing through.

Steve – 6:24 pm – "You're never going to let me live this one down, are you? ADAMS. I can't believe I couldn't think of it. It was right there."

Natasha – 6:25 pm – "Would you say it was right there, dangling like an Adam's apple?"

Steve – 6:26 pm – "I deserve that. Maybe I can use the excuse of me cooking while doing the crossword. Does that pass?"

Natasha – 6:28 pm – "Hmm. Depends. What are you cooking?"

Steve – 6:31 pm – "Chicken fajita for one. You can help me decide on the vegetables. Onions, mushrooms, green peppers? All the above?"

Natasha let out a groan. That sounded amazing. To be fair, anything sounded delicious, compared to her frozen meal she'd had 20 minutes ago. She was up a few seconds later, digging through her cupboards and found some crackers, completely ignoring how barren her kitchen was.

Natasha – 6:35 pm – "Maybe it's because I have none of those ingredients in my fridge, but I say throw caution to the wind. All the above."

Steve had turned around in his own kitchen, resting against the counter as his food simmered and his smile grew.

Steve – 6:38 pm – "Need to go to the store, I take it?"

Natasha – 6:41 pm – "If by go to the store, you mean fill my freezer with more frozen meals? Sure."

Before Steve could respond, Natasha followed up with a picture of her freezer, with about 10 frozen meals inside.

Steve – 6:42 pm – "Well, there's almost no words for such an image…That's just sad, Natasha. Is there anything perishable at all in your kitchen?"

Natasha – 6:43 pm – "Besides me?"

Steve cracked up as she added a skull and crossbones emoji to her joke.

Natasha – 6:44 pm – "Bananas, bread…maybe some yogurt. Does wine count?"

Steve – 6:45 pm – "Wow. After seeing that depressing freezer, I'm actually impressed you have something that has an expiration date from this year."

Natasha – 6:46 pm – "Don't refer me to as Guy Fieri or anything, but I know how to pour a good glass of vino."

Natasha added a chef's hat emoji, and they both chuckled on their ends of the phone. Steve couldn't resist when he was done cooking. He put his dinner on a plate and sent a picture of that chicken fajita for one in response.

Natasha swore she heard her stomach growl.

Natasha – 7:02 pm – "And here I thought you were the nice one, Steve."

Steve – 7:03 pm – "Looks can be deceiving. Don't judge a book by the cover as they say. Have a good night, Romanoff."

Natasha – 7:05 pm – "Cubs game is on the radio - they're up by a couple in the 3rd, so I'm sure they'll blow it before I fall asleep. Have a good night too, Rogers. Enjoy the cuisine."

Steve did enjoy his dinner, and Natasha enjoyed her wine she so proudly poured. And the Cubs did blow the lead by the end of the game. But Steve and Natasha both fell asleep with the biggest smiles on their faces.

That was Monday night, a week after their come to terms meeting on the pier.

The Monday night at the pier, that wasn't a date.

The Heat Wave festival had come and gone, and any locals who knew better, steered clear of Navy Pier over the weekend as they capped off the event. Fireworks displays, water-skiing acrobatics, and even some aviation pizazz were thrown into the mix for all the crowd to see. But that was for the weekend warrior crowd full of tourists.

The crew of locals from The Herald and The Star had their fun without the swarm of visitors, and let the week pass without returning to the wharf.

Besides, they'd made the most of that Monday at the pier. Sam got a Captain's hat, and a hell of a hangover. MJ took about 50 selfies of her and Peter on The Ferris Wheel. Bucky had a good buzz before he got home to his tacos and wife. And Tony and Clint could barely remember saying goodbye to the dock.

But most importantly, Steve and Natasha had found a place to settle for a bit.

A place that didn't cause them to want to rip their hair out from frustration. Instead, they dove into that calming pool, of a promise of friendship. A week had passed, which meant Steve and Natasha had been meeting in the middle for a full seven days now.

"Seven days without an incident," Bucky had joked to Natasha on Monday morning. Silence with a dash of an eyeroll was her response.

That middle Steve and Natasha found themselves in, meant a lot of points of contact grew between their shared experiences. Friendly texts and check ins. Funny gifs and memes. Joking barbs about the Dodgers' triumphs this season and the Cubs' foils. They'd even congregated for a coffee last Wednesday…and last Friday. Not to mention, they met up for tacos for lunch over the weekend.

The couple of javas, from the pair claiming to be nothing more than friends, was as educational as it was alluring.

Their first coffee, Steve and Natasha learned they both preferred muffins to donuts. They would take Mondays over Fridays off. And when given the question of dogs or cats, they avoided the booby trap of an argument. Steve said dogs with a tone of loving affection, and Natasha said cats as bluntly as she could, as if it was the most obvious answer.

In all honesty, it was kind of life imitating art with their response. Steve had the puppy dog stare and handsome coat with his beard and muscles, and the perception of being the nice and friendly one. Natasha was sleek and quick. She apparently had nine lives and was always able to land on her feet. And she wasn't going to give out a compliment or affection, if she didn't feel the circumstances warranted it.

But what the two of them realized, the more their friendship blossomed, was that they had a lot in common. Each text and encounter peeled those layers back a little more.

On their second mocha meeting, the duo confirmed they both felt coffee was a utility and necessity. "It's a gift from the heavens in the morning," Natasha said. Steve joked as he raised his mug at the brew house, "Frivolous flavors and additives be gone."

Steve found out Natasha never had to face the woes of braces on her teeth, like he did as a kid. She learned he was in a small car accident as a teenager, that only solidified his interest in motorcycles. "You wouldn't think it by looking at the thing, but I feel much more in control with two wheels than four."

Natasha smirked, "And my co-workers accuse me of being a control freak. Aren't they actually more dangerous?"

Steve grinned, "Probably no more than the jeep you drive. But as long as you know what you're doing, a little danger shouldn't scare you away, right?"

She shrugged her shoulders and put the latest revelation away in her safe of Steve Rogers facts. She'd been making deposits in that safe for well over a month now. He was creating quite the nest egg of Natasha Romanoff revelations too.

They chuckled as they drank their plain, black, 'gifts from heaven,' for the rest of their early morning rendezvous. Steve and Natasha even completed the Friday crossword together that morning.

As friends often do at the hour of 6 am on a workday…

Clint joked with Tony that Friday morning, after Steve arrived and let it slip that he'd had coffee already with Natasha, "Yeah, Stark…Don't you and any of your buddies just love to meet up, right after sunrise on a workday?"

The usual joking and roasting began as Steve denied everything they were tossing his way and left for the day.

When Sunday rolled around, it was Natasha who suggested the idea of having tacos at a food truck near Buckingham Fountain. Steve didn't even wait one full minute before responding to her text. 30 minutes later, they were standing near the iconic landmark as Natasha waved him over to the taco truck named Eternal Spice.

"This taco truckis always here on the weekends. If you don't get here early before lunch, it's best to just wait 'til mid-afternoon when the crowd thins out. At least this way, the tourists are mostly gone from the fountain too."

The famous Buckingham Fountain, displayed in movies and TV shows all centering around The Windy City, drew a crowd like any of the tourist attractions on weekends. And it was still fairly busy for a Sunday afternoon, but Natasha swore the trip would be worth it for Steve.

Let's just say, Steve didn't need convincing and would have made his way through all the tourists ever to come to Chicago, to share a late afternoon lunch with the red head in front of him.

"So, is this Natasha Romanoff's official guide to Chicago? Maybe you should freelance to Trip Advisor."

Natasha chuckled as they stood in line at Eternal Spice, "Hey, any blog or website can tell you to eat at the big restaurants or Giordano's or Portillo's, which are all great. But the hidden gems are where it's at."

Just as Steve was telling a voice inside his head, what a hidden gem he'd found, he asked, "Okay, I get it. You know pretty much every nook and cranny the city has to offer and where to truly experience the real Chicago…but what tourist attraction is worth the price of fighting the crowds?"

Before Natasha could answer, Steve added, "And you can't say Wrigley Field. The Cubs' stadium is clearly number one."

Natasha shook her head as they moved closer to the order window, "Clearly, nothing beats Wrigleyville. But…I'd say The Signature Room & Lounge is worth it, Rogers."

Steve nodded, "That's the bar and restaurant at the top of The Hancock Center, right?"

Natasha pointed at the menu as they were second in line now, "Yup, that's the one. It's got great views like the Skydeck at the old Sears Tower, but the bar and restaurant are really something. Food and drinks are great, but the view at night mixed in, is just something out of the movies. It even makes an old cynic like me appreciate all the lights and this city even more. Whether you're a tourist or a local, it's kind of…magical."

Something was kind of magical alright.

Steve got distracted with how Natasha's eyes lit up for a second and was startled when the owner of the food truck named Gilgamesh yelled at them, "Hey you two, the fountain is for staring. The line is for ordering. Let's keep it moving! You know what you want?"

A joke was running around both of their subconscious's, about two know it all's, who couldn't spell out what they wanted with each other. But it didn't come to fruition.

Instead, Natasha made some suggestions, and Steve ignored her warning about how spicy Gilgamesh's hot sauce was.

"Is this a macho thing, trying to show me you're not scared of a little heat? Or are you just being an idiot here, Steve? I'm not kidding…these puppies have some major kick."

Steve shrugged his shoulders and had the owner of the stand not hold back on his chorizo and carne asada tacos. He even told Gilgamesh to add a little extra for good measure. The owner at the window rolled his eyes and looked to Natasha as she just laughed, "Hey, it's his mouth. He can put whatever he wants in it."

They ignored diving into that landmine of an innuendo as Gilgamesh did as Steve asked. And Steve would soon learn that Natasha wasn't kidding as he paid for their food. Eternal Spice was appropriately named.

Kids and families were enjoying the beautiful Sunday afternoon. The buzz from the weekend was all around, with a few hours still remaining of the weekend. Water sprung from the famous spouts, and well-wishers threw pennies and coins in the pool. Little children splashed their hands around the edges, as parents held them back from trying to jump in. The spouts burst to life with colors and music displays adding to the scene as Lake Michigan rested at its back, and the city's skyline settled at its front.

Buckingham fountain was located in the heart of Grant Park. Visitors passing by, locals just checking in for a taco or a walk, and tourists who were making a day of it. All of them, taking in the 300 plus acres that the area known as Chicago's 'Front Lawn,' had to offer. Grant Park and the fountain were within walking distance to Soldier Field, Adler Aquarium, The Art Institute, and The Field Museum. The L Train had multiple stops from Union Station and the heart of the city, arriving at the park and the fountain. The transportation system was the nerve center, and this was one of the pulsating points on Chicago's map.

And no rain in sight, meant more people were out enjoying the mild 80's summer day as the season of sun and fun wound down.

It seemed like most kids knew Summer was slipping from their grasps, because the number of teenagers out today was more noticeable, than even most weekends. Public schools and Universities would be starting in a couple of weeks again, so you could feel the energy all around.

Citizens were soaking in every last minute of Summer that they could.

Open areas of grass through Grant Park had some tag football, soccer matches, frisbee, and lawn golf in play. Plenty of couples and friends sat out on blankets. And all of the passer byes at Buckingham Fountain, at least had a smile to offer the notorious sculpture, if not some change and some selfies too. The public space was free and easily accessible and always welcoming.

In short, fun was being had by all who had come from near and far today.

Steve and Natasha found a seat with their drinks and handful of tacos they were sharing at a bench near the fountain.

Natasha gave him a look as a final warning, but Steve shrugged it off and dove in. About 30 seconds later, he felt that kick she'd told him about. Steve tried to fight back the sweat and water leaking from his eyes over the next 15 minutes as the tacos were eaten. Natasha laughed at first, taunting him, "If you'd only listened to me, Rogers."

But after his second coughing fit, Steve's face turned a bright red with his attempt to pretend Gilgamesh's hot sauce wasn't bothering him. Natasha finally gave in and helped the poor guy. Those puppy dog eyes were just begging for some comfort after all, "Here, Steve. Have some of their chips and a churro. I'll get us some more water. Believe me, it'll help…I know from experience."

30 minutes later, Steve felt better but his lips still tingled.

They were both cracking up and soaked in the rest of the afternoon as they people watched and enjoyed each other's company. Steve looked over at Natasha in her tank and shorts and flip flops and realized for the first time since their Navy Pier meet up, that he was actively treading through his denial.

'God she's beautiful,' went through his head, just as quickly as, 'You're just friends,' did in response.

Natasha looked up at him and smiled, and he covered by joking about the prickling sensation he could still feel from the hot sauce, "Man…that really did have some kick, Romanoff. Tell me, why do I want some more then?"

Natasha chuckled and nudged his shoulder, "I think they must put some sort of narcotic or something in with their habanero peppers. It burns, but in the best way. But who knows, maybe you're just a glutton for all that fire, Steve."

Yes, he was.

Steve answered, "What about you? You keep going back there, so you must love the heat too?"

They hit their plastic water bottles together as Natasha smiled, "I guess were both masochists then."

Steve smirked, "Doesn't that go hand in hand with being a beat writer?"

A silent nod came from both of them as they sat quietly and watched. A comfort had formed in this little space between them in the last week. And it wasn't because that tension had just up and disappeared from before. That was still there, but Steve and Natasha were able to happily deny that sensation because of how natural it felt between them. The things they learned. The laughter and stories they shared. Each addition to their vaults about one another, felt as normal as any of their other friendships or connections in life. It felt like it absolutely should be this way, each time they found themselves together.

But one thing was for sure as they swam on in that pool of denial. Another meet up at a landmark in Chicago, sharing a meal and warm company, with the romance of the city all around them, was definitely not a date.

That denial was almost as powerful of a drug as their chemistry was.

When Gilgamesh's Eternal Spice taco truck closed up for the day, they knew the evening was approaching.

Steve cleared his throat, "So, the rest of last week…didn't leave us with any news bombs like Monday started off with."

Natasha chuckled, "And I thought I was supposed to be the relentless one."

Steve huffed out a breath, "I never said I wasn't relentless. Just making conversation, Natasha…I'm just trying to see if I should prepare for another Monday morning bombshell tomorrow from Chicago's most famous journalist."

Natasha rolled her eyes, "Well, you keep at it, and people will be asking you to write a book too. But no bombshells tomorrow. Still tracking all these big pieces in the air that aren't fully connecting."

Steve nodded, "Well, you're write up on Hope Van Dyne's memorial from last week was pretty moving."

Her feet shuffled against the ground, "You're write up on Mayor Coulson's announcement of budget increases, was pretty snazzy too, Rogers."

Natasha looked over at Steve in his tee and shorts and sandals. She put her sunglasses on as the sunset beckoned from the city's skyline, "I think we're both doing a pretty great job at not letting up, even though John Doe is still…John Doe."

His own glasses found their place, "And even though, Hope's murderer and your…attacker, is still out there."

Natasha scoffed, "Well, I won't hold my breath on that one. The guy had a mask on, and the description is vague enough to match 90 percent of the other suspects at large in the city. Jones told me the last time I talked with her on Friday, that it wasn't looking good with any leads or tips on the guy."

Steve nudged her shoulder back, "Well, 'When in doubt, is when you have to dig in,' right?"

The grin was instantaneous on Natasha as she recognized the phrasing from her own book. She may have not put her heart and soul into the publication, and may not have wanted to write another one, but it didn't mean there weren't some gems in those pages. Natasha's talent still oozed from the binding. And her quote about journalism not being for the faint of heart or giving up, was just repeated back to her by the man she'd been spending an awful lot of time with.

When in doubt, is when you have to dig in.

Word for word, Steve Rogers quoted her own statement back to her and she just shook her head, "Someone needs some new suggestions for reading material at night. Because that book probably just put you to bed."

Steve finished his water, "For someone in the spotlight…a lot, you sure like to avoid any attention about your book. And my reading material is just fine like it is. I read it all in one sitting, Romanoff. No naps or snoozes to report."

That grin was turning into a blush. And that denial was meeting it's match as her own inner voice was told to shut up, 'He's just being a good friend.'

Bucky and Wanda. Fury and Peter and MJ. Everyone in her life had given her compliments about her book and writings. None of them gave her butterflies like Steve's words did.

"Yeah…I appreciate it, Rogers. But you don't have to hold back. I know it wasn't my best work."

Steve laughed as he looked out towards Lake Michigan, "Natasha, the phrase of, 'Everyone's their own worst critic,' sure applies to you. Have you ever known me, to not call you out on your bullshit?"

Steve turned back as their sunglasses found each other again as she nodded. A few seconds ticked by before she found her words, "No, Steve. It's one of the things I respect about you, regardless of how infuriating it is. You're not afraid to call people out. But let's not pretend this is the great autobiography of the 21st Century."

He didn't turn away, and he didn't let her flippancy take hold, "I didn't say that. But I did say it was pretty damn good for a first book. And for someone telling me, that they didn't try, hardly at all, as they wrote it? And didn't put their heart and soul into it…or really enjoy the process? Well, I think you'd have a lot of jealous authors out there who do try their hardest and can't ever finish a novel or get published…Or write something as enjoyable as you did."

The sincerity was felt as she didn't fight Steve's words this time. Five weeks into meeting. A week into this agreed upon friendship. Three meet ups and endless texts since. And a denial of an undercurrent between them, that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

It was getting harder and harder because these moments were becoming more frequent. And each time that tension came through with a vengeance.

A few beats passed as the air became a little heavier around them.

The way his beard shifted as his jaw tightened and twitched. The small quiver of her lip when she was trying to look cool and calm. That charge in the air that made them feel a little hot and cold at the same time. Her fingers were toying at the strap of her bag to her side. His were running over his shorts, either trying to wipe a little sweat from his palm, or just do something with them from how he was feeling.

But their denial won this round again.

Steve blew out a breath as his knee nudged hers, "Just take the compliment, Natasha. I'm not bullshitting you. I enjoyed your book, okay?"

It fell in line with her conversation with her Mom and Dad and Fury surrounding her book. And Steve's straightforward remark meant more to her than any lengthy review her publicist tried to fluff her up with.

Natasha's friends and family. Her co-workers and boss. And Steve.

Those were the people who mattered when it came to thoughts on her writing.

Natasha cleared her throat and bumped his knee back, "Thanks, Steve. It means a lot."

Before their denial was tested any further, a happy interruption was welcomed.

A child who'd taken their parent's stroller away with their little sibling still inside, was running their way. Apparently, the tyke was enjoying the last bits of weekend a little too much. The kid almost ran the stroller right into Steve and Natasha, but they both reached out to stop it as their hands connected at the front of the baby carrier.

The kid who had gotten away from his parents was only about four or five and looked like he'd ran away with the Crown Jewels, with how big his grin was. The parents caught up to him a few seconds later, trying to not blame the other one for taking their eyes off the kid, and apologized profusely. It was a few seconds before the Dad did a double take, "Hey, aren't you…"

Natasha laughed and waved, "I am, and don't worry about it. Looks like you guys have your hands full, and this little guy keeps you on your toes."

The parents and the rebel without a cause with a stroller, were off. And that was their cue too. Steve and Natasha were grateful for the relief felt, and they parted as Sunday evening was fully emerging.

If an inner voice was already missing the time they'd spent with each other, neither would outwardly admit it. They just tried to focus on how enjoyable it was to be around one another, and soak in the comfort of their connection.

It didn't matter how many side eyes and mumbled jokes their friends gave. They'd agreed to this. After all, this friends' thing seemed easy and obvious (minus those tension filled moments.)

Why didn't Steve and Natasha just agree to this from the start?

Rivals? No worries if they were buddies. They could keep that combative energy at bay. Attracted to each other? That could be kept in check. Hormones could be kept in line and those heated thoughts would surely dwindle…eventually. Right?

Having a chemistry as natural as Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire on the dancefloor? It just meant Steve and Natasha were going to knock this best bud's agreement out of the damn ballpark.

Oh, what a wonderful cocktail that hindsight, denial, and ignorance make.

Because it wasn't just that instant chemistry found in the best of friends. There was more to Steve and Natasha. And everyone who had two eyes and five minutes to spare to watch them interact, knew it.

Having the aura of that once in a lifetime connection, after only knowing each other for five weeks? Well, Steve and Natasha were struggling with that fact. They pushed through their denial, quieted their inner voices, and shut their friends up when jabs were thrown. But deep down, the connection that ran so deep this early on, was felt in the morning when they woke up and at night when they went to bed.

Endless love songs and stories weren't written because of boredom or being best pals. They were written and sung and shared with the world, because when something feels like it only comes around once in a lifetime, it leaves a mark. A trail begins in the stomach and travels the depths of the chest to find the heart, until settling permanently in memory.

Those etchings don't promise something will come of it. That's up to the players of the story to figure out and overcome. But it does promise, a feeling and a memory. A remembrance of the marking during the life one lives.

Markings like this exist from early on to elder years, both in large scale and small.

Early crushes when hormones are running the show in teenage years. Breathtaking sights along travels of life. An offer from the job of your dreams. New life coming into the world, and others at the end, saying goodbye. Some with a life fully lived, and others much too young. The feeling of laughing until you cry and crying until you finally laugh. The skip of a heartbeat with the rush of adrenaline, when just how precious life is, makes itself known.

Everyone has experienced that feeling in small doses or large. And those permanent marks, all add to this thing called life as if they were rings inside a tree. Those special experiences shared, and memories made, are great for a reason. They feel like Christmas morning when they happen, and the sun after a blustering cold winter, each time that they're remembered in the aftermath.

They're hard to define or predict but known when they happen.

And when it's something special that could be long lasting, or once in a lifetime, that feeling only deepens.

Steve and Natasha could tap dance around this little friendship of theirs they agreed upon, just like Fred and Ginger, all they wanted. But make no mistake, those stares were still there when the other wasn't looking. Those natural smiles still emerged when they thought co-workers weren't paying attention as a text came in, to add to that thread of jokes and messages and check-ins. And that feeling of comfort grew with each new fact learned about the other.

And each new memory made.

Two coffees last week after their night at the pier. A tangle of tacos and strollers and compliments at a fountain on a Sunday afternoon and early evening.

And then two days later, they found themselves on an early Tuesday morning run, near Natasha's apartment that ended with coffee from Stan's stand.

"Don't hold back now Rogers. I only want your best efforts with me."

As if Steve would give anything else.

He smirked as they started off on a light jog, enjoying the quiet of the early morning. Familiar waves and nods to locals around. It only took about 10 minutes for that inner competitor in Natasha to kick in as she picked up the pace. Steve was with her every step of the way. Genetics and size played a part, knowing that he could probably run quicker than her on any straight road ahead. But it was the challenge of the hills, where Natasha played a little dirty and left him in her wake.

Steve laughed at the first hill as she pulled ahead. He quickly caught up on the straights and even quickened the pace a couple times.

By the time the seventh hill was found, Steve sputtered out, "I swear you're finding every big hill in Chicago to gain the advantage."

It only helped her tempo as she rubbed it in, "Come on Rogers…when in doubt, you have to dig in. Last hill. Come get me."

Their words were breathy and broken up with large huffs of air. And she'd just thrown her own quote right in his face.

She may have had the advantage on a hill, but her challenge was just accepted.

They gave everything they had as he caught up to her and pushed ahead. Their feet pounded the pavement and oxygen swelled in their lungs with each huff and puff of air. Eyes narrowed to the top of the hill. Higher and higher. Shoulder to shoulder. Sweat at their backs and thighs and arms and neck. Hair damp and faces red. Their bodies were pushed to the max and their legs felt like fire.

It was delicious as they drank in every drop of that concoction between them.

The top was reached in a tie as breathing was hard and their chests heaved. Natasha bent over to fight the burning in her stomach, and Steve tried to battle that ache with his hands at his hips.

Natasha was up quickly with her arms over her head, and Steve did the same. Back and forth they paced as their eyes kept finding each other. Hot and sweaty. Shorts and t-shirts clinging to skin. Skin red and bodies on fire. The fact that those heated thoughts were coursing inside as the sun began peeking through, only made everything feel a little wild right now. Muscles starving for rest. Mouths thirsty for water. And the look in their eyes, said everything silently, they didn't dare speak aloud.

That charged feeling was all around, and there was a hunger between them.

It was only a little after 5 am on Tuesday morning.

As far as managing that attraction, Steve and Natasha were doing a piss poor job.

They'd solidified this morning's run later last night.

It was a little over an hour, after Steve had made fun of Natasha's lack of food in her kitchen, and Natasha roasted Steve over not getting the obvious crossword answer, when he followed up with another text.

Steve – 8:41 pm – "Just how early does Chicago's best and brightest get up on an average morning?"

Natasha – 8:43 pm – "Take whatever time you get up and make it five minutes earlier."

Always prodding at that competitiveness, Steve couldn't help it as a warm smile emerged as he answered.

Steve – 8:45 pm – "Challenge accepted. How about we consolidate our efforts and meet for a morning jog at 5 am, and then go for coffee right after?"

Natasha – 8:46 pm – "Make it 4:30 am, and you got a deal. I may not be dressed to the nine's and spend a lot of time on hair and makeup, but it does take me a little longer than you, to present myself to the city each day."

A winking emoji was added as Steve laughed.

Steve – 8:47 pm – "I happen to like the way you dress. And you got a deal. Tell me where to meet at 4:30 am, and I'll be ready to run."

Natasha texted Steve her address in the Gold Coast District. He only lived about 10 minutes away on his motorcycle. Especially at that hour in the morning.

If they were just friends, then Bonnie and Clyde never broke a law.

It was as tall of a tale as old as time.

Kismet.

A meet-cute, with much refute. An unlikely pair that was undeniable after first glance. Rivalry turned chivalry. A will they, won't they pair, if there ever was one.

And friends turned…to whatever came next.

Because friends often plan for 4:30 am runs. Just like all their other meet ups, Steve and Natasha happily drank the Kool-Aid of denial. It didn't matter they were officially looking forward to working out and running before the sun was up on a Tuesday.

The run was done. And now with their stares and thoughts, they paced with arms above their head. Steve and Natasha had finally caught their breath and made their way to Stan.

Steve wiped his face off as Stan leaned down to hand Natasha her usual, "Don't usually see you sharing these streets with anyone, Red."

Natasha waved it off, "Steve works at The Star, Stan. You've probably read his stuff in the last few weeks."

Stan had a twinkle in his eye and knew better, as he set Steve's coffee and water and banana to the side of hers, "Didn't say I needed an introduction, Red. I said you don't usually share these roads…or your mornings."

Add Stan to the list of people giving side eyes and muttered words of suggestion toward Natasha and Steve.

Natasha groaned and paid him, and Steve was polite as could be, introducing himself, "I'm glad someone else loves the early mornings as much as us. Nice to meet you, Stan."

A couple minutes later, they were itching for a cold shower. Steve drove off on his motorcycle as they waved goodbye. If Natasha looked at his shirt clinging to his back for a second too long as he left, so be it.

She turned around and shook her head at Stan, "Don't, Stan. I don't need to hear it from you too."

Stan chuckled as Natasha jogged back to her apartment, "I didn't say anything, Red. Just that it was nice to see you learning to share."

Over the course of the last week and a half, Natasha and Steve worked on their own daily articles and tried not provoking the other too much, with regards to leads and scoops and sources.

That was the about the only thing they weren't trying as friends, besides acting on those thoughts they weren't admitting to themselves. But regardless, it should have surprised no one to learn that Steve and Natasha started their mornings off after coffees and runs, by reading the other's article.

Every single day.

VAN DYNE HONORED AT MEMORIAL

FAMILIES OF RED LINE VICTIMS ATTEND VAN DYNE FUNERAL: Public Hungry for Answers, Holds Vigil

SUSPICIONS INCREASE AROUND MOB CONNECTIONS AND DARK MONEY

COULSON SIGNS BILL IN RECORD TIME: Fast Tracks Massive Increase to Transportation Budget

COULSON AND CITY COUNCIL ADD MENTAL HEALTH AND SECURITY TO BUDGET PRIORITIES

COULSON CONDEMNS PUBLIC VIOLENCE AND JOINS PUBLIC IN DEMAND FOR ANSWERS

POLICE CHIEF PROMISES INVESTIGATION IS TOP PRIORITY AT PRECINCT

NO ARRESTS IN VAN DYNE MURDER CASE: A Week After Tragedy, No Ground Made on Suspects

JOHN DOE MYSTERY TAKES A BACKSEAT TO EXPLOSIVES AND MURDERER AT LARGE

In summary, the criminal behind Hope's murder and Natasha's attack was in the wind. John Doe was still very much a John Doe. The explosive news that The Red Line crash involved trace amounts of explosives was at a standstill. But that didn't mean there weren't major developments in the story. The developments were more on what individual players were doing now, in response to the reveals thus far.

The police were extremely tight lipped, which really told Natasha and Steve, that they had some leads cooking, not known to the public. Natasha and Steve's personal development was well documented by every single person around them. Families were in mourning, with heartbreaking interviews across all the media landscape, for their loved ones lost. And Phil Coulson was answering the call to stop waiting for re-election to take some action.

Mayor Coulson made some power moves in the last couple of weeks with his council members. He freed up some money in the budget immediately for increased security, technology checks, and additional trains being added to the existing lines. The money came from surplus that was supposed to go towards recreation and tourism, which he'd take a possible hit for. But he'd made the choice and didn't care as he told his chief of staff, "If I'm going to win another term, or lose in November, I'm going to do it by at least doing what's right."

The changes wouldn't solve nearly all the problems exposed in the last month, but it was a giant step in the right direction. The fact Mayor Coulson added budget increases to mental health clinics all over the city right now, only showed he was listening to the facts and the citizens. Not to polling.

But the biggest shift on the individual front, came from someone who'd been hidden in the shadows up to this point. Tuesday morning's news began with quite the splash, after that sweaty run and tension filled coffee. By the time Steve and Natasha got to their offices, they realized what the direction of their day was going to be.

Good Morning Chicago had a surprise interview for their 8 am timeslot. Only Maria Hill wasn't doing the interview this morning. It was an anchor from years ago, who'd been sidelined with the exception of a few times a year, when he'd emerge from his dressing room for contract obligations or slow news cycles.

None of that really mattered to anyone watching. Because a news splash made everyone take notice, regardless of the behind-the-scenes details.

Tuesday morning, J. Jonah Jameson had somehow scored an interview with Wilson Fisk. And everyone tuned in as Jameson began to talk.

"We don't need to tell you all, about the press that's been swirling around over the last month. It's all anyone in town has been talking about! And I for one, am here at Good Morning Chicago, to balance the playing field out. Certain journalists in this town think they're the ones with the last word, but everyone has a say in this country. And as long as I'm a news anchor in our great city, I can promise you, you'll hear from anyone accused of being involved in alleged crimes.

Wilson Fisk, thank you for inviting me to your home to speak with me this morning."

The amount of ass kissing and groveling from Jameson was astounding, in such a short snippet of time. The narrative being shaped in the 60 second clip was pretty fucking clear. Fisk was the victim and had been wronged.

In reality, Fisk wouldn't respond to anyone's requests for comment or interview in the papers, because he wanted softballs lobbed up to him by hacks like Jameson.

And there was a reason, that Jameson was only allowed out to do interviews every now and then. He had been demoted years ago, from lead anchor as Maria Hill grew more prominent. And apparently, he had just the right amount of slime that appealed to Fisk.

The interview had obviously been set up on the condition of Jameson being the interviewer.

Natasha was watching the interview live in her office just as Steve was in his. Eyerolls and scoffs of anger shot through the roof. By them, their team, and by anyone with a braincell in the city, who was watching.

It was pretty easy for the journalists to read between the lines. Maria Hill probably argued against the conditions, making it known she wouldn't shy away from questions being asked. And then when she found out Jameson would be doing the interview and not her, whatever dissenting opinion she had, was thrown out with the trash.

The clickbait style of an interview was greenlit. She and anyone disagreeing was overruled by producers. All to make a splash and draw eyeballs. Anyone watching, braincells or not, knew it would be a success.

The fact that interest was so high in what the illusive Wilson Fisk had to say, solely had to do with Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff's reporting. But that was beside the point. J. Jonah Jameson was not going to mention their names or get anywhere close to the truth of their reporting.

And as a result, the interview was sure to take some of the spotlight away from the train lines and John Doe and Hope Van Dyne for a newsbeat. It may be a setback for truth seekers, but it was an all-around win for the decision makers. Good ratings for Good Morning Chicago, and 15 minutes for Wilson Fisk to say whatever he wanted to.

Fisk took the interview over right away, as he emerged from his seat across from Jameson. Regardless of it being summer, a fireplace was roaring in the background as Fisk sat back in his leather chair. It made him look all the more threatening, and like the one who was really calling the shots.

"Thank you, Mr. Jameson. It's good to know some people who refer to themselves as journalists in this town, are still willing to speak to actual people instead of just throwing nasty accusations into the limelight.

Let me tell you a story. I grew up in this town, like many others here. With not enough food on the table, or enough money to keep the lights on. My father worked for the city and the transportation that takes citizens all over this town to their rightful destinations and homes. He worked hard for every crumb we ate and every ounce of warmth he could provide. But he was not immune to the tragedies that come from the impoverished sect of society, that many would love to ignore. He died, when I wasn't even a full teenager, trying to provide that warmth for his family. So, when we sit here, in the heat of Summer, this fire reminds me every day, who my father was and what he gave."

Fisk let a dramatic beat pause as Jameson tried to insert himself into the conversation again. But he was silenced with a stare and the raise of Wilson Fisk's glass of amber liquid. A drink no one could confuse bright and early on a Tuesday morning, with anything other than liquor.

Jameson cowered back in his own chair and simply said, "Please continue when you'd like, Mr. Fisk."

He did continue as every word dripped with bravado.

"With the memory of my father in this very room, let me also share with you, and everyone else watching, that I love Chicago. I was born here. My father died for this city. Every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears I have produced in my life, has been for Chicago. Everything I have built for my family, has been because of this town. So, when I hear, the cockroaches still scurrying around at the rotting newspapers in this town, defaming me through alleged and veiled comments, I must take a stand. Not just for me, but for every single citizen who has shed blood, sweat, and tears like I have. It doesn't take effort to throw accusations into the atmosphere, for the jackals and vultures to descend on. It's spineless and must be called out. That's why I'm here today. My name hasn't been mentioned in these papers that like to think of themselves as places of truth. But it has been danced around for quite some time."

Fisk's tone was about as imposing as his presence in the room he was being interviewed in. It reeked of power and greed and force. And coercion. Fisk's name wasn't mentioned in any article. But Natasha mentioning the tracksuits in The Herald, was a shot across the bow. And this was Fisk's response.

Only it was more comparable to Natasha shooting a water gun and Fisk bringing a canon. It wasn't equal in measure at all, but no one was surprised. Fisk was trying to bulldoze right over every fact and article written in the last month and a half, completely on his pomp and power play.

He went on.

"Mr. Jameson, you go out and talk to the people of this great city, and you ask them who they trust. A man who built his construction and real estate business from the ground up, after my father gave every breath, he ever had to this place? Or do they want to trust some un-vetted journalist, who just arrived in our town a few months ago. And not in his town. Ours."

J. Jonah Jameson made the mistake of actually let a correction slip out, "Well, you have to admit, Natasha Romanoff isn't new to this town like Steve Rogers. She's worked here ever since graduating from Northwestern."

The look Wilson Fisk gave Jameson pretty much said it all. If he spoke again, that glass Fisk was holding, was going to be thrown at the two-bit reporter.

"It doesn't matter where some media succubus graduated from. It matters what they do for this city we love. For this town, we break our backs for. And according to my balance sheet, it's the city workers and builders. It's the drivers and shop owners of this town, that run it. That's the truth. Not some printed paper in black and white, trying to tell you what to think. But the hard callouses and hours put into each day, building this town from the ground up.

It was true back in the days when Capone was running things. And it's true to this day too. If the politicians in charge don't realize who actually runs this town, then maybe it's time for a change there too. I don't usually do this, but I wanted you to hear it from me first, Mr. Jameson, since you were so gracious, in having me on Good Morning Chicago this morning.

I would like to fully endorse Eleanor Bishop, running for the new Mayor of Chicago. I think it's time for all of us, who know the truth in what it's like to really bleed and sweat for this town…to stand up and put someone in charge who will fight for us. Not for the freeloaders at a University or leeches at a newspaper. Not from the parasites at City Hall or the police who've apparently come down with Alzheimer's, forgetting who they are working for.

I will be supporting Eleanor because I know she's the type of Mayor this town needs. I hope everyone listening, will support her too. Take it from someone who loves this city as much as you do. And remember, all of the vermin I just mentioned…work for us."

Anyone listening knew when he said, 'us,' he meant himself in the non-subtle threat.

The interview ended as abruptly as it started, and it left the town buzzing and Maria Hill in a tizzy with her producer and bosses. They wanted a splash to draw attention and get eyeballs on screen for a Tuesday morning, and they got it.

The race for Mayor was just put into check as Coulson was sweating bullets too. It's not because they feared Eleanor Bishop as a candidate. It's because every word spoken by Wilson Fisk, was pretty much a double entendre, saying you better do as I fucking say, or else.

Or else, it won't be tracksuits just lingering around.

Fury was on the phone with Pepper all day, out of concern for their journalists, but Steve and Natasha weren't going to be threatened. They knew better. This was how Fisk operated his whole life.

His father gave his life for the city?

What a load of bullshit.

It was the first mysterious death surrounding Wilson Fisk, but certainly wasn't the last.

The man was slippery and smart and cunning. And he used all of those talents of his, and exploited a washed-up journalist like J. Jonah Jameson, desperate to get back into the spotlight, to send a message across town.

It wasn't the first time Fisk had pulled a stunt like this. But it was the most recent attempt in years. Fisk had tried to shut up Natasha's reporting on Dreykov a half decade ago, when the largest sex trafficking ring in the city's history was taken down. Rumored ties and money laundering, linked to Fisk's 'real estate' company, had sent him through the roof, but Natasha didn't back down then. She'd even had a couple of public run-ins with the large man, who liked to loom larger in life over his foes.

But this was business as usual for her.

The difference was, now there were two journalists who didn't back down to the likes of him.

Steve sent a quick text that Tuesday afternoon after Fisk's interview.

Steve – 3:32 pm – "You see that asshole this morning? Everything good on your end?"

Natasha – 3:36 pm – "Who couldn't see that P.O.S.? He's as large as a goddamn barn. Yeah, everything's good. He's just trying to act like Capone, like always. Pathetic. Talk later."

The morning's events only led Steve and Natasha to burning the midnight oil on Tuesday, both fighting back with their words and the press as their articles hit the newsstands the following day.

WILSON FISK BREAKS SILENCE: Says Chicago is Home. Questions Press, Politicians, and Police

FISK EMERGES FROM SHADOWS TO SUPPORT BISHOP AS MAYORAL RACE TIGHTENS

Both articles were read by each other and the town. As soon as the newsbeats hit the street Wednesday at sunrise, The Star and The Herald's edition were picked up by Steve and Natasha.

Steve went more with the factual route in his case against Fisk's red meat thrown out to anyone looking for gossip yesterday.

Mr. Fisk likes to sit in his marbled room with flames looming large, to present himself as a man who's worked in the fire and brimstone, building this town from the ground up. I'm not questioning the man's ability to work hard and long hours to have found himself where he is at in life. I am questioning the presentation and lack of information he chose to leave out, of his less than challenging interview from Mr. Jameson yesterday.

The IRS has audited Fisk's businesses over 15 times in the last 20 years. 15 times. Let that sink in. Most of those audits are still tied up in litigation and appeals. Just to simplify matters, let me summarize why the IRS would choose to audit a business that many times.

When questionable actions or transactions, unaccounted for in past or present, are flagged in annual processes, additional information is requested. An audit is simply a question that asks for answers on discrepancies or patterns that don't track with income and taxes.

That is from the IRS's website, and I'm not here to repeat what can be found at the government website below. You can all talk to your accountants or go and read how labor intensive the audit process can be. So, if it can be answered and cleared up, why wouldn't it be? That's not for me to answer. That's for the man to answer, who was telling you all who to trust yesterday morning.

What is remarkable is another pattern, that is not tracked by the IRS's audit process. There are enough anomalies, that overlap in the same time period of many of those 15 audits, that do more than raise an eyebrow.

For many of the years Mr. Fisk was audited, a number of unanswered crimes still seem to linger.

I've pointed out, along with my colleague at The Herald, patterns of unanswered deaths in the history of Chicago, that have been labeled as suicides, or unsolved murders. In addition to those rich and lengthy histories of John and Jane Does, those audits have all emerged. Those unsolved mysteries aren't tied up in any litigious matters. They have just gone cold. Unanswered, never providing any peace to family members of the missing.

We in journalism are not the police. We are not politicians. We are here to give you facts and tell stories that can't be shared from public servants whose hands are tied by the law and processes and public demeanor. We understand the public may not like the truth at times. But we also understand it's necessary to know what really occurs in this town.

Let me pose a picture for you, as the final few months of the election season kick into gear.

Fisk presented that he wants a change in leadership in this town, and that anyone giving you stories and asking questions, are the enemies. People like me or any journalist who dares question anything to his disliking are labeled as bottom dwellers and vermin.

Even though this has been offered many times prior to today, let me personally invite Wilson Fisk to sit down for an interview. Light can be shed, and any confusion can be cleared up around what his qualms may be. But unlike his interview from Mr. Jameson, no mistake should be made.

I will be asking actual questions for Mr. Fisk to respond to.

Steve went on, in more detail about Eleanor Bishop not commenting or sitting down with the press either. As well as follow-ups to John Doe's mystery and the lack of progress on the explosives at The Red Line.

But as far as explosions went, Fisk managed to crater the trajectory of the story all toward him. Like a black hole, Steve and Natasha spent their Tuesdays writing Wednesday's edition, centering around Fisk's soap box of a puff piece, and challenging the lack of facts or truth.

It was daring and ballsy for Steve to essentially ask people to question all of the mystery around Fisk and his money and audits, as well as many of the unsolved crimes in the same time period. And it was pretty bold to publicly call him out on his lack of transparency with any press who dared to ask a question.

To say Fisk was upset, was an understatement. His glass of liquor on Wednesday morning, along with his hefty breakfast was throw right into that burning fire pit in his grand room he'd broadcast from, only a day before.

Steve's article got Fisk going, pissing him off to the point of sending all the tracksuits who worked for him, scurrying into the shadows. But it was Natasha's article that really caused a stir.

Steve and Natasha didn't gain any new breaks on John Doe overnight, but they sure as hell didn't back down from the rubbish being tossed their way the day before. And Natasha didn't back away from mentioning certain sore subjects around Fisk. Starting with his father's death, that had been a cold case for decades, and ending with Dreykov's case.

I'm not going to beg the citizens of this city for their trust. The people of Chicago are savvy and intelligent, and among the most dedicated and hardworking, of anyone I've encountered in my 36 years of living. What I will leave you with, is this. Anyone who's read my work over the years, knows I pride myself in not backing away from a story because it might be difficult or unsafe. Those are the times when journalism is needed most.

When in doubt, is when you have to dig in.

The life of Wilson Fisk's father ended long ago. I'm sure he wishes journalism was strong enough back then to ask the hard questions and demand answers. Maybe the mystery around his father would have been solved. But just like any unsolved death in this town, those questions only fester and continue over time.

As for his opinion of Mr. Capone, it is rather contrary to the masses. Siloed bullies and isolated thugs had their day in this town. So, when statements are made, of wanting days of tax evasion and crimes performed on their watch back, I'm sorry, I just won't budge. If everyone talking so loudly, loves this town as much as they say they do, then sitting down with a journalist, who works for the city as Mr. Fisk made clear, shouldn't be difficult.

Let me state the obvious, because of all the previous requests that have been made outside the lines of these newspapers. I personally would like to invite Wilson Fisk to sit down for an interview with me.

Let us clear up any misinformation he thinks is out there. Let us clear up any accusations he's lobbed toward journalism being the act of a leech or a parasite in this town. Let us trust in our own intuition, and not a man that tried to support Dreykov's defense when he was sent away to prison for his heinous acts against young women and children.

I know all of you can recall the vivid details of the horrors Dreykov performed and cultivated. Yes, he was finally sent away and his sex trafficking ring was stopped, but the damage was done. The pain in those women will be felt for the rest of their lives. And Wilson Fisk, publicly defended Dreykov and helped pay for the man's defense.

Forgive me, if I question his past judgement with who he supported. And forgive me now, if I question his support for the new candidate for Mayor of this town.

I trust the citizens of this town to make up their own minds. Not for someone else to tell them what to think. I trust each and every one of you, reading this, to know when something isn't adding up. To trust if you find me to be a succubus, as Mr. Fisk so eloquently stated. I may not have a full picture to present to you yet, regarding John Doe and the L Trains, and the death surrounding those tragedies. But every picture I've completed in the past, has been full of dedication to find the answers. Demand for accountability. And an endless search for truth. That is at the heart of what I have dedicated my life to.

The search for truth.

I ask you all, to continue to search for that truth with me. And I ask Wilson Fisk, to have the courage to sit down with a journalist who dares to ask a question, not just provide space for endless air to be exchanged.

Steve threw the pitch and Natasha knocked it out of the goddamn ballpark.

And Wilson Fisk was throwing more things in his room, besides a plate and a glass after reading both articles.

To say it had been quite the Wednesday after Steve and Natasha's articles hit the stands, was underplaying the scene.

A viral meme of boxers, with Fisk's name on one side of the ring, and Romanoff and Rogers on the other, circled social media. Maria Hill had roasted her producers for their cheap efforts for eyeballs the day before, and got her spot on GMC, to essentially apologize on Wednesday for the poor reporting. They Mayor called both journalists and commended them on not backing down.

Natasha did take his call that morning and returned the compliment, "It's nice to see that backbone you always had reemerge, Coulson. You've been busy in the last week."

He had been busy with pushing the budget changes through, earlier than expected.

And as for their team? Proud as always, but they were more concerned with what wasn't talked about in Steve and Natasha's articles.

Mainly the two of them, and everything they were denying.

10 days ago, Steve and Natasha were on the cusp of a friendship, they dove in headfirst and had enjoyed every step since. Yes, the pair of journalists were rivals to fast flirts to a threat of becoming nothing at all, before finally settling on this friendship.

And yet, a football-sized field of denial surrounded them now. But it was a friendship none the less.

A morning run. Three coffees. One taco treat, full of heat. And countless additions to that seemingly never-ending text thread of theirs. 10 days in, and that place in the middle they'd agreed to settle in, was sure blurring the lines, into somewhere or something else. The place of flirty smiles and prodding thoughts. Of sweating bodies and heated stares. Of twitches and quivers and thickening air.

The place, that was getting harder and harder to ignore, because it was as noticeable as an elephant standing in a closet.

It was pretty damn obvious to everyone around them too.

The hustle and bustle of Natasha and Steve's articles had tempered after a couple of hours. Calls were taken and texts exchanged. And soon enough, the team was back at it again.

But Natasha wasn't going to wait around for the hyenas around her desk to get going for the day.

Natasha and Steve were more in sync at separate papers than most journalists who worked together. They seemed to inhabit the likes of Woodward and Bernstein from the Watergate days of the 70's, and everyone was kind of in awe.

Sam said that Wednesday, "The thing that's crazy is those two are on the same wavelength, even when they aren't fighting or pretending to work together."

Bucky added, "You think Hollywood will write a movie about Rogers and Red? I can see it now, Sammy. Rivalries to friends to…definitely something more than any friendship we've ever experienced. And all the while…"

Sam finished, "They're knocking articles out of the park as answers slowly reveal themselves to mysteries surrounding two train crashes."

Peter and MJ joined in the fun as MJ started casting all of their parts with starlets from California, "Peter, do you think we'd have roles in the movie?"

Peter added, "God, I wonder who'd play us?"

Natasha groaned behind her little family of friends. Bucky smirked at her and answered MJ, "Sure, Kiddo. We'll all be cast by people more beautiful than any of us. But the real key is…casting the leads and trying to have the same energy that Romanoff and Rogers share."

Sam finished, "Crashes and death can't stop the looks and chemistry between these rivals."

Natasha shut her drawer a little forcefully, causing everyone to stop, "Jesus, you are all morons. Loveable ones…but a bunch of morons. I'm out for the rest of the day. Tell anyone who calls…Actually, tell them whatever you want. I'll get back to them tomorrow."

They shrugged their shoulders and returned to their casting of the team as Natasha left.

Peter and MJ were off a few minutes later as Bucky joked to Sam, "I've never exchanged texts and had coffee dates that weren't dates…with someone I had the hots for. Have you Sam?"

Sam laughed, "Well, no. But you tell me. If Wanda would have tried to friendzone you, as ridiculous as that idea is, wouldn't you have done the same?"

Bucky only pondered for a second, as Sam added before leaving for the morning too, "Exactly, Buck. You would have moved heaven and earth to just be near her."

There was no 'would have,' about it. Bucky would absolutely do that, no questions asked. Hell, Bucky might have even met Wanda for an early morning run. Which was laughable, because of how much he hated running. But regardless, the point was made. Which only drove home Bucky's initial point. Steve and Natasha had it just as bad for each other as he and his wife did.

The difference was, Bucky and Wanda were never in denial about their relationship. And Bucky had a sneaking suspicion, that playing into this whole agreement of friendship, had an expiration date looming.

But that timeline would be for Natasha and Steve to figure out as Bucky decided to write his fellow editorialist at The Star. Bucky loved Natasha like a sister and was curious if Tony was seeing how noticeable all of this was too. Yes, Bucky had plotted to try to have drinks with the crew of The Star, last Monday. But he hadn't actually talked with Tony in quite some time. He had the bullpen to himself Wednesday morning, and his own curiosity got the best of him.

He threw a note Stark's way and stated the obvious.

30 minutes later, Natasha got out of her cab at Jane Foster's lab.

They'd seen each other at Hope's funeral but didn't get a chance to talk. They'd texted and called a few times right after the events of that fateful Friday night. But they hadn't seen each other in private until this moment.

Natasha's concern was evident, "Jane, look I know you're probably scared that Hope was killed because she was running tests on that goddamn pen I found."

To no surprise, she was just as strong as Natasha and all the other colleagues she'd worked with over the years. Thick skinned and smart as hell, Jane looked at her with a funny stare, "Natasha, I obviously don't know who killed Hope. But what I do know, is she didn't die because she ran a silly little test on a pen. All of those results are all protected by our software security anyway."

Natasha's eyes widened a little, waiting for her to continue. Jane sighed and sat back at her desk, "I think the killer only knew about the pen because of the texts between you and Hope."

Natasha thought of something as she brought her notepad out of her bag. So many unanswered questions, but maybe Jane could help with one of them.

The crumpled-up piece of paper, Natasha had pulled out of the plastic from Hope's lifeless grasp, rested in her hand now. It still had the red stains from Hope's dried blood on it. Natasha had laminated it, keeping it as a reminder that this story wasn't just about finding the truth out. It was about working towards something that Hope had died for.

The piece of paper had 'LSL 616,' written on it.

Natasha slid the paper Jane's way, "Jane, did Hope have anything here that could be linked to whatever LSL 616 means?"

Jane thought for a few seconds but shook her head, "Nothing much. I mean, I already gave her personal belongings here to her mom. But she didn't have a lot. Just a coat and sweater. A bag of snacks…all small things."

But Jane's eyes fluttered as she paused to think of something else. Natasha motioned with her head, "And?"

A chuckle came out as Jane smirked, pulling out another note from her desk, "Look, this may not be anything at all. But it was a sticky note in the back of her desk."

Natasha looked at the note along with the LSL 616 writing. It was the same handwriting, but that was a given.

There were six numbers on the piece of paper Jane had just given her.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42.

Six numbers Natasha thought were random at first, but something was jostling in her brain.

Jane huffed out a breath, "I didn't know Hope well in the time she'd worked here. She was quiet and kept to herself, but she was very smart. But I know she loved the TV show Lost. She had her screensaver saved to the show. I googled those numbers when I found the sticky note…I guess they're pretty famous from the show. I have a hunch…those numbers are the combination to a locker or safe."

Lost.

Of course. It had been more than a few years since the show was on, so Hope must have really loved it.

Natasha placed both notes back in her pad for safekeeping, "You know of any lockers Hope had?"

Jane blew out a breath, "Boy, I wish I did. I don't though, Natasha. I'm really sorry."

Natasha sat back across Jane's desk, "Okay, okay. So, circling back though, if you're sure it wasn't the pen that triggered Hope to be followed and attacked that night, then what do you think happened?"

Jane looked away for a moment, "I didn't say the pen had nothing to do with it. I'm saying the test that Hope ran here, didn't trigger anything from anyone. I do think it's loosely connected though."

Natasha tapped her own pen as she motioned for Jane to go on. Her colleague took a drink of water before continuing, "You didn't ever really talk with her. And yes, she was quiet…But Hope's father died two years ago. I only found out recently, when I caught her accessing some of our background check databases we have connections to."

Natasha had that wild stare in her eyes as she was drinking in every word and jotting down endless notes.

Jane continued, "Hope was so worried I was going to try and get her in trouble for using the database, but I was more concerned for her than anything. God, she was upset. She didn't really say much more, but her Dad's death really affected her. I hadn't known her long at all. But I could tell there was a story there, for sure."

Natasha sat up, "Wait, I googled Hope and did a deep dive. I couldn't find anything about her father. And her obituary didn't even mention him. The only thing I could determine, was that she was estranged from her father, and I wasn't going to ask her mom about it at the funeral last weekend."

A few seconds of silence passed as tension built.

Jane nodded, "It was nice of you to go, Natasha. I caught you across the church on Saturday, but we both left pretty quick after the service."

Natasha became a little impatient, "Jane, come on. Whatever you are thinking, spill it. I'll make some calls and get some police to stand guard to help if you need it."

Jane shook her head, "Natasha, I'm not worried about our little shop. I'm serious. I even talked with Yelena over the weekend and we laughed because we're all in the same boat. Us morticians and secretaries and lab workers and nurses in this city. We're the eyes and ears, seeing and hearing all the dirty secrets of this town. We do all these little tests and run reports. And we're all shared contacts with police and media. But none of us are big enough for anyone to actually worry about. Well, almost none of us. You on the other hand. You keep poking the bear like your article today did, and you might be the one needing security."

Natasha scoffed, "Jane…seriously. Tell me whatever you've got."

Jane drummed her fingers, but finally relented, "Okay, well, I don't know if I need to say this is off the record at this point. Because I want you to figure out whatever the hell is going on. But I don't want my name attached to it, you know?"

Natasha did know.

Different contact. Same story. She'd have to find other sources to verify the info, but she also wanted Jane and any source to stay safe, "Yeah, Jane. You won't be in anything I write. But come on. You've got something…"

Jane tapped her fingers on her thigh, "Alright. I don't know everything. But like I said, something was up with her Dad's death a couple years ago. I'm fairly certain there was an NDA involved with Hope and her Mom. And I'm sure Hope was all too eager to meet you that Friday night because, well…her dad worked for Midwest Pharmaceuticals. He was a scientist there or something. His name was Hank Pym."

Natasha had already pulled out her phone and was trying to search for anything on the name. But her search came up empty. Her brain was reeling as she made a couple more notes, "Jane, can you think of anywhere at all, that Hope might have had a locker? Did she belong to a gym?"

Jane shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't have a clue with any of that. I promise. Hope only let it slip about her Dad two weeks ago. The NDA is a complete guess on my end, because Hope was so vague and dismissive about it."

Natasha was finishing writing. She was talking to herself loud enough into her recorder now, for Jane to hear,

"Fingerprints on pen are John Doe's. John Doe is a mystery. John Doe was more than likely pushed or killed in some other way before being shoved in front of the train…suicide staged. John Doe is connected to Midwest Pharmaceuticals just like Hope's Dad. Her Dad died…was his death covered up too? Did John Doe know him? Do these numbers open up a lock box of some sort, and where is it? If The Red Line accident was staged as a distraction, why that line? Was it a bad coincidence for the people on board, or were any of them connected?"

"Um, Natasha…do you even know that you're speaking out loud?"

Natasha looked up. That was a definite no, as she clicked her recorder off.

"Sorry, Jane. Force of habit. I gotta run, okay? But you've been a huge help. Huge."

Jane had a hunch on where Natasha was headed next, "Natasha, be easy on Hope's mom. She did just bury her daughter last weekend."

Natasha made a quick call to Fury, and five minutes later, she was in a cab to go to Janet Van Dyne's house, two miles away. She'd left her jeep at home, not feeling like dealing with traffic today.

That adrenaline surge was already coursing through her veins when a cleaning woman answered the door at the Van Dyne residence 15 minutes later, "You can put any food you have in the kitchen."

Natasha paused, feeling a pang in her stomach. This house must have received more food than they could store, since Hope's death. "I'm sorry, I was at the funeral the other day and just wanted to pay my respects to Ms. Van Dyne in person. I didn't get a chance to there."

The woman directed her to sit in a room off to the right of the foyer in the old brownstone. The house was the opposite of empty. Still dealing with the carryover from a tragic death of a beautiful young woman, and a funeral only a few days ago. Natasha saw who she assumed were many family members and friends there to help Hope's mom fill each day.

Kids were in the living room off to the left, with some cartoon on. A dark-haired woman was near the dining area, looking at some photos on the wall. Middle aged couples were out back, sharing some drinks. The sound of teenagers running around came from upstairs. Natasha peeked into the kitchen, only revealing more people as several older women were bopping around.

The house was bustling with life, which was such a tragic irony.

The study she was directed to, was a nice little reprieve from the otherwise noisy house.

Natasha glanced over the room and smiled at the wall of books. Finding many of her favorites among the Van Dyne's collection, she felt a warmth inside. She began forming an unspoken kinship with a fellow book lover. Natasha scanned the walls and saw several photos of Hope and her mother, and any distraction from the noise in the house was gone in a second. Instantly, that anger swelled in her chest as she thought of how senseless her death was.

Hope was just a normal woman doing her job.

And as obscure of a connection that the pharmaceutical pen was, Natasha finally felt like a big piece of the puzzle fell into place with her earlier conversation with Jane. Midwest Pharmaceuticals played a bigger role in this than anyone knew. What Natasha hadn't realized until talking with Jane today, was that Hope testing the results of the pen had only been a link, not the underlying cause to why someone was after her.

So, the biggest question of all that Natasha had circled on her notepad about 15 times was, 'What in the hell did Hope find, besides connecting the prints on the pen to John Doe?'

"Oh no, thank you so much for your time, Ms. Van Dyne. I can't tell you how sorry I am."

Natasha went rigid. Because of all the voices, in all the places…

"Son of a bitch," she whispered to herself.

Talk about being on the same track or wavelength. Bucky and Sam joked before, but here their statements seemed to come true, only a couple hours later.

Hope's mother's voice echoed again, "What's that, Mary? She's in the study? Okay, I'll go in there before we jump into trying to sort through and start on thank you cards today."

A beautiful, but very tired woman opened the door all the way to the study and smiled at Natasha. She was half finishing her conversation to the cleaning woman who directed her this way, and half saying goodbye to nonother than Steve Rogers, who was standing beside her, "It's a silly thing isn't it? My daughter is murdered, and we must fill our days with trivial items like writing thank you cards for the endless money, food, gifts, and plants received."

It was the kind of comment that a woman going on zero sleep for well over a week made, not caring at all how blunt she came off. Not caring at all, that the man talking to her, and the woman waiting for her clearly knew each other.

Natasha's eyes found Steve's, and even though it was a somber house and awful circumstances, that mischievous glimmer shined in both of them.

They'd more than jumped into this friendship of theirs, but they'd played it safe with regards to the case and how little of shop talk they exchanged over the last 10 days. The friendship was addictive and easy and great, so they tried to avoid the pitfalls of where they'd imploded before.

But that avoidance wasn't going to be possible forever. It had an expiration date of almost a full 10 days to be exact, and not a day longer.

Steve gave a quick little nod, and Natasha raised her eyebrow as he spoke, "I can't even imagine, Ms. Van Dyne. I won't take any more of your time. I'm sure this lovely lady needs it more than me. Thank you again."

The woman smiled somberly as she patted his hand, "Heavens, Mr. Rogers. I told you, just call me Janet. And don't forget to take a plant. We have more than we can count."

Steve gave a quick wave with a finger and chuckled to himself on the way out. Timing had a funny way when it came to him and Natasha.

All the testing of waters of this so-called friendship, only led to more texts and meet-ups. Three coffees, a morning jog, and a Sunday afternoon taco lunch. They'd learned nonsensical facts and fun details. They'd spent time running up a hill and doing a crossword together and joking about Natasha's lack of food in her Fridge. And they'd spent a lot of time staring and fighting lingering thoughts.

But they hadn't peeled the onion back, around work or anything too personal on purpose, because they didn't want to get burned again. But that wasn't a sustainable plan and they both knew it.

10 days was the expiration date until work collided on the streets. They wouldn't get to just enjoy the other's article from afar now. Paths were officially crossing, and all of the heat and rivalry and competitiveness simmered underneath.

How would it change things? They didn't know, but they'd have to deal with this obvious overlap.

As much as Steve was keeping this friends thing going, with a red head he found attractive in more ways than one, he couldn't help but be amused by Natasha's inner competitor kicking into overdrive right now.

Mary handed him a plant on the way out, and Steve made sure to thank her a little too loudly, so Natasha could hear him one more time.

Natasha tried to laugh it off as she rolled her eyes before Janet turned and closed the door. Steve was apparently on this same trail somehow. But before she could go too far down that rabbit hole, her focus was on the grieving mother in front of her.

"I'm sorry, it doesn't look like Mary offered you anything to drink. All these people in this busy house, and no one to offer a newcomer anything."

Natasha waived her off, "No, I'm fine. I promise Ms. Van Dyne."

The woman forced an empty smile, "You must have heard what I told that handsome gentleman. There will be none of that. Just call me Janet."

They took a seat on two chairs near the fireplace in the study as Natasha tried to offer her sympathy. "Janet…I am so sorry I didn't talk to you at the funeral. But I knew you would be flooded with people that day. And well, I kind of felt out of place there. I just wanted to say…I am so sorry."

Something clicked in Janet's eyes, that showed their wear and tear from the last 10 days. She looked right at Natasha, "Oh my goodness. I can't believe I didn't realize when I saw you right away. You're Natasha Romanoff. You found my Hope."

Janet's voice cracked as Natasha gave a single nod.

Most people who recognized Natasha, was a result of her reporting and image across town. If only, that was the reason Janet recognized her now.

Janet grabbed a copy of Hope's obituary on an end table as she played with the corner and went on, "You know when I had to go and identify her body, the cops told me that you'd tried everything you could…even tore the plastic off to see if anything could be done."

Natasha let the silence fill the air for a few seconds before she spoke, "I…Janet. I just wish…"

Janet cut her off, "We all wish, but the real world isn't for our wishes sometimes, is it?"

The mother shook her head, shaking away any notion to go down a road of breaking down again. Natasha only surmised that she'd been down that path more times than she could count. The woman looked like she was completely out of tears and just didn't have the energy right now.

Natasha swallowed and glanced at the ground. There was really nothing she could say to Janet's words.

Another moment of silence passed before Janet bluntly asked, "You couldn't have come over here to just give your respects. I've been reading your articles. You're a wonderful writer…You think my Hope was tied up in something with the suicide of the man at the train station a few weeks ago? Or that other horrible accident?"

Well, that was the big question, circled on Natasha's notepad, but not in that exact context. It wasn't if Hope was tied up with anything specifically. More that she fit in to this story somehow, in a bigger way.

Natasha sighed, "Janet, did Hope have any connection to Midwest Pharmaceuticals?"

There was a flicker of something that ran across Janet's face. Something that looked like alarm, but she quickly blinked it away and shook her head, "Besides being a human being and having some prescription over her 35 years of living that came from the company?"

Natasha was at a crossroads. It was clear that there was something there, but she knew if she pushed in the wrong way or too hard right now, Janet would shut down.

Natasha took a breath, "Janet, there's a picture being painted from loose details I've gathered. John Doe's death might be tied to the drug company. Hope was helping connect a few of those dots. They just aren't solid enough to put out into the air yet."

Janet shook her head, "Natasha, the police told me everything, and it was straight forward. She was mugged and then shot twice and wrapped in plastic, and it looks like it could be mafia related…you even said as much in your article a couple days ago."

Natasha sighed. She had written that. And it was a strong possibility. Especially with everything that had transpired with Wilson Fisk over the last two days. But just because the mafia may have beeninvolved, didn't mean something bigger wasn't in play.

Janet added, "I think if Wilson Fisk is at all involved, you and Steve Rogers are the journalists who will help the police finally bring him to his knees. This town needs to be done with criminals like that."

Natasha was really hesitant right now. She came here because of her conversation with Jane. But she really had been meaning to pay her respects to Janet too. And right now, the woman sitting near Natasha was at the end of her rope.

How could she not be?

So, if Janet really did know something else, she was not in a state to discuss it or be pushed right now. Hope's mom didn't mention anything about an injection site or blood pooling where a needle had gone into her neck when talking about identifying her body.

Okay, maybe Janet didn't know anything about that.

But Janet also didn't mention her deceased husband, whatever their relationship was at the end, and that he worked for the pharmaceutical company.

Something was very off, but Natasha treaded lightly, "Janet, I would love nothing more than to help bring anyone to justice who may have been involved."

"I would love it if the cops could find the killer too, Natasha."

Natasha paused for a second as she stared at a picture on the bookcase of Janet and Hope. That anger was still inside her, but so was the sadness for the woman in front of her, "I guess I just wanted to come by and see if Hope had mentioned anything odd or weird in the last few weeks…before what happened, happened. Anything at all that sticks out. You'd be surprised what weird thoughts can lead to something."

Janet thought about it for a few seconds as she looked at the same picture Natasha had been staring at, "I told the cops the same thing. There really isn't anything, Natasha. Hope had started working for Miss Foster recently and really liked the work. And it was good too, because she was an artist and wasn't making much money."

Just as Natasha thought about broaching the elephant in the room, of Hope's estranged and deceased father, and her injection site, Janet spoke again.

"I know it's odd being a scientist and artist. That's what made Hope unique though. She said it occupied both sides of her brain. But heavens, that reminds me. She has a storage facility full of unsold artwork, that I'll have to add to the list of things to do."

Storage facility?

Otherwise known as a goddamn locker.

A giant lightbulb went off in Natasha's head, right as Janet was yelling at Mary to remind her to clean out Hope's storage at Lakeside Lockers before they pay another months' rent.

Natasha mentally backed off. It was a good enough breadcrumb for now as Natasha put her notepad in her bag and stood up, not wanting to press Janet anymore. For today at least. She had another lead on this trail. And she'd managed to not upset Hope's mother more than she already was.

Janet gave a tired smile as Natasha leaned in for an awkward hug, "If you think of anything, Janet…you have my card here."

Janet patted her back and then was going through the motions again as she escorted her to the door, "Don't forget a plant, Dear. Here, Mary picked this Bamboo one out for you. Don't worry, you just need to water it every so often. They're the easiest things to take care of."

Natasha gave a genuine smile as Janet said one final thing to her, "Ms. Romanoff, whatever story you think is out there…just please be careful. And thank you again for the lovely write up you did about Hope. It meant a lot."

Reality was breaking through again as Janet's voice cracked. Natasha felt the tightening in her own throat. She knew there was more behind her words, 'be careful.' But she also knew she had another thread to pull on before she was willing to press Janet Van Dyne to the point of no return.

Janet may have feared there was something more to Hope's death. She may have even seen puncture wounds on her neck. She might've been just as surprised that Hope was cremated without an autopsy as Natasha had been. But Janet Van Dyne wasn't the lynch pin or underlying piece to this puzzle.

Plus, Janet had already given Natasha an unknowing lead with Lakeside Lockers.

So, Natasha said her goodbyes as she turned around with the front door closing behind her. Bamboo plant in hand and all.

"Didn't take you as a green thumb, Romanoff."

Natasha looked up and couldn't help it. A big grin formed on her face as she walked down the porch and into the residential street.

There was Steve Rogers, resting against his motorcycle, late on a Wednesday afternoon.

Another day and another street as they both chased today's newsbeats. And her handsome friend with a beard was waiting against his bike for her…again. Just like he was a week and a half ago when they had the blow up outside The Herald. But they were in a very different place then.

"Apparently, Janet Van Dyne knows I can't be trusted with a house plant. She gave me an easy one to keep alive. What'd you get, Rogers?"

Steve pulled a little house cactus from his carrying case on his bike, "I guess she thinks the same of all journalists. Told me I'll only have to give it a little water once a month. Tops."

Natasha had taken another couple steps closer, "So, what trail did you sniff out that led you here, Rogers?"

Steve crossed his legs at his ankles, appearing to fully relax and enjoy her curiosity take control, "Well now, that's not something we were willing to disclose over a month ago, when you found me at the train crash."

Natasha narrowed her eyes playfully, "I didn't go looking for you, Steve. Two accidents. Two train lines. It was a pretty busy day, remember?"

"Two journalists diverged into a yellow wood…or something like that, right Romanoff?"

She scoffed, "I don't think either of us have much in common with Robert Frost, Rogers."

Steve went on, "And it's definitely not something we would have shared when you ghosted me."

Natasha rolled her eyes, "Are you going to bring that up every time you want to try and make me feel like an ass?"

Steve had a full, cocky grin on now, "Hey, those were your words at the pier last Monday…not mine. I just haven't had the chance to, since we've really avoided talking about work since then."

Natasha was on the same side of the street now, looking up at him, "For someone who supposedly has learned to be a better human than me, you sure are loving this whole swagger you got right now."

Steve put his sunglasses on and laughed, "I never said I was a better human than you. I said I used to use excuses to avoid life, a lot like you. Better's all in the eye of the beholder. Besides, we've moved past all that right? We're friends, so we can poke a little fun."

If they could hear them, groans and eyerolls would emerge across the city from Steve and Natasha's co-workers right now.

There was a reason Bucky emailed Tony, like they were twins from The Parent Trap, ready to coerce and connive to their heart's content.

That middle they'd found themselves in, where they'd been settled for the last 10 days, was feeling a little hotter right now. Natasha knew deep down what she wasn't saying or admitting. That Steve's smile and shades and leather jacket and tee, and those goddamn blue jeans all made him look like he was having the same thoughts of denial as she was.

Not to mention the thoughts she had at night, even before their Navy Pier peace talks.

If Natasha was honest, those heated thoughts and images began forming since the day Steve and her found each other at the train crash, almost six weeks ago.

He was having the same response inside, and it only made him a little too warm for his jacket. Steve took it off, rearranging his case at the back of the motorcycle as he folded it inside. His tee molded and shifted around his arms and torso. It wasn't helping Natasha keep the appearance of being cool and collected.

But Natasha dug into this dance and right into their friend zone, "Poke a little fun, huh? Alright, so how many bashful gazes and 'Aw Shucks' pleasantries did you have to give Janet Van Dyne before she gave you something juicy?"

Steve looked like he'd just been to the dentist with how he was proudly showing off his pearly whites, "Do you really think I've ever said, 'Aw Shucks,' in my life, Romanoff?"

Natasha couldn't help it as she cradled her plant under one arm, as her right hand found his chest. She was poking him in more ways than one, "Hey, all I'm saying is you know exactly what you're doing when you bat those eyes and give a nonchalant wink to get your way, Rogers."

Steve swallowed a little harder, as the air became a little heavier. He lifted his shades and let those baby blues shine, "Yeah, like you don't know how to get your way with looks. Tell me, am I batting anything right now, Romanoff?"

He wasn't, but it didn't mean Natasha was wrong.

The way Natasha felt about him in his tee and jeans? It was only reciprocated with Steve noticing her shorts and a tank and thin cardigan in the same way. This had gone from being caught off guard, to being smacked upside the head within a minute.

She'd been surprised to hear his voice, as her internal competitor kicked into gear with Janet. Now, outside, Natasha had thought they could wade around in this playful banter. But all of a sudden, it flipped.

That expiration date was looming large.

A little contact. A little aggravation and provoking. And a little thing called pent up tension from well over a month of figuring out where they stood.

Rivals. Flirts. A mess. And now, friends.

The through line with all of it, was them and what they were feeling now.

This connection and tension that kept coming back with a force each time they let it.

Steve watched her breathe and for a second, Natasha looked at him without thinking of anything else. Not the story or their jobs, or agreement of parlay or friendship. Without thinking of her life and choices.

Instead, Natasha looked at him just as he was looking at her. And had been looking at her, whenever Steve was able to be around her. And how he'd looked at her texts and notes and every article she wrote.

The sun was shining bright above them, but Natasha felt like that must have been cool in comparison to the heat in their bubble. Clearing away any of the messy thoughts that came before this very moment, Natasha could only think of one thing.

All of the denial from the last 10 days was swept away as a single thought bulldozed through her brain.

She wanted to feel his lips on hers just as badly as he did.

A car door shut about five houses down, and it was enough to break the trance as Natasha jumped a little and Steve blinked.

The story. Janet Van Dyne's house. Hope's funeral plant. The train crashes. John Doe and Hope's Dad. That was the reason they were here right now. Natasha took a step back and cleared her throat, "I think you want to know what brought me here as much as I want to know your angle, Rogers."

There it was. Work and no play.

Steve looked off to the side, exhaling. What she said was true. He was very interested in what Natasha had on this story and what brought her here. But he was much more interested in what she just backed away from.

But Steve relented and made another peace offering. Something neither one of them would have ever discussed when they first met. Something they hazed each other about in their first week, scoping out Union Station. But here they were, almost six weeks after meeting each other. Plenty of run ins and texts and arguments and ups and downs. And even some drinks with a giant pretzel last week.

Here they were, denying what both wanted, but accepting what both had agreed on.

Trying to be friends.

So, Steve offered another olive branch to the woman who was batting her own eyes at him, whether she knew it or not. "Natasha, I'm going out on a limb here. This story…is big enough to share. That's clear. Our papers have had record sales since the two crashes. But it's also clear, even though we've both had big breaks, we are treading water in all these pieces of the puzzle."

The energy had cooled enough as Natasha raised her brow, "You trying to recruit me to work at The Star, Rogers? I think Fury might have a problem with that."

Steve laughed, "No, but I think we could both benefit from a little sharing of our own intel."

She scoffed, "Didn't we try that already? The whole, 'If you knew what I knew, and I knew what you knew,' thing didn't last too long at Union Station, Rogers."

Steve shook his head, "I can see those gears working you into a tizzy already, Romanoff. I think we're well past wild goose chases and Waste of Time bar tabs."

It was true. Fury's name for her infamous, Romanoff wheel spin, was visible to Steve.

Natasha smirked as he went on, "All I'm suggesting, is we both throw a couple pitches and see if the other one can hit a line drive off of it."

She let out a little laugh, "Well sure, you would say that with the Cubs line up of pitchers this year. The Dodgers will kill us when they come to town next month."

"Romanoff, come on. I think this comes down to a simpler question. Do you trust me?"

Those words hit her as hard as that hot sauce had hit Steve on Sunday afternoon.

Natasha was able to deny or at least avoid that kiss she so badly wanted. But she couldn't deny the friendship and connection they'd started forming. Reluctantly at first, but willingly over the last couple of weeks. Somewhere in the mixture of the middle and friendship and denial, this little thing called trust began to form.

She blew out a breath, "So what, we exchange notepads or something?"

Steve shook his head, "You really are something…How about we start with what brought us here today. I'll go first."

A few seconds passed before she motioned for him to go on. "Let the record show I'm taking the leap first. Don't leave me out to dry, Red."

Her smile followed as he went on, "Some of the stuff I've found over the last few weeks, has led me up to the door, but not actually let me inside…to Midwest Pharmaceuticals."

Natasha didn't even hide it. Her eyes narrowed as he continued, "I did a little digging and had a friend find out who Hope's dad was."

Natasha wasn't the only one with connections.

She finished the next words out of his mouth, "Hank Pym."

Steve nodded, "And his mysterious death a couple years ago? I don't know. It all feels connected. He worked for that company, and typically where there's smoke…"

"There's fire."

Natasha had finished his sentence for a second time as she jumped in and took her own leap, pulling out the note she'd laminated, along with what Jane had given her today.

Steve stared at it, "Are those the Lost numbers?"

She scoffed as he added, "Wait, is that blood? Natasha, you found this on Hope, didn't you?"

"You're really something, Rogers. And really quick. Yeah, I did."

Steve shook away the concern as he added, "This other paper a combination?"

Maybe with some areas, Steve was even quicker than her.

Natasha and Steve were standing close enough to be rubbing elbows as she said, "Yeah, it's probably a storage facility."

Steve let the next words slip out as his thoughts formed, "Lakeside Lockers."

Natasha groaned, "Okay, were you actually hiding in the bushes or something, listening to Janet's conversation with me?"

Steve let out a laugh, "No, but I caught a couple of bills lying on a kitchen counter when Janet gave me a cup of coffee. My conversation was even shorter than yours with her, but I caught the mail pile and tried to remember as many names as I could on the envelopes. That one stood out."

She blew out a breath, "I bet those older women getting all the food organized were happy to see you walk in."

"Romanoff, come on."

She shrugged, "Fine. Yeah, Janet let it slip that Hope had a storage space there. I didn't draw attention to it, but I'm guessing if there's a safe or lockbox anywhere, it's there."

That was more information than Natasha had shared with anyone, outside of her co-workers or sources.

Ever.

Steve could say the same thing even though it was his idea, but it didn't matter.

They took a leap on trust, and here they were on the other side.

Natasha pulled her phone out and was in the middle of calling a cab when Steve grabbed her plant from her, "Hang up the phone, Natasha. I've already seen the numbers, and we know we're both going to the same place, so don't waste the money on cab fare."

Steve put her plant right next to his cactus in his carrying compartment. What a prickly pair the plants were. Just like them.

"Here's another fastball for ya, Romanoff." Steve tossed the passenger helmet her way as she caught it and looked at him with surprise, "Rogers…"

Steve pulled the key from his pocket and sighed, "Natasha, just get on the damn bike. Don't think for once. I promise, I'm a good driver. You already trust me, right?"

That wicked grin was back as she tried to hide her smile, but it was no use. She shuffled her feet on the ground for a second before finally forcing that wheel turn in her head to stop and listen to him. Her feisty demeanor may not be quashed by a helmet, but it would make her look all the more attractive to him.

Steve got on first and nodded for her to join him, "Come on. Just hold on tight."

She'd started the day as her paper and Steve's hit the stands, punching back at Fisk's slop of lies he'd spewed out into the world of Chicago yesterday. She met with Jane and found a thread to pull on. Natasha had come to pay her respects and to see what information she could find in Janet Van Dyne's brownstone. And now she found herself letting out a deep breath.

With her bag slung over her back, Natasha lifted her leg to straddle the motorcycle.

She had to do this right? Get this close if she was taking this leap with Rogers?

In more ways than one, that's how trust worked.

The helmet. Sitting close enough to smell Steve's aftershave as she breathed the air in around him. The sharp inhales and exhales as her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, settling on his stomach. It was like both of their senses were flooded with each other all at once.

Tentative and nervous and dancing on a wire could only describe the excitement inside them.

Excitement of the chase and the story. But excitement as this step forward emerged from finally trusting each other. Not just with a meet up from a meet cute. But with their passion and work.

Steve grabbed both of her hands, and she jumped a little. He laughed, clasping them tighter together in his own, "Come on Natasha, just hold on tight. I got you."

The feel of his hands over hers sent a calm over those nerves as she did as he said. Steve turned the engine on, and off they went, with Natasha holding on tight and leaning into his back. With him focusing on the road and trying not to focus on her legs around him.

They were after the story alright, but the steps forward right now, were just as surprising. Was their anticipation higher for the unraveling mystery of two train accidents, or in the story unfolding between two journalists on a motorcycle? That was what Natasha and Steve were so interested to find out.

Not everything was as obvious to them as it was to their fellow editorialists exchanging emails, after all.

End Note:

Hope you all had fun with the pool of denial Steve and Natasha are swimming around in…yes yes – it's the size of an ocean 😉.

Another couple of cameos and an ending, sending these two crazy kiddos off into the streets…on Steve's motorcycle chasing answers to these questions piling up.

Thanks so much for reading and supporting. It really means so much to me!

I love hearing from readers, so help a writer out and leave a comment with your thoughts.

Have a great weekend as Summer winds down!

Cheers! ~~ Kat