Beats on the Street Chapter 7: Opinion Page: Quicksand, an avengers fanfic

Beats on the Street

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

Chapter 7 – Opinion Page: Sinking into Quicksand

My Dearest Barnes,

If you're thinking these emails to each other are like star crossed lovers from an old war movie, don't worry. You're married, and I will be eventually to Pep. My boss, how scandalous! You know, Barton and I have been having a lot of fun getting Rogers' underoos in a twist over the last month. The man looks like Bambi when Romanoff's name is even mentioned.

So, what do we got here…sworn enemies like Romeo & Juliet? No, that's too many tights and way too many whilsts and thousts and thees for my liking. Catwoman & Batman? Hmm. Tempting, because Bambi moments aside, Rogers can certainly brood with the best of them. But no. Again, way too much rubber and spandex, and far too angsty for them. Neither one of them is a clear hero or villain, although an argument can be made for all of us being antiheroes.

So where does that leave us with these fools? They're much more of a Sam and Diane. Or When Harry Met Sally. But those were long and drawn out and more opposites attract. Romanoff and Rogers? Phew, the Navy Pier fireworks got nothing on them, I tell ya. They're more…two sides of the same coin, like His Girl Friday or The American President.

Yes, that's it.

A big story at work is in play, putting them at odds initially, only to discover that by growing closer, they find their chemistry is unstoppable. Huh. I should write for a living, shouldn't I Barnes?

Now what was your initial thought again?

Oh yes, these denial dwellers not being able to get out of their own way, or for one of them to at least take their shot and let the other fall in line. It has to happen soon though, because Rogers initially started looking all happy when Red's articles would get delivered or a text would pop up, or her name dropped. Like he was a kid waking up to a snow day or something.

But now? The man just looks like a puppy left on the side of the road when no one's looking. They're hot for each other, I tell ya. Hot of the presses for each other.

It's time for us to take on the antihero mantel and get to interfering.

So, shine off your shoes, Barnes. Tell your wife to go and buy a new dress. You're all going to be invited to my Dad's inaugural Charity Ball this weekend. Those two in evening wear? We'll force them to dance and hopefully make the next move. Much to all of our benefit. The lost puppy dog look has to stop.

Even Pepper said something…although that may have been to tell me to quit roasting the man so much.

Until next time -

-Stark

"Listen up everyone."

Fury stood in his doorway on a Thursday afternoon as his team drew their attention from the bullpen.

"Hope none of you had evening plans tomorrow. Because you're Friday night dance cards have just been filled. We've all just been summoned."

Fury began reading the letter he was holding to his staff,

Nicholas J. Fury,

I hope this finds you and your staff well. Ever since I started at The Star, I've been told by board members and elites in the city that the rivalry of our paper with The Herald is as old as bootlegging and speakeasies. I've smiled and minded my p's and q's through each of these conversations, that are filled with nothing more than hot air. I can only imagine how many of those same discussions you have had over the years.

I think it's high time we stopped acting like two offices that hold each other back. Yes, we've traveled down separate but similar roads over the years, both convinced we are fighting for the same space. But if anything has been learned over the last six weeks, it is that both of our institutions have grown in sales without harming the other.

Yes, we should acknowledge who we are and the real world we live in. Two papers, pitted against each other. But rather than reveling in a rivalry since the first bricks of The Herald and Star were laid, we should recognize our similarities, which are many.

Maybe our paths have never separate at all.

We are two pillars of journalism in this City, having lasted the test of time and change. Other competitors have fallen. Most across the entire country, have succumbed to the digital age. But our editions have stood strong, elevating the entire newspaper industry in Chicago since their birth. And now, as I see it, we are two papers with excellent Editors in Chiefs at the helm. With journalistic integrity, and incredible writers, sharing their talents with the city and world.

We are two papers, that are deserving of a night out on the town.

This should have come your way a month ago when initial invites were sent out. Our apologies for the error. But please accept this invitation on behalf of Howard and Maria Stark at their inaugural Riverfront Charity Ball.

You'll find the invitation enclosed with all the details for this Friday evening. We look forward to seeing you and the staff of The Herald there to share in the festivities.

- Pepper Potts & Tony Stark

Fury taped the invitation to the wall outside his office, "Read the details here. I'll be going, and I expect the same out of you."

Peter joked, "Who still sends letters in the mail?"

Fury grinned, "Kid, we work in print. Emails are a necessary function of the world we live in. But you get to my age and to where Pepper is in her position, and you realize that sometimes it just means more to put it in writing."

Sam yelled out, "So, is this keeping our enemies closer or something, Fury?"

Fury looked down at him, "Maybe with former editors, sure. But Pepper Potts has shown just as much grit and integrity since she's taken over, as I expect out of each of you. So, what the hell. We have our lead journalist making friends across the aisle, so why not the rest, right?"

Bucky beat the rest of the team to the punch, "I don't think we'll all be making friends like Romanoff. Otherwise, that Ball is going to be full of a bunch of steamy looks and pent-up tension."

Natasha groaned, "I told you guys…"

Her entire team had heard it before and answered at the same time, mockingly, "We're just friends."

Fury shook his head, "I'll leave the labeling to all of you. I'd rather not know specific details about Romanoff's escapades with Rogers."

Natasha's eyes looked like they could pop out of her head. She had a conversation with Fury only a couple of weeks ago, about avoiding the same mistakes as him. That was fine. That was private. But now he's joining in with Bucky and everyone else?

"Fury…what? There are no escapades."

Fury had a glint in his eye. This letter wasn't out of the blue. Olive branches had been extended and received between the editors, at an increasing rate over the last month. He'd congratulated Pepper on the great hire of Rogers a few weeks back. And Pepper gave Fury accolades in return, saying they were both benefiting from the exemplary writing of their lead journalists.

And they were both right. Steve and Natasha took off on a motorcycle yesterday, and had worked through all of today, writing their articles for Friday's paper.

Sales were up at both papers, and Fury's lead journalist had been killing it. Friday's edition would hit the streets bright and early tomorrow morning, and it would only continue the success. Except the Riverfront Ball was now waiting for the team at the end of the day, instead of the pier.

Saying what the hell, and enjoying a night on the town, was exactly right. Like the Navy Pier happy hour for the team, they all deserved to have a little fun. And Fury threw his cap into the ring too, after Pepper gave him the heads up about the invitation to Friday's Ball.

In Fury's mind, he'd beaten everyone else to the punch on wanting Natasha to take a chance. But if labels were the name of the game, then he was officially team Romanoff and Rogers.

Natasha had been his greatest hire and a close friend, practically family in fact, over the last 15 years. And the last thing Fury wanted, was her repeating his same mistakes. So, what was another little nudge in the right direction.

Thick skulls needed a few taps for clarity to settle sometimes.

The Editor in Chief couldn't deny the smiles and extra pep in Natasha's step over the last six weeks. Even more so in the previous two, since he'd had his heart to heart with her after Hope Van Dyne was murdered.

The Chief heard his other employees chattering about the 'will they, won't they,' of it all with these cross-town writers. Fury didn't really care about the frivolous details. That could all be left for his bullpen to peck at. At the end of the day, it was really a simple thought. Fury just liked seeing Natasha happy and was willing to help a little if he could. It was the cherry on top of improved relations with The Star.

"Romanoff, if I need to order you there, I will. So go get all gussied up and have a night out on the town on Howard Stark's dime. I don't think that should actually be as difficult as what you're trying to make it."

Natasha felt all the eyes on her in the bullpen as that warmth crept up her cheeks. And Fury returned to his office with a little whistling to accompany him, "Is he actually whistling?"

Bucky patted her on the back, "Thanks to all of us, being way too invested in yours and Rogers' love life, we've all gone a little crazy, Red. Time to strap on those heels on and take a big girl step."

The rest of the crew was full of chatter about an open bar and fancy dinner along the river front tomorrow night. Which meant one thing. Everyone started talking about dates and dining and dresses.

Peter and MJ just left for the day with Sam. They were hounding him on who he was going to bring to the Ball, and Sam was able to deflect by asking MJ what she was going to wear. Peter knew how his next 24 hours was going to be spent. He wasn't mad about it, it if meant looking at his girlfriend try on 50 different dresses.

Another 15 minutes had passed, and the rest of the office cleared out. Before she knew it, Natasha was alone in the bullpen with Bucky, and Fury in his office. The embarrassment managed to drain from her cheeks as she finished up a couple of emails, but she caught Bucky smirking at her again.

"Come on, Barnes. I don't involve myself in your extra curriculars."

Bucky laughed a little too loud, "That's cute. You mean you don't need to, since Wanda and I are official couple goals, right?"

Natasha shook her head, "Bucky, you and Wanda weren't ever forced into having beers with each other at a pier. I swear all of you are in cahoots to lock us in a room together."

"Hey, now that's an idea. Let me text that to Stark."

Natasha scoffed, "Since when did you and Tony Stark become friends?"

Bucky grinned as his chair rolled towards her a little, "See, I've always been a lover, not a fighter, Romanoff. I've known Tony for years, even before he started at The Star. We've always gotten along. But it's only recently that we've had a…common interest, to bring us all closer."

"Bucky, gimme a break."

He winked at her as he leaned back in his chair, "Romanoff, I am giving you a break. Seriously, you're like a sister, and you're equally stubborn as my own. No, Wanda and I weren't forced or coerced ever. But we don't count."

Bucky let a second pass before he wagged his eyebrows, "Since we were high school sweet hahhrts, you see."

Natasha rolled her eyes at his hammed-up accent but added, "You two make it look so easy."

Bucky blew out a breath, "It isn't always easy, but it's worth it. And it makes the difficult times easier when you've found the person for you. Natasha, you've had guys in your life before. Some of them even for a long time. But none of them had you making eyes, the way you do at Rogers. You guys got something. You just need a little push in the right direction."

Natasha wasn't agreeing with him. But…she wasn't backing away from this conversation right now either, which was something. She wheeled her chair away from her desk and toward him too, "I don't know, Bucky. I mean, he's stubborn as hell."

Bucky chuckled, "If only I knew someone like that…"

Her grin matched his as he continued, "Maybe that's what you need to keep you on your toes. And to call you out when you know…you're being you, Romanoff."

Natasha reached over and smacked his leg as he added, "Hey, I meant that in the best possible way."

"Uh huh."

Bucky shook his head, taking a more sincere approach for once, "You know, for someone so fearless in every other aspect of her life…and I do mean fearless, sometimes to a reckless extent, you sure seem to be running scared from this Natasha."

Natasha didn't fight back right now. It was just them. Fury was still in his office, and she was lowering her guard for once. "I don't know Bucky. I've been like this for so long that…my work is everything. And I'm really good at it."

"Nah, Red. You're the best."

"Geez, Buck…You're not even trying to sweeten me up for a favor."

Bucky folded his hands behind his head, "Well, just because you're the best journalist, doesn't mean your great at everything else."

Natasha chuckled tapping her finger on her chair, "Now you sound like every ex in my life. And my parents. And even Steve a few weeks back when he called me out after everything with Hope happened."

Bucky pretended to whisper, "You know what they say. Great minds…"

She rolled her eyes, "Don't you think having two stubborn journalists working on competing stories is just a recipe for disaster?"

Bucky matched her with a dramatic roll of his own eyes, "Natasha for God's sake. I've tried sugar coating it. I've tried being sincere. I've tried…and am still working on coercing methods. But now it's time for some tough love. You're not running because you're afraid it won't work out."

Natasha sat back and was quiet. She was more than a little caught off guard as Bucky went on, "You're running and putting Rogers in the perpetual friend zone. Even though everyone can see that you two want to tear each other's clothes off every time you text each other. Or see one another…"

She scoffed but didn't get a chance to rebuke because Bucky was on a roll, "Natasha, you're running because you're scared to death, of what will happen if it does work out."

There was an uncomfortable shift as Natasha looked at the ground. She wanted to have some quippy rebuke, but nothing was in her reserves for once. He'd struck a nerve, and no one else was around. Bucky was with one of the few people in the world that she really couldn't get away, with any of her normal brashness with.

There was no comeback she could sell because Bucky wouldn't buy any of it as he went on, "Look, Romanoff. You're an adult. You're strong and independent as hell and too smart for your own good. But when it comes to recognizing a chance you should take, because of that thing beating inside your chest? I'm sorry, you're just a damn idiot."

Natasha's eyes shot up as Bucky softened his tone, "Maybe you don't even realize it because your so used to keeping guys at a distance. It's just how you've operated. And that excuse has been a great cover, since your successes have become so noteworthy. The price of being alone is worth it, if you get to be at the top of the mountain of journalism in Chicago, right?"

Damn. He had her dead to rights.

That was what Natasha told anyone who'd ever tried to have one of these conversations, even before she met Steve. This was her life. Her city. Journalism was her passion and calling.

Etcetera, etcetera.

But the answer wasn't so obvious to her anymore. It hadn't been, ever since The Red and Blue Line train crashes six weeks ago.

A frown came over her as those internal thoughts battled. Bucky shook his head, "Natasha, that excuse has always been wrong. You want to be an old spinster, typing until you've lost the ability to move your fingers in life? Great. That's your choice if you want that. But that's never been a requirement to be great at your job, and you know it."

Today was baptism by fire in the school of Bucky's truth telling, apparently.

Natasha pulled the pen behind her ear and had started clicking it along her thigh.

Knowing something deep down, and having to confront it head on, are two different things. Being slightly aware of the denial she'd been swimming in, not just with matters surrounding Steve Rogers, but really towards her philosophy of work first, no matter what, was one thing. But knowing fully, that she could do things differently if she really wanted to, was as tough to stomach as the odors in Yelena's morgue for newcomers.

In short, change was really fucking hard. And the older and more stuck in one's ways they became, it only grew harder.

The clicking stopped as Bucky tapped her chair, breaking her train of thought, "Natasha, for what it's worth, you also haven't been around a guy that's been worth this intervention. Ever."

She blew out a breath if Bucky continued, "And let me tell you, there's a reason Wanda and I are the exception. There's a reason why our little photographer and MJ are so freaking adorable, it makes us all want to vomit onto their young, blissful bubble. When you find someone that makes you look at them, the way you do at Rogers? Well, it's worth finally making some changes."

"What if I can't?"

The question was rhetorical and quiet as she looked to the side, but Bucky didn't skip a beat, "When have you ever backed down from a challenge, Romanoff? If you can't, you'll only know if you try. But you gotta try."

Natasha looked back and found Bucky giving her a warm smile. There was no razzing right now. There was no coercing. It was just two close friends. It was two people, who'd come up the ranks and worked together for well over a decade. Natasha had seen Bucky through all of his ups and downs and triumphs in the last decade of their lives. He had been there through all her pitfalls and endless work accomplishments. And they'd made so many memories together with each other and Wanda. With Fury and Sam and the team. With the city as their backdrop over the years.

And right now, Bucky just wanted to see his dear friend happy underneath it all.

Natasha took a deep breath as Bucky finished, "It's worth taking a leap of faith, Natasha. Because if he's the guy for you, and half as good a guy as I think he is, he's not going to stop you…from being you or being a great journalist. He'll only make it better, because that's what you'll do as well."

Natasha was caught off guard from all of this. The last 30 minutes. The last month and a half. The last 24 hours as her motorcycle ride with Steve and Lakeside Lockers all ran through her brain.

Bucky chuckled, knowing he'd finally gotten through, "Look Red, I'd hate to see you throw away all the chances you're getting here with Rogers. Because at some point, they'll be gone. All it takes is a leap of faith in him, but more importantly, yourself."

Natasha shook her head as Bucky stood up and smiled, "Now, I gotta run and pick up dinner. Wanda said to text her a picture of your dress for the Ball. She wants to compare notes or something. I don't know. That's talk that officially goes over my head."

She looked up at her friend in disbelief, "Bucky Barnes, the love guru. Who would have thought?" His mischievous grin seemed to return as he waggled his eyebrows again, "Hey what can I say? If I ever lose my job as a journalist, maybe I can start writing love horoscopes."

Bucky was walking out the door with a swagger, that said he knew exactly the headspace he'd left Natasha in.

She'd rolled her chair back to her desk and closed up for the day as his words went through her head over and over.

'All it takes is a leap of faith in him, but more importantly, yourself.'

Natasha waved goodbye to Fury and could only think of the events from 24 hours ago. The day that left her head spinning and contemplating taking that very leap Bucky spoke of.

24 hours earlier, on a Wednesday afternoon, Natasha found herself clinging to Steve Roger's waist.

Down the road they traveled as her legs squeezed around his. They'd just left Janet Van Dyne's brownstone. And here Natasha was, taking in all that she could. Breathing in the scent of his t-shirt and aftershave. The hint of sweat and motor oil from his bike. Feeling the engine beneath them and the wind all around, as her fingers clasped together along his stomach.

But those sensations were nothing compared to the turmoil inside.

Both Steve and Natasha were trying this friend thing out. Their compatibility and chemistry were off the charts. Both quick witted and stubborn, their banter was natural, funny, and combative all in one. They'd grown comfortable, quickly becoming accustomed to their daily check ins. Texts about crosswords, jeopardy, their baseball loves and foils, and other trivial items.

Like the best concert they'd ever been to. He said The Rolling Stones on their last tour. She said Bon Jovi as a teenager in the late 90's.

Other texts about stupid jokes they'd heard or stories on the nightly news that raised a brow. Hell, they'd even texted about the weather in the last couple of days, because that's how natural they fell into each other's orbit. It didn't matter what label Steve and Natasha had slapped on, over the last two weeks. What had become evident, was this thing was so much more than a friendship.

Steve woke up thinking about her eyes and hair and skin and above all, her personality…every day since they first started this little rivalry. Natasha went to bed every night thinking about that goddamn beard of his and those baby blues, only to settle on who she'd found Steve Rogers to be as a person was what really made her warm. A good man, that she found interesting, sincere, a little mysterious, aggravatingly stubborn, and wickedly smart.

It was like there was this itch inside. And it had initially started to irritate with their rivalry. They dug in with hazing and pranks. The clawed at it with their flirtation with each other. But it was all safe to do so in the beginning stages. Because nothing would come of any of it.

So they thought, at least.

Then Natasha put the metaphorical car in reverse. She'd backed them up, all the way to square one and turned Steve away. And it was clear there was more to their instant attraction and rivalry than met the eye. But regardless, that itch had already been scratched. So, trying to go without any contact at all, as short lived as that attempt was, felt more irritating than any of their pranks that came before.

But that was all behind them. They'd put the salve on this little problem for the last two weeks with their proposed friendship.

Problem solved, right?

Two weeks of texting and meet ups, had all led to this.

To Natasha Romanoff squeezing her legs around Steve Roger's thighs with the hum of the road and engine under their asses. She drank in every beat felt around her, and he took in every second passed.

An itching sensation may have sufficed as a description a couple weeks ago or a month prior. Now? It didn't begin to describe what was churning inside. That itch had grown into a burn and was felt in every moment their stares lingered or distance grew near.

But there was a reason Steve was trying not to focus on Natasha's bare legs around him right now.

He was avoiding getting his hopes up. Simply put, Natasha had shut this down. And they'd both agreed to not pursue anything. Denial or not, Steve was in a slightly different spot than her.

The longer this went on, that difference was more than noticeable in what Steve had accepted to himself. This was growing well beyond just a few texts and jogs and coffees. And the balm of only being friends, would never be a long-term solution.

The bike turned onto a quieter road, leading towards Lake Michigan. Natasha pressed her cheek into his back and watched the streets and road signs fly by. Steve watched the road ahead and felt her fingers toying with the ends of each other and continued to focus and steady his breathing.

Deep down, Steve knew he wanted more and really thought Natasha did too. But whether she was willing to take the same leap he was…well, that was a Jeopardy question neither had the answer to. And that, was the real question that could put their entire relationship in jeopardy.

How far were either willing to go and push this thing?

Faith and trust and friendship aside, this thing was dealing with matters well beyond attraction and chemistry.

It was dealing with matters of the heart.

And when the heart was involved, every class taken and award earned, could be thrown out the window. The great equalizer was in play with each beat inside one's chest. All the advice could be given and ignored. All the denial could be swum through.

But what lingered inside with each beat of their chest, is what threw everything off balance. And their actions as a result, were about as predictable as a tornado's path, which couldn't be foretold at all.

In the end, everyone's a fool when dealing with the heart. Some happily so, and others full of regret and sorrow. But the heart doesn't care about facts nor figures, or logic or sound. The heart dealt in the intangible and emotion. The unspoken thing that grew each day between these two fools on a bike.

A couple minutes turned to 10, and 10 to 15. A turn was made, and a few more after, as the sun hovered in the late afternoon.

The smell of the lake welcomed them to the shoreline of the city. South of downtown and Grant Park and the fountain, where they'd spent Sunday at. South of all the museums and stadiums and main beaches. The skyline was still to their backs as always, as Steve made his final turn.

It wasn't a bad part of town, but it definitely wasn't part of the main tourist attractions either. Industrial parks full of steel and plain faced buildings. Cement parking lot after parking lot, with little green space attached to each warehouse and manufacturer.

If they didn't have the address, Lakeside Lockers could have easily been missed, because they weren't the only storage company in the area. But they were the most prominent. The facility was massive. Interconnected sheds spanned several floors in a warehouse facility that covered the size of two football fields.

Steve put his kickstand down in the parking lot and shifted off the bike as Natasha handed him her helmet.

Back to reality they went, trying to stay away from the thoughts they'd both been soaking in over the last 15 minutes. Steve looked at Natasha trying to straighten out her mussed-up hair, "See? We're both fine. Told ya there was nothing to worry about."

Fine wasn't how Natasha felt after riding Steve's hog. And that's the kind of seedy thought she was trying to avoid.

Fools on a motorcycle was right.

Steve helped her off the bike as Natasha did what she did best – redirected the conversation back to work.

"Okay, I have the numbers. But Jesus, Steve. This place is huge. There must be over 1,000 units in there. Where the hell are we going to find her storage shed?"

"I looked it up while I was waiting for you at Janet's house. There's actually over 10,000 sheds in there. And we're guessing her locker number is 616 from her note, right?"

Natasha nodded, "Yeah, it's as good a place as any to start. Let's figure out how these units are ordered."

They avoided the front entrance where there was an actual office and walked around to the backside of the building. Waiting for one of the renters to leave, Steve and Natasha snuck in the locked door.

Deflection and adrenaline were helpful with such fools as them. Because that familiar thrill of a good chase was felt as Steve and Natasha followed this new trail.

"So do we guess which floor?"

Natasha shook her head, "Look, there's a chart in the stairwell. Wow, this building goes seven floors underground too. 1000 to each level, so I'm guessing we'd start at basement level seven for the lowest numbers."

Steve and Natasha found a large elevator past the chart and closed the jerky cage before the inner doors shut. The lights were dim in the metal box as Steve cleared his throat, and Natsha hit B7 and found her spot at the opposite side.

All that thrill of the chase left them wound up with nowhere to go for the moment.

It's a funny thing about space. The less you have, the clearer things can become sometimes. Things could feel claustrophobic and intense, sure. But pressure also turns coal into diamonds. And a little increased pressure was clearing some thoughts up. For one of the occupants at least.

That adrenaline was all there, with the scent of a possible lead just beyond these doors. But right now, they couldn't move. They had to stand with each other and sit with their thoughts. The same thoughts that were on the bike and every night in bed were here now, filling this container of steel.

The difference was they weren't alone with those thoughts. Steve and Natasha could see each other now.

Here Steve and Natasha were, three feet apart, going underground to a storage facility holding Hope Van Dyne's personal belongings. According to her mother, Hope had filled this unit of space with her life's passion. Art supplies and paintings and works that defined a part of her, that was locked away from the world on the outside.

And here Natasha and Steve were, in a locked away space, trying to deal with all of those thoughts that didn't disappear, just because they were on the trail.

Those thoughts that had marinated for far too long, trying to deal with the inevitable.

Steve was accepting it was an inevitability he'd have to confront. And one Natasha was doing her best to avoid.

That itch these two fools had been trying to soothe, had just been dug at. A bike ride with Natasha glued to Steve's back and thoughts running rampant. Hands pressing. Thighs squeezing. Smelling and feeling. Senses run amok as their hearts beat faster, leaving them wanting more when they'd arrived outside.

And now, in the quiet of these walls as the elevator sprung to life, it was as if fuel was poured on the fire.

Every thought and touch and glance were all right here. Their sweaty run and wanting looks. The current in the air each time they argued. The grazes and nudges and tender moments. That thing so easily defined by anyone except these two inside. Dimly lit as the elevator moved down, Natasha glanced over and found Steve looking right at her.

That warmth surged in her stomach as a chill traveled down his spine.

There was nowhere to go this time. The job waited for them outside those doors, but a charged feeling was all that was found within. Their eyes lingered and that familiar spark was lit.

And it was all, just on the other side of too much.

Natasha couldn't run or deflect, and Steve couldn't avoid his thoughts running rampant right now. A flicker of light above, and a few feet stood between them. The actual space and temperature didn't matter. It felt hot and tight, and she might as well have been squeezing her thighs around his again.

That friction rose as the elevator made its way past the first level underground.

Natasha's knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on her strap. Hints of each other permeated the stale air all around. Her light perfume. The musk of his aftershave. The soft glow of her hair and his eyes. That ache that couldn't be pacified. His elongated breaths and her alluring gaze. It all mixed in this cramped area, and it was about to burst.

The buzz of the elevator was only matched by the beating of their hearts, both increasing as the cables lowered them down the shaft. And a feeling of crawling out of their skin came to mind.

A word hadn't been spoken since the doors closed. Her mouth opened as she looked to the ground and let out a heavy breath. His fingers gripped the railing as he tried to do the same. But they came right back to each other, eyes meeting again. Her watching him swallow with him seeing the rise and fall of the thin fabric of her cardigan. The air felt thick as the space seemed to shrink. The tension had nowhere to go but up as the elevator continued moving south. One floor after another passed, but only felt as if it were traveling inch by inch instead.

It wasn't just a little too much. The heavy air and heady thoughts became a little overwhelming. Natasha gripped the strap of her bag even tighter as sweat formed on Steve's palms from his hold on the metal rail. Both silently thinking what neither would speak aloud. This tiny space in this fraction of time. And enough pressure was felt and somehow, that was it. The last proverbial straw.

At least for one of the passengers.

Steve had to do something as every logical thought and worry was gone for a moment. His hands released from the railing, and he stepped forward. His vision tunneled and his mission focused. An elevator going down into the depths of a plain warehouse full of storage units. A small metal container, trapping two fools, with nothing but each other and their internal thoughts inside. Simple and random on the surface, but it was just enough, over that edge.

And it was apparently what was needed, for Steve to make the decision.

It was time for his own leap to be made.

Yes, space was a funny thing. But as humorous as it was to the gods of irony in this world, timing still played a part. And timing, turns out, could be a wicked bitch.

A leap forward mentally, and a release of his grip. Steve stepped away from the wall and the rail, and that cruel tick of a clock coincided with the lurch of their arrival. Basement level seven was here, and the doors opened, allowing Natasha to escape.

Natasha was the furthest thing from dumb, even in her denial. She could feel the air just as much as Steve could and saw the look in his eyes reflect the desire in her own. But a cornered animal will sometimes escape, just for the sake of having no other option, when they haven't come to terms with their reality.

Natasha slid through the doors, leaving Steve inside watching her still.

But something had changed. Natasha could pretend all she wanted, but something had shifted in that elevator. Steve could try and pass it off, like he was just following her now. But on the inside? He knew that seconds ago, he was about to find her lips with his own.

And now…he was about to combust.

It was a giant step forward for him mentally, fully accepting that this wasn't just denial.

It was beginning to feel like quicksand.

The more Steve and Natasha moved in it, the deeper they sank. The deeper they sank, the more they were drawn in, discovering things about each other. And this cycle went on and on, until they were buried up to their necks, realizing there was no way out. And friendship, just wouldn't do. It was a faulty notion to begin with, no matter how honorable the idea. Because the underlying reality was showing itself clearly.

Steve wanted Natasha. It was that simple. He wanted her body and lips and everything in between, obviously. Yes, her physical appearance attracted him. But more than any of that, Steve wanted her. Her intellect and wit. And her fiery spirit above all else, that always left him needing more.

Natasha wanted it all too. The difference was, Steve was fully admitting it to himself in this moment, letting out a deep sigh as he followed her out of the elevator.

This was the job, and any chance at breaking through inside a tiny metal cube was gone now. His head was clearing up with the stale air under seven floors of dirt and concrete, but he could at least breathe now.

As dimly lit as the elevator was, the enormous area they found themselves in was even darker. There was no door to level, just a giant open space of a floor. A red exit sign was at their backs from the elevator and stairwell, and a dark and shadowy room awaited them.

The elevator doors shut, causing them both to jump a little. Steve blew out another breath and Natasha laughed a little, trying to release some of that tension. They took to focusing on the welcome distraction from whatever the hell just transpired a minute ago.

Hanging lights were spaced out evenly across the arena of concrete. But the word, 'lights,' was far too generous. Some of them were out altogether. Most of them barely cast a glow over the area below. It served more as emergency lighting than actual illumination. But under the lighting, was row after row of storage lockers. While there was a finite figure to each level of a thousand, it appeared more of an endless number at first glance.

The elevator had released them, right in the middle of the rows. Steve and Natahsa glanced at each other and shrugged as they walked forward, smack dab in the center of the room. It was as good a place as any until they got their bearings straight with the numbering.

If the atmosphere inside the elevator was overwhelming, it had shifted into an eerie state with the darkness and shadows and stale feel of the room. Looking at the first row and reading 450, they decided to shift over one row to the right.

Shadows followed Steve and Natasha as they made their way past the first lockers, numbering 550. Labels of 1 and 1000 must have been all the way to their right and left, but they didn't really care about that.

Steve and Natasha nodded at each other, knowing they were headed in the right direction at least. They were past the first 20 units as they hit 570 and their shoes and sandals met the concrete with steadied beats.

A few lights flickered from above, and Natasha tried to break the tension still lingering from that moment in the elevator, "This feels like we're at the beginning of a horror movie, Rogers."

Feeling a little clearer than before, Steve huffed and followed her lead, "Got a favorite one?"

"Any of the slashers. Scream. I Know What You Did Last Summer. Halloween."

"And here I would have tagged you as more of a cerebral thriller fan."

Natsha shrugged as they passed the 600 mark, "Those have their place…I don't know. I guess I like the ones where I think everyone acts so dumb. Makes me think I'd survive."

Steve grinned as she asked him the same question, "What about you? Child's Play?"

He let out a little laugh, "Hey, Chucky was scary as a kid. But nah, I like the classics. Army of Darkness. The Shining. Amityville."

She raised her brow as he kept his eyes ahead and added, "The ones that made me wonder what other stories could be told."

Natasha smiled, "Well, The Overlook Hotel would be a fantastic place to visit, ghosts be damned. Scariest movie you've seen recently?"

A couple seconds passed as they slowed down. They both responded to her question at the same time.

"It."

Before they could make a joke about the same answer, they stopped.

"Natasha look, 616."

They were here. Hope's locker.

"Damnit. Look Steve, the numbers aren't for a keypad on the outside. There's just a lock."

The rush of frustration was closing in on Natasha, wondering what they were going to do now. There was a padlock at the bottom of the sliding door. But no combination, just space for a key. Natasha lifted it up and was about to let out some expletives but before she could, Steve had his hand on her shoulder for her to move.

The touch sent goosebumps down her spine as he handed her his phone with the flashlight app turned on, "Here, hold this for me to get a good look at, Romanoff."

Natasha stood up and was once again, caught off guard by this man by her side. Steve crouched down on one knee as he pulled a pocket knife out of his back pocket. In addition to any standard knife attachments, this one had a few additional tools. It almost looked like a tiny Allen wrench set.

Steve motioned for her to get a little lower. Natasha bent down behind him to shine the light close, mirroring how they were on the bike, only with her standing now.

She watched the muscles in his neck contort as his fingers maneuvered the different tiny rods of metal until he found two that could fit into the lock.

Natasha huffed behind him, "Where did Steve Rogers learn to pick a lock?"

A couple of huffs came out as he shifted, finagling the pieces, "Overseas when I was there for work…before I came back to Chicago."

That uneasy feeling inside Steve, that was driving him crazy a few minutes ago in the elevator?

Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

Only this time, it was Natasha with the thoughts piling on, causing her insides to want to burst. But it was more from interest than anything about this man.

So many facts and trivial items had been locked away in her safe of Steve Roger's knowledge. But the big ones all remained. This latest reveal only meant her curiosity spiked, which led to a blitz of questions firing off inside of her.

Wait, Steve worked overseas? He came back to Chicago? When did he come here for the first time after New York?

Every answer only led to more questions. And every internal thought only led to more intrigue. The physical look of him was nothing to write off. Not at all. But the mystery and surprise of the man crouched below her, picking a lock as they chased this lead…

It had her insides in as much turmoil as Steve's.

No wonder the opinions of those closest around them, were so strong that they were writing emails to each other.

Natasha looked at Steve's neck as her lips were only a couple of inches away from his ear. She tried to swallow that intrigue, but it refused to retreat as the next question escaped, "What were you doing overseas?"

But the subtle click of the lock broke the moment, as Steve shifted.

"Gotcha," Steve grinned as he pulled the lock out of the loop and slid the door up, "Let's just try to find something and get out of here. Sound good, Natasha?"

Natasha had taken a couple breaths to calm herself as she nodded, following him inside, "Doesn't look like there's any overhead lighting in these units."

"Cheaper to maintain…we'll use our phones for flashlights if we have to."

Natasha handed his back to him, letting their fingers make contact as she internally scolded herself, 'Get it together, Romanoff.'

Her foot hit something near the door. It was a battery powered spotlight.

"Well, that's convenient."

Steve chuckled, "I guess if you're going to make frequent trips here, it's not surprising to keep your own lighting." He turned it on as they confirmed that it was in fact Hope's locker. What Janet Van Dyne had told Natasha, was also true. Hope was an artist and kept her supplies and older paintings in this locker.

Natasha frowned as that anger returned inside of her. Steve looked over at her with concern, "Natasha, you okay?"

She shook her head, "Yeah. I mean…I didn't even know the woman. But after meeting her mom and being at her funeral, and now…"

"This."

Natasha nodded as their eyes met in the shadowy light, "Yeah. This. I didn't know her, Steve. But the more I learn about her, the more senseless it all seems. She didn't deserve this."

It wasn't the first tragedy they covered. It wasn't their first murder or cover up or bigger story at play. It wasn't even the first horror they'd had a personal encounter with, where a contact of theirs had been hurt.

But something about this was different because of how intimate it all felt.

The story. Finding out so much about Hope after she'd been killed, and how seemingly normal she was. And above everything, the two of them. Steve and Natasha's connection to the story was only strengthened by their bond with each other. And just like quicksand, the more they discovered about the story as well as each other, the more they felt lost in search of truth.

Steve's voice softened as he put his hand on her shoulder, "No, she didn't Natasha. Which is why we're going to trust each other and try and find something here…to help bring whoever's responsible to justice."

Natasha took a breath, letting his hand linger a little before she nodded, "Yeah Steve. Let's start looking so we can get out of here."

And look they did. Through some boxes of paint. Bags of brushes. Stacks and more stacks of canvases. Some new. Some old. All full of Hope's artistry and imagination. Her neighborhood. Her house and mom. And endless ones of Chicago. The streets and famous spots. The lake and the people. And most of all, the skyline. Sunset and sunrise. Cloudy and bright blue skies. Hope Van Dyne seemed to love this city just as much as Natasha. Her love for this city was poured into the paint and canvas, and it was beyond cruel to think of what had happened to her.

So, they continued to look. There were easels piled in the corner. A couple of old suitcases with old clothes. Some storage bins of what looked like old college books and papers. After 30 minutes of searching the small space, both Steve and Natasha started to get a little worried that they were going to come up empty.

But Steve moved some heavier boxes of books and more paint that he'd just looked through, and found a small metal box behind them, tucked away against the wall.

"I'll be damned."

Natasha sprung up from the suitcase she'd been sifting through, "What'd you find, Rogers?"

Steve winked at her, "Let's see if we found our buried treasure."

Maybe it was a stupid joke, but the glint in his eye in the small space still had an effect as she scoffed.

Steve put the small metal container on top of the stack of boxes he'd just moved. They stood side by side as Natasha grabbed the posted note she'd laminated. "Looks like it could have been a safety deposit box. Or a fire safe in a house or something."

Steve nodded, "Time to see how good your intuition is with those numbers, Romanoff."

He held the flashlight from his phone over her now as she went to work on the safe lock.

4. 8. 15. 16. 23. 42.

4 right.

8 left.

15 right.

16 left.

23 right.

42 left.

But nothing happened.

"Shit."

Steve huffed out a breath as she swore again and closed her eyes. "Okay…what if Hope just added a little twist."

Steve raised his eyebrow as Natasha finished, "She was a big data and science person, obviously. So, maybe she added a little pattern. Even numbers right. Odd left."

Steve shrugged as Natasha reset the lock and started over.

4 right.

8 right.

15 left.

16 right.

23 left.

42 right.

Her hand was slow as she approached the last number, but adrenaline collided with relief as they both heard that sweet sound of a soft click.

The small safe had been opened.

The thrill on Natasha's face was exactly how Steve felt. And for a moment they both let all of that friend zone bullshit and tension go.

Natasha jumped up and hugged him. It caught Steve off guard, but her arms wrapped around his neck and his naturally found their way around her back as he whispered, "You're amazing, Natasha…"

The smell of each other. The tightness of the space. The dark shadows trickling as they moved from the spotlight behind them. And the energy of the chase. It was all enthralling as she backed away and looked up at him.

That same feeling in the elevator was back as she watched his throat, and he stared at her lips. She blew out a shaky breath as the reality quickly returned with where they were. Steve cleared his throat as he shook away yet another moment. "This…you unlocking it. That was amazing I mean."

Nice cover.

Natasha laughed nervously and backed away as they focused again on the box in front of them.

Lifting the lid, Steve set his phone light on the box so they could both take a stack from inside.

There wasn't much. Her undergrad and masters degrees. An expired license. A few trinkets and medals from sports in high school. A certificate, probably from high school too, that read, 'Future Einstein Award. Our best Science Student from 2005.'

A tiny and thin wooden plaque with an inspiring quote that read, 'Fly high little bird, the sky isn't big enough for your dreams.' On the back, there was a note burned into the wood, 'Our little Picasso & Einstein, all wrapped in one. Love, Mom & Dad.'

That hit hard for both journalists. It was probably given to Hope as a tiny girl, since it was from both parents. All Natasha could think about was Janet telling her, Hope had always loved both the arts and sciences.

This box contained touchstones of her. It was Hope's little milestones from her life that she wanted to keep and treasure, or maybe needed, but maybe just didn't have on display at home.

There were some other papers and tax forms. And some pictures.

Lots of pictures. Of her as a little girl. Many with her and friends from school age, up to recent years. Pictures of her and her mom. But Steve and Natasha both paused as they found the mystery figure in her story, now on full display in photos.

Her father, Hank Pym.

Pictures of Hope and her dad. Them as a family from when she was very young. Even through her early teen years. Pictures of Hank and Janet. It was somber flipping through them, because they really did look normal, and the senseless tragedy rang a little louder.

They were about halfway through the stack of these older photos, and Natasha paused abruptly, "Steve look."

This picture didn't have Hope or Janet in it.

But it did include Hank Pym.

And he wasn't alone. The photo was of him and three other men. One about his height, and two that were taller. The four of them, all stood in lab coats outside of a company sign smiling. And the company? They would have guessed it for sure if they couldn't read it.

Midwest Pharmaceuticals.

"Damn."

"Fuck."

Who said which word, didn't matter. The feeling was the same.

"Natasha, look. The datemark on the photo. It's from five years ago."

The men all looked…normal. Like they were just four doctors or scientists from their appearance. All four of them looked clear eyed with genuine smiles in this photograph.

Steve and Natasha both took a photo of this picture and kept flipping through. Maybe this photo was hidden here on purpose, or maybe Hope had kept it as a memory of her Dad, from before he'd died two years ago and knew it was here. Steve paused when he caught something on the back of another picture of Hope and her mom, '16 years and counting.'

The photo was from when Hope was 16, obviously, but that small note was written on the back of it.

Steve looked at Natasha and they both said, "The back," at the same time.

They flipped quickly through the stack of photos again, this time turned over. Most didn't have anything written on them. A few that did, were little addendums to the image on the front. But the picture with the four men in front of the drug company's sign was flipped over, and there was a note from Hank to Hope on the back.

'My Hope. No matter time or distance that has separated us, I will always love you. You fill me with pride and joy, and of course, hope every day. I can only dream, one day you'll understand. If you'll consider it, I'd love to see you. If you ever want to get away to a safe place to meet, I have a place in the city again. It's safe, Little Bird. I promise. Dad'

Below the note was an address. A Chicago address…that wasn't Janet Van Dyne's residence. It was a house not far from Chinatown, probably only 15 minutes from Lakeside Lockers.

Another clue on the treasure map was in place, and the adrenaline surged between Steve and Natasha as they took a picture of the address and note. Before they put the pictures back, there saw a tiny envelope at the bottom, under where the photos were. They pulled it out and it was empty, but there was a receipt attached to it.

It was a certified mail receipt, from a Milwaukee post office to Hope. It was dated three years ago.

Steve and Natasha took another photo and drew their own conclusions.

Hank had sent something to Hope by certified mail three years ago. What it was, they didn't know, but a timeline was slowly falling into place. That eerie feeling returned as a chill ran over their necks as they filled the box before closing the lid.

The locker had been scoured and the box was locked.

It wasn't an answer to everything. But it was a big fucking step in the right direction.

LSLand 616 were known. The numbers on the lock worked. Maybe there were other things in this locker at one time, that would add to the story of Hope and Hank. Maybe Hope was planning to retrieve the photo and give it to Natasha and tell her the rest. They would never know, but they had the photo, an address, and a receipt suggesting Hank had sent something to Hope three years ago. And above all, there was proof Hank Pym worked for Midwest, with three other men.

Clues and locations piled on, as intuition kicked in within both journalists.

It wasn't just that Hope had stumbled upon something. Her connection to Hank, and his connection to Midwest, had a much bigger part in this story. The mystery and darkness of whatever was in play, was looming large now. And in a much bigger way than just a very large crime lord in Chicago.

A sudden sound stopped all their thinking as Natasha's eyes shot up at Steve. The elevator gears were moving again as the motor groaned from beyond the long row of lockers.

Someone was coming.

They kicked into high gear as Natasha put the small safe back and Steve turned off the spotlight. There was no use trying to put everything back in place, exactly where it was. There wasn't time as they slipped out of the storage unit and shut the door. Steve put the lock back on the bottom and grabbed Natasha's hand next, pulling her in the opposite direction of the elevator.

Excitement and panic rose. They weren't chasing the trail, but running from being chased, or at least caught. Steve and Natasha's hearts beat as their feet moved along the concrete, until they reached the end of the row of lockers. Out of site, at the end of another column of storage units.

The elevator's motor and moving underground had masked the sound of the locker door shutting. No one was running or yelling as the elevator doors opened up. So whoever it was, didn't know anyone was on the floor.

A few seconds passed as two security guards made themselves known with their flashlights and talking, "Let's get done with these floor sweeps so we can get back to our dinner, George."

The other answered, "You got it, Harry. We'll just review the security cameras the rest of the night."

Security cameras. That was something they'd have to think about later. But for now, a tiny relief was felt in the journalists. It was just your run of the mill security guards on their nightly checks.

Natasha blew out a breath and Steve pressed his palm to his forehead. Now wasn't the time for collecting one's breath. He found her hand, squeezing it as they stood still on the opposite side of the row of lockers Harry and George started to walk along.

They weren't being chased after but still needed to be quiet and careful. Steve and Natasha looked at each other and nodded, following each other's inner thoughts and eye movements. The closer the officers got, the more of a gamble that awaited, depending on if they decided to turn right or left. So, they needed to move.

Harry and George were probably a third of the way down the column of units as the journalists' eyes grew wide.

Now or never, they needed to move. Steve pointed toward the elevator and leaned down, drawing close enough to Natasha's ear that barely a whisper was enough to hear, "We walk when they do. No sounds."

Natasha took a breath, squeezing his hand back, fully understanding how they were going to have to get out of this. Steve was in tennis shoes which were quiet, but she looked down at her sandals, knowing they'd make some noise. Slipping them off and placing them in her bag, Steve mouthed to her, "Good thinking."

The officers continued walking, and Steve and Natasha started doing the same.

Slow and steady. Light on their feet and quiet against the ground. Still and calm on the outside, but on the inside, every nerve felt like fire. Halfway down, the officers stopped. Just on the other side, with only about 20 feet of separation as Steve and Natasha froze in place.

Had they heard the journalists? Were the security guards onto something?

"Hey Harry, you catch the latest NCIS?"

George and Harry were just passing the time on their shiftwork, "Nah, Georgie…that's what my nights working with you are for. Brought the IPAD so we can watch here while we have dinner."

Steve and Natasha could only assume both men were grinning as George patted Harry and their keys jingled on their belts as they continued. Down the hallway both pairs went. The guards, not caring at all how much noise they made on their sweep. Steve and Natasha, with sweat now forming on their brow and necks, were creeping closer and closer to the elevator. A few more steps, and they were finally at the end as they turned, clear of the row of lockers.

But Steve grabbed Natasha's waist and held her tight at the end of the row. Brushing against her ear, he whispered again, "Romanoff, wait for them to get a little further away."

She stood in front of him, flush against his waist as they both felt the thrill of something else now too.

His hands on her hips. Her back against his chest. His mouth hovering by her ear. They were both breathing deep and slow, trying to stay calm in more ways than one.

George and Harry passed right by the row of lockers they'd just disappeared from. The guards couldn't see them hiding at the end and continued toward the far end of the floor.

A full minute had passed, with Steve and Natasha looking more like they were doing the Rumba than any type of journalism. Steve's fingers still lingered, pressing into Natasha's side as they both tried to stay focused.

Another few seconds of quiet tension passed as Harry and George finally reached the far end of the warehouse. They were over half a room away from where Steve and Natasha stood. The guards seemed to be making their way back now, snaking through the rows of lockers.

Natasha shifted and looked up. Steve and her nodded and quietly made it to the elevator.

Maybe Harry and George would run back, suspicious of something. But based on what Steve and Natasha had already heard, that type of reaction wasn't in their wheelhouse. They'd write it off as the elevator being summoned from a different floor, more than likely.

The slid inside, and Natasha put her sandals back on. They shut the noisy door and listened to it roar to life as Steve hit the ground elevator button several times.

A little sweat on his neck. A little more on her forehead. And the way she was looking at him, only made everything swirl around again.

Steve may have been the one to make the decision before. To try and step out of their friendzone on the ride down. But Natasha's mind was racing with the feel of his breath and voice in her ear. Of his hands on her hips. Of that stare and brush of his beard.

It all raced around them with the questions of the story, as they tried to catch their breaths and figure out what this was.

Before Natasha could pull herself out of her heated thoughts, the elevator ride was over, and Steve grabbed her hand again, "Come on, Nat. Let's get out of her. We don't need to stick around to see if Harry and George are a lot smarter than what they sounded.

Natasha was pulled away from her thoughts as they jogged back to his bike.

Her feet hurt from running in her sandals, but it didn't matter. She was thinking about every other feeling rushing through her brain and heart and stomach.

The sun hadn't begun to set yet. It was a little after 7 pm. Before Steve and Natasha could lose themselves further in this quicksand with all their emotions and feelings, the rush of the story burst to the front of the line. They thought immediately of what was found in that locker.

Natasha looked up at him, eyes a little wide as she shoved her hair behind her ears, "Steve, we're going to that address."

Steve didn't know if it was the thrill of the chase or them, but he was all in, as he ran his hand through his hair, "You're damn right we are."

There was no convincing this time, as Natasha climbed on first and fastened her helmet again and Steve took his place in the front. They positioned themselves like clockwork with her hands around his waist, holding him tight. Off they went, away from the industrial parks and into a residential area south of here.

Natasha recognized right away as they distanced themselves from the lakeshore, just how close to The Blue Line accident they were right now. Driving down the street, they were almost back to where this whole thing began six weeks ago.

John Doe's death and The Red Line Crash.

Rows of housing developments stacked against each other, block after block. Bus stops and city parks. Schools and local shops as they drew closer and closer. With the museums and Grant Park and downtown to their north and Englewood to their south, they made their way through Chinatown. The residence was only a mile away now. Over the river at the Canal Street Bridge, and a few blocks past Halsted station, and another turn was taken.

Natasha held tight as she thought of the tracksuits back at Union Station. She thought of her attacker and Hope's murderer. Of Wilson Fisk's aggressive words, and the warnings from Jessica Jones to tread lightly. The threat was clear each step of the way with physical safety and danger being in play.

And a warning to be careful.

To stay away from this hornet's nest.

It was becoming apparent, that this hornet's nest didn't stop with local politics and ploys of mayoral campaigns. Something bigger was waiting in the background, and the journalists clinging to each other knew it too.

Steve had his phone docked to the bike, as they approached a street market on the other side of the river and stopped. Natasha pointed to a public parking lot that was half empty and a minute later they were parked. After securing his bike, they looked around, half expecting Harry and George to be behind them.

But two security guards weren't the threats looming on the horizon.

Their helmets were off as Natasha glanced around, "Your bike should be safe here with the market going on up the street. The house is only a block away. Figured we'd play it safe and not park outside."

Steve nodded, "Good thinking, Romanoff."

Her bag was secured, and his keys were in his pocket as they made their way to their destination.

Two locations they'd gone to, unexpectedly today. One in a warehouse of lockers, producing a new lead. One in a residential district, southwest from where they worked and lived. The address discovered was supposed to be a home, hidden away for Hank Pym. A safehouse of sorts, with an olive branch extended years ago to his daughter, with hopes of repairing whatever had happened to them as a family.

What Steve and Natasha would soon find, was that hardly anything existed at all at the address they'd just found.

"What the hell? Is this the right address, Natasha?"

Natasha looked at her phone. Granted it was a small block she'd never been to in Chicago, but she knew exactly where it was still, "South Union Avenue, Steve. This is it…but there's nothing here."

When she said nothing, she meant it. There was absolutely nothing.

Zero. Zilch.

Not any walls or doors or roof or windows. Nothing. Newly cultivated ground rested before their feet, with dirt covering the property.

The neighborhood wasn't among the worst areas of the city. But it didn't look good by any means. Curb appeal was lacking with overgrown trees and weed filled lawns. Up and down the street, the older homes appeared to all need some TLC. The addresses on either side of the dirt, both stood upright. Yet this one, appeared to just not exist. Or at least, it didn't exist anymore.

A teenage kid ran by with his friends as Natasha yelled out to them, "Hey…you guys live on this street?"

"No, we just like the view of shitty houses."

His friend smacked him and laughed, "Nah, Lady…we're sightseeing here."

Steve couldn't help but smirk at the smartass responses.

Natasha shook her head and got out ten dollars, but before she could say anything, the kid's friend who apparently ran their group, stepped forward, "Anything less than 20, and you might as well keep it."

Steve's grinned, "20 bucks, huh?"

The teenager crossed his arms, "Yeah…blame it on inflation."

Both Steve and Natasha couldn't help but chuckle at their tenacity as she shrugged, "At least you're quick on your feet, kid."

She handed them twenty bucks and added, "Alright, this house…that's not a house anymore. What happened?"

There were four teens, and four answers came out at the same time.

"Fire."

"Bulldozer."

"Trucks."

"Boom."

Steve looked at all of them with a raised brow, trying to piece it together, "There was a boom, that caused a fire…and then a bulldozer came, and trucks took the rest of the house away?"

"You got it! Thanks for the cash!"

Steve yelled back at them, "Hold up. I'd say twenty bucks gets us a few more questions at least. When did this boom and fire happen?"

The teenager running his little posse crossed his arms, "Man, that was like a month ago. Good riddance, the place had bad juju."

The journalists looked at each other. What an odd word to use.

Steve prodded, "Juju?"

The teen who had the most snark and was the pseudo spokesperson for his groupies rolled his eyes, "Bad vibes, man. Ma said she heard it was a gas leak that started the fire. But those tracksuit assholes didn't show up until that place burned down. And now they won't leave us alone."

"What do you mean, won't leave you alone?" Natasha stepped forward.

The leader of the pack shook his head, "Ma's been yapping about it ever since this place was knocked down. Those assholes keep bothering people about their houses."

Steve stepped forward too and he and Natasha gave a wary stare before he asked, "You said bad vibes. Were drugs or parties going on there?"

The teenager answered, "I wish. I just meant bad vibes. It was always dark and empty. Except whenever the guy who lived there came. He was always leaving early and late. I only seen him a couple times, but Ma said no single, middle-aged man would choose to live on this street by himself, if he weren't up to something. So yeah…bad vibes."

Natasha blew out a breath, "Your mom sounds pretty smart. I bet she's a really hard worker. You make sure to be nice to her."

The kid was showboating and smacked his friend as he nodded at Natasha, "Why don't you come over for dinner with me, and I'll show you how nice I am to her?"

Natasha went wide-eyed as she held back a cough, and Steve had to turn around to not burst out laughing.

Out of the mouths of teenagers on a street.

The kids took off laughing, already planning on spending their 20 bucks at the nearest gas station. Natasha took a breath and looked around, to see at least some of what the kid was saying, was true. There was a construction sign in the plot of dirt, where a house used to stand, reading, 'Kingpin Construction & Realty.'

Steve was already scanning the entire street and noticed a few other similar signs. A picture started to form of what the kids meant by tracksuits bothering people in the neighborhood.

Fisk was known for his seedy gentrification methods over the years. But unfortunately, it was always by the books enough that he was never stopped. His goals were obvious with his realty projects. Buying up lower income areas and replacing them with his business ventures, spreading his hold on certain pockets of the city. Wiping away any of the culture and history those locations had to offer and replacing it with his favorite types of revenue streams.

Businesses that could hide money well.

Casinos. Car lots. Bars and strip clubs. Any shops and restaurants that did manage to pop up under the guise of his renovations, always had his name hidden under titles and deeds. Taxes ran rampant, and his ties to criminals that weren't as savvy as him, always seemed to blossom at these types of establishments. Dreykov was the biggest fish in recent years that was locked up, and he could always be found at one of Fisk's strip joints.

This all felt very off to Natasha though.

Fisk's building projects were kept on the fringes of city limits, and in the most impoverished areas. Fisk also had a knack of turning some of those residents into his minions that worked for him. Street kids would become tracksuits. Young women would become workers at his bars and other establishments. His real estate and construction projects seemed to be more of a feeder system for his shady business adventures. And a long-rumored hiding place for missing persons associated with Fisk over the years.

All this work in the underbelly of the city, for a town Fisk claimed to love so damn much.

But Fisk had never made moves this far into Chicago. They weren't right by downtown, but they weren't near his other developments either.

Natasha started pacing a little, looking at the same signs Steve had, and started talking to herself, "Since when does Fisk come this far into the city with his building projects?"

Steve had thought the same thing and had heard it all from Tony and Clint and Pepper, with Fisk's shady history in the city. His article on Fisk's illustrious history with audits was information on record, that he could track. But that was just facts and figures. This was dealing with his actual moves and potential plans.

And it felt odd.

Natasha's frustration with this being a dead end with the house, was to a boiling point. A groan came out as she started walking back toward the market, past a few more houses with those construction and realty signs in their front yards.

Steve caught up with her as she muttered, "Maybe you've heard this all, Rogers…but Fisk and the tracksuits like to go all over town like they own the entire thing. His tracksuits are like rats. First to flee, but always showing up when something is ripe for scavenging. This street is not Fisk's usual type to scavenge."

"Rats…yeah. I mean we saw them at Union Station and have had a few run ins with them."

Natasha shook her head, "But that's their typical flex move, all for show. Fisk likes to think of himself as running things. In reality, his actual businesses…if you want to call them that? They haven't gotten anywhere close to where we're standing now. And we're still quite a distance from downtown. But it's a big jump from his last building project, all the way to the south of the city."

Steve scoffed, "The Pleasure Palace? Yeah, I read about it. It went right next to the casino he'd put up a few years ago."

Natasha was walking quicker without even realizing it as the parking lot came into view, "That asshole puts all these businesses up and claims he loves the city so goddamn much. But where does he live? In a fancy fucking penthouse downtown. He should have to live in those cockroach infested areas he calls projects. I swear Steve, every place he's ever touched and built on, has ended up worse than before he arrived."

Natasha wasn't spouting anything new, but it was clear something was churning inside her, "Steve, something is really weird about this. Coulson and anyone in power has never been able to get Fisk on the books for anything. So, they've had to deal with him, regardless of rumors and even circumstantial evidence piled high."

They had made it back to the parking lot as Steve added, "Yeah, Castle filled me in. There's this unspoken agreement between the cops and city and people like Fisk. As long as Fisk stays ahead on the legal side, they can't do anything. And if he keeps his businesses as far away from downtown as possible, then they won't make that big of a deal of his facelift projects to neighborhoods that never asked for it."

Natasha groaned and kicked a rock with her sandal, "Don't think I've forgotten about asking about Castle. You are seriously the only person other than cops, I've ever heard that man saying anything but, 'Fuck,' too. You must have hypnotized him or something."

Steve scoffed, "Doubting my charm with the police, Romanoff?"

Natasha crossed her arms, clearly frustrated that the address had turned up with nothing but more questions, "I'm doubting Castle's ability to like anyone that doesn't wear a badge…God, it feels like we're trying to hold onto sand here, Steve."

She was more than bothered. So was Steve, but it ran deeper with Natasha.

The sad reality is that Fisk was just part of dealing with a large metropolis. Budgets and limitations with staff, meant priorities had to be made with what fires could be put out and dealt with on a daily basis.

The harsh truth was that Fisk was slippery and cunning, when it came to covering his tracks. He knew how to push buttons and impose his force, but he also knew what line he could walk up to, with regards to how to keep everything looking on the up and up.

Fisk was a thug, but he was a master at gaming the system. And less patient criminals or more provocative crimes created literal and figurative fires in Chicago constantly. Drug dealers, prostitutes, gang violence. Those were the daily dealings of the police and city government. Which meant the likes of Fisk, and dealing with the nuisance of his tracksuits, was usually put on the backburner.

And up to right now, his new developments were always shady, but they hadn't encroached on anything toward the inner city. Fisk didn't dare an attempt to mess with any of the main tourist areas in Chicago. That would be a recipe for disaster. Public outrage would swell, and attention would be drawn toward all of his businesses.

Audits from the federal government were one thing. His lawyers and his savvy business tactics handled the paperwork and legal side. But being under the white-hot light of public scrutiny, because he was trying to put a used car lot on Michigan Avenue, or a brothel of a strip club near the Museums, would make him the ire of the entire city.

Fisk knew better.

At least, he did know better.

Essentially, for decades now, Fisk could be as shady as he wanted. The roguish black sheep of a business mogul, he liked to portray himself as. He could dine with the elites and rub shoulders with the famous and extreme wealthy in the city. Just as long as he stayed away from interfering with any of the precious revenue streams to Chicago.

Tourism. Trade and Business. Taxes.

Fisk was the devil that the police and mayor knew, and felt like they had a handle on most of the time.

But these last six weeks, the man had been more vocal and bullish which was alarming enough. But now, noticing his construction and realty signs this close to Chinatown, only 25 minutes from downtown, was more than brow raising.

It was a little after 8 pm, and Natasha looked around, shaking her head. Some kids were running on the closed off street at the other end of the parking lot. The noise from the typical Wednesday night market was growing, and Steve could tell she was pissed off.

The chase was thrilling and what kept journalists like them coming back for more. It drove their passion. But it was like a drug sometimes. It left them wanting more and on edge when nothing of substance was found.

Steve caught something besides locals and kids crowding into the street market. He saw a couple of those guys the teenagers talked about.

Tracksuits.

Steve nudged Natasha's shoulder and nodded. Natasha didn't even think about it. She was walking instantly toward the market, and he was following, not knowing what they would find.

A minute later, they were at the entrance to the normal market. With all the street fair and stands of vendors and local shops all around. But Fisk's business signs were all over the place too.

And not just stuck in the ground along a few houses. His signs were next to food trucks. Tables with flyers and giftbags. Across the stage, there was a giant banner hanging while a band was playing.

The tracksuits were on their best behavior, trying to mingle, but Fisk was there too. It was the end of summer, and the large man was in his crisp, white suit with his wife Vanessa, talking with the community that he was in the process of buying up, piece by piece.

"Son of a bitch."

Natasha saw him and it was just enough. She was on edge. The frustration from the story and the house being gone at the address. Hope's murder. John Doe's mystery. All of it was weighing on her for the last six weeks.

It weighed on Steve too, but for Natasha, she literally had more skin in the game. She was attacked and found Hope. This was her town. And thugs like Fisk had gotten away with literal murder for as long as she'd been here. And now, he'd targeted his next section of town. All to gobble it up and spit out as something with flashing lights and naked women. Or at the bare minimum, he would take advantage of the community and change it for the worse.

And Natasha was pissed off just enough, that she was determined to confront him.

Right here. Right now.

The tracksuits saw her walking fast towards them. A couple of them scrambled together and cut her off at the entrance to the street market. Steve was right behind her right as a guy named Tomas grabbed her arm. Any chance of calming down was out the window as Steve grabbed the tracksuit's own arm and pushed him away from Natasha.

A couple more tracksuits, scurried over. There were four of them now. From their chatter and love of calling each other, 'Bro,' Steve and Natasha picked up on the names of Kazi, Maya, and Ivan, who had joined Tomas.

"Bro, the fuck?"

"Bro, this guy shove you?"

"He attack you, Bro? Maybe we should call the cops. Report two journalists attacking citizens."

Hormones were raging. Nostrils were flaring. And Steve's Brooklyn side was coming out, "Oh fuck off, Soprano. How about you don't grab a woman."

Kazi stepped towards Steve as Natasha looked at him with a little surprise. This was a different side…or at least a deeper side to Steve she hadn't seen before.

Kazi was grinning, "Guys, I think this newspaper man thinks we don't know how to protect our own."

Steve's jaw twitched a little, "I think you've fucked around enough at your little mafia game, and you're about to find out what happens when you pick on someone your own size."

"Steve…don't. Not here."

The three men and one woman in tracksuits stood as a wall now, between the street market and the journalists. Honestly, the man barely touched Natasha, but with frustrations already flowing, the thought of her being attacked before was enough to shove Steve right off the edge too.

But the man in the white suit caught on, as he left his wife to mingle in his absence. They were far enough away from the locals, to not draw too much attention, but the glares and tension were rising as Fisk made himself known, "Gentlemen…Maya. Let's not cause a scene here, shall we? Besides, we wouldn't want to harm Chicago's most talented truth tellers, now would we?"

Natasha stepped forward and looked up. With her arms crossed, she didn't miss a beat, "Fisk, what the fuck are you buying property this close to downtown for?"

Fisk's rings dug into his meaty fingers as he squeezed the knob at the end of his cane, "You seem awfully hostile today, Miss Romanoff. Or maybe you're always this unprofessional."

Before Steve could jump in, Fisk turned his attention and added, "And yes, Mr. Rogers. We haven't had any run ins since you decided to move to my city. Word of advice…be careful of the company you keep. People with bad reputations are like a disease. Once you're associated with them, you'll never really be rid of it."

Natasha scoffed, "You're something else, Fisk. First you can't handle being poked at in the papers. Your name wasn't even mentioned, and you had to come out and do an interview with that hack, Jameson, just so you could give your ego a boost."

Fisk wasn't showing it on his face, but that cane knob looked like it could pop off at any moment, "The problem with you, Romanoff, is that you think you're invincible. I would think after you got Miss Van Dyne murdered, and were attacked yourself, that you'd be a little more careful."

"You son of a bitch."

Steve had said it, and Fisk was the one who didn't miss a beat this time as he turned toward him, "My mother was the furthest thing from it, Mr. Rogers. And the next time you think about being as loose with your words as this one over here…"

Fisk pointed at Natasha with his cane before lowering his voice even more, "I'd remember that I am not as forgiving as most people you try and eviscerate in the press without any proof."

Natasha caught Fisk off guard and shoved the cane away from him. It fell to the ground as she shot back, "I wouldn't say the pattern of dead bodies and missing people, following you around like a bad stench, or the double-digit audits you've been under, lack of proof."

It was the first time, Fisk looked like he might actually lose his cool, but he snapped his fingers as Ivan picked up the cane and returned it before taking a breath and continuing, "You get to type whatever you want, whenever you want and never have to face off in the real world, Romanoff. And Rogers seems to be under the same understanding…that your words are free of consequence. I'm here to tell you, they're not."

"Funny, Fisk. These sound an awful lot like a threat. Now let me give you a heads up on how Chicago works. They've let you play at being this big bad boss for the last two decades, as long as you kept your riff raff to the outskirts. The real wealth in this town would even have you over for dinner, as long as you didn't wear a fucking tracksuit, and washed the stench of your whore houses off of you."

The air was charged, and the tracksuits looked like they were ready to attack at Fisk's command. But he knew he couldn't make a scene here in the open. The sun was setting, but it was still light out. And the public was behind him, that he was trying to schmooze to buy more property from.

The verbal battle had gone back and forth for a bit, but her words had an impact. Natasha's silver tongue had him on the ropes, and she knew it. His face reddened as a vein started to emerge on his forehead.

"You can try and hurt these people, that don't have the power to stop you, from using your dirty money to buy up their homes. And you can be as smart of a thug as you are, but still the dumbest person with money I've ever known."

She scoffed before she continued, "You call us a menace and vermin? Fisk, do you know what the wealthiest people in this town call you, behind closed doors?"

Steve looked down at her and realized how erratic this situation had become. But Natasha was almost done as Fisk's own lackeys shifted nervously, staring at their boss.

"They call you Capone's Cunt."

Natasha sneered with that wicked glint in her eye as she continued, "You might share the temper and tactics and ability to hide the worst of crimes as him, but you don't have the scope or imagination…or pull that Capone ever did. And the people you chase after? The richest and wealthiest? They don't want you anywhere near here or them. You keep that in mind, the next time you're riding in your elevator to your penthouse with them. Or as you're wining and dining with them."

Steve had heard her get going a couple of times now, but this was different. It was visceral and cut deep, and she was playing with fire. Her fearlessness was on display as Natasha went in for the kill.

"All you are to them, is a weak and infantile man, making a mess of any part of town he tramples on. A thug who thinks he's big and bad, but whore's himself around out of desperation. Just to be mentioned in the same breath as Al Capone. You remember that next time as they stare at you with their single malt scotch and snobbish stares. All you are, is a cunt to them, Fisk."

The shade of his face was in stark contrast to his white suit, but the look in his eyes said enough as he raised his voice, "You speak of crossing lines and not being wanted, Romanoff…You have crossed a line too. You stuck your nose, one too many times where it didn't belong. You think of yourself as a sharer of truth, when you're just as wretched as any criminal in the city. And you should know, if you're going to play this little game this time around? It's me you're playing with. Not Dreykov."

His threats were never veiled, but they just became a little less hidden."

Just as Natasha was getting ready to go back for more, a police cruiser pulled up.

Jessica Jones and Frank Castle stepped out as Steve pulled Natasha back a couple feet.

Castle spoke first, "What's the problem here?"

Natasha was about to answer, but Fisk spoke over her, "Thank you officers for coming. I told Vanessa to give you a call when I saw these…gossip mongrels harassing my crew. This is a closed event."

Natasha looked like she might slap him, but she stayed right where she was next to Steve, "It's a street market, Fisk. You don't own the fucking block."

Yet.

No one spoke the word, but it was going through all of their heads.

Fisk snapped his fingers again as Maya handed him a paper that he held up towards Jones and Castle, "Officers, please see the permit. This is a closed and private event I am hosting for this neighborhood. All citizens who live here are welcome and invited, but that means people that don't live here…are not. These two hacks don't live anywhere close. So for tonight, they're not welcome."

Arguing for the sake of principles was going to get Natasha and Steve nowhere tonight.

Steve glanced at Castle out of the side of his glasses, and it told Rogers everything he needed to know. Fisk won this round, and they needed to leave.

Now.

Fisk directed the tracksuits back inside the entrance and was about to turn around, but he added one last thing as he spoke to Natasha.

"That's the thing about the system, Romanoff. We're all cogs and cunts to someone. You think it's about exposing how the sausage gets made. It's not. It's about how well you play the game. So, you write about this in the paper tomorrow if you want. All I see is two nuisances trying to disturb a private event for the good people of this neighborhood. And we have the paperwork to prove it. So be gone, and consider this my sit-down interview you both were so desperate to whore yourselves out for."

Fisk turned around and walked off as Natasha held the strap of her bag tight. She didn't move, but Steve spoke softly to her, "Don't even think about it, Natasha. It's not the time for it."

Instead, she directed her frustration towards the police officers at her back, "Castle…Jones, you have some nerve coming here and defending that fucking asshole."

Frank took his sunglasses off, "Listen here, Red. I'm not defending Fisk. We're here to make sure you two didn't become the John and Jane Doe of tomorrow."

Castle blew out a breath and shook his head, "If you'd get off your fucking soap box for one goddamn minute, maybe you'd see that red tape and permits and paperwork are how this goddamn city runs. And that fat ass over there is a master at red tape. And he just schooled your ass, Romanoff."

Natasha shifted as she blew out a breath and Castle muttered, "I may have shown up to defend your ass, but it doesn't mean I have to like you. Jones, I'll be over here."

Steve blew out a breath, calming down a little from what just happened. He nodded at Natasha that he was going over to talk with Frank.

She'd deal with that fact, and the pile of Mount Everest sized inquiries regarding Steve Rogers, later.

Natasha was pacing a little with her arms crossed as Jessica shook her head and put her sunglasses on, "I think the words you're looking for, Romanoff, are…thank you, officers. Believe me, it might go a long way with Castle."

A vein was emerging on her own forehead, "Thank you? You just stopped me from getting anywhere with Fisk, Jones."

Jessica chewed her gum a little too hard as she laughed sarcastically at her, "Uh huh. And where were you getting exactly? About to get thrown in the back of a Cadillac? About to just get laid out on the street by one of his thugs that weren't behind him and blindsided you? Oh wait…maybe, you were about to get picked up and arrested by a couple of his officers he has on the books. Castle and I were on patrol and heard the call and your names. We were close enough to intercept. So yeah, maybe a thank you is in order, Romanoff."

Shit.

Shit again.

This all went to hell, very quickly.

Natasha pressed her palm to her forehead and blew out a long breath, "Jesus Christ. Jones…what the fuck is Fisk doing, buying up property this far in the city? He's never done that before. What is all this?"

Jones shook her head, "I don't know the answers to those questions, but I do know you have a bad habit of letting your temper and mouth get out of control in really stupid situations."

Natasha started pacing again to calm down and breathe as Jessica watched, "Romanoff, remember what I told you when I dropped you off after Van Dyne was killed? I said you better watch yourself and the hornet's nest you were stepping in."

Natasha crossed her arms again and groaned, "How the fuck am I the bad person here?"

Jessica smacked her on the back, "You're not. But you are definitely pissing off a very bad person over there…A bad person, who is really fucking smart at getting away with things. And something tells me, if Fisk is actually working with bigger players, at whatever is going on beyond yours and Rogers' articles, and those train crashes? Well, then they're probably even smarter."

"He may be smart, but he's still a piece of trash."

Natasha kicked another pebble on the ground as Jessica tried to reason with the spirited journalist, "Romanoff, being smart, doesn't mean he's invincible. Fisk making this move near Chinatown, when he hasn't built a new business anywhere, beyond the ends of the L Train lines in the past? Yeah, it's a big move. But it's also stepping into his own hornet's nest. Most the people downtown don't want Fisk's name anywhere near their streets. It's bad enough he gets to live there. Believe me if they could, they'd keep him out completely."

A little levity came as more oxygen entered Natasha's brain as she laughed to herself.

"What's funny, Red?"

Natasha realized all the words that were just exchanged between Fisk and Steve and her.

"You know Fisk's nickname to the biggest snobs in Chicago?"

Jessica raised her eyebrow, "Capone's Cunt?"

Natasha shrugged her shoulders, "Well, if he wasn't aware of it before tonight, he is now…"

Jessica smirked, "Sometimes, you are the dumbest, smart person I know, Romanoff. And really fucking stubborn too."

Natasha looked over at Steve as he and Castle started walking back over, "Yeah, I've been told that a few times in my life."

"Alright, well, now that I know I'm not going to be dragging your asses out of the river and that you didn't actually trespass anywhere tonight, Castle and I are going to get on with our patrol…back in our actual district."

Before they left, Natasha actually swallowed a little of that pride and stubbornness, "Hey, Castle…"

Frank looked back at her with a gruff sound that apparently was supposed to be a response.

It wasn't long or sugar coated, but it was something as Natasha actually took Jessica Jones' advice.

"Well…Jessica let me know what was actually up, and what you guys did by showing up tonight. And I just wanna say…Thanks, Castle. I mean it."

Steve smirked and cleared his throat as Castle put his sunglasses back on, "Yeah, well…Jones was giving the orders. I was just driving."

A little space and clarity. And that tension between the journalists and cops was gone right now. It wasn't a hug or even close to liking each other, but it was definitely not telling each other to fuck off either.

The officers were off, leaving Steve and Natasha trying to calm down from what all just happened.

Fisk and the journalists had a showdown of words. Threats were lobbed behind the guise of permits and name calling. And the hornet's nest had been kicked.

But it was Jessica's last words to both of them that were reeling through Steve's head as he said, "Natasha…I think we might need to do something about those security cameras back at Lakeside Lockers."

Natasha made a mental note of them when they walked up to the warehouse, and when George and Harry mentioned the cameras before. But with the chase to the address from Hope's photo, and then running right into Fisk, she hadn't thought of it again, "Steve, if we didn't go there, we wouldn't have this photo, proving Hank Pym worked for Midwest."

"Hey, I'm not arguing. We did what we needed to. I'm just trying to play the game as well as people like Fisk. That hornet's nest has been more than poked at, so if anyone finds out we broke in…"

Natasha shook her head, "Broke in is a little harsh…we didn't steal anything. We just took photos of what was there. It's a technicality at best."

Steve exhaled, "Technicalities is all it takes sometimes. We did technically break into Hope's locker. And if Fisk or whoever he's working with found out, it could be used as a distraction."

"Jesus, this is a goddamn mess."

"Yeah, so let's get out of here, so we can think. Okay, Nat?"

Back to the drawing board was an expression for a reason.

Natasha put her own sunglasses back on and nodded at Steve. They needed to get the hell out of there and try to figure out what all of this meant.

A couple minutes later on the motorcycle again. What a day.

It was the end of the afternoon when they'd entered Lakeside Lockers, and the evening sky was now taking over as they left Wilson Fisk's sponsored street fair. Today was unpredictable, combustible, and everything in between.

But they were together.

Steve felt just as comforted, knowing Natasha was safe with him as she did.

Their insides were on fire. They'd broken into Hope's locker and found a picture and a certified mail receipt. They'd escaped being caught by two rag tag security officers. Yes, they'd lost 20 bucks to a group of teenagers and then gotten in a verbal scuffle with Wilson Fisk himself. But the thrill of the story and whatever was going on between all their stares and breaths and touches, was unavoidable.

And the fact that Steve had called her Nat a couple times today, didn't go unnoticed either.

They left the parking lot and crossed the bridge by Halsted again. They drove back through Chinatown. Reaching the lakeshore, Steve and Natasha headed back downtown, towards a small towny bar, closer to where they both lived in Chicago.

The Corner Pub had a flickering green light outside as Steve helped Natasha off the bike.

Natasha tried to lighten the mood a little, "This where you take all the ladies, Rogers?"

Steve scoffed, "This was where I was going to take you last month, Natasha."

That hit her square in the stomach.

He proposed this friendship at the pier. She agreed. But if she was being brutally honest, it was because of her. She had chickened out and overreacted a month ago, shutting down their flirtation. Only to find that attraction had crept back into their friendship, both making them wonder…what if.

But now, Natasha felt like she was the one responsible for holding them back.

'Because you are,' was the natural answer inside her head.

Steve saw her wheels spinning inside and tried to distract, "Better late than never, Romanoff. Come on, we definitely need a drink after the last few hours."

He was right, and she didn't try to argue as they went inside.

The Corner Pub was quiet for a Wednesday night. It was almost 9 pm and there were a few patrons and regulars at the bar. The Cubs game was on, and the jukebox played quietly in the background with the type of classic tunes you'd expect. Classic oldies and rock from the 60's, 70's, and 80's.

Foreigner was playing as Natasha's body relaxed for the first time since she was standing outside of Janet Van Dyne's house. Steve smiled at the bartender, "Hey Rhodey, two drafts and some water."

"Rogers. Where the hell have you been? Haven't seen you in weeks. You eating tonight?"

Natasha's stomach tightened even at the sound of the word food. She was starving and smiled at the bartender, "Cheeseburger and fries sounds great."

Steve added, "The same, Rhodey."

Steve led her back to a corner booth where Rhodey sat their drinks down, "You're not a Dodgers fan like Rogers here are you?"

Natasha grinned, "Go Cubs Go."

Rhodey let out a laugh, "Well she has a hell of a lot more sense than you, Rogers. Although I can't say they're doing great tonight. I'll be out with your food in a bit."

Natasha took her seat and Steve scooted in naturally, sitting right next to her in the booth.

Neither of them moved.

It was the calm after the storm. Or at least a calm after the latest storm.

But something had shifted tonight, breaking into that locker together. Touches and stares and whispers were constant throughout. And riding on the bike and almost getting into a fight with tracksuits and Wilson Fisk, only added to all of it.

Call it kismet or shared experience. Call it attraction or quicksand. Steve and Natasha had become more than comfortable being in each other's orbit over the last couple of weeks. Today, only drew them closer. Literally and figuratively.

And right now, was no different. Natasha smiled up at Steve, "Seems like a nice guy."

Steve nodded and handed her a beer, "Rhodey's a great guy. A veteran…he started this place back in the 90's. I found it when I first moved to the city, and then started coming again ever since I've been back in Chicago."

That Mount Everest sized pile of questions started to compile. The intrigue was to a tipping point, as she drank a healthy gulp of beer. But Steve was in a different headspace right now as he huffed, "You don't know anyone that could scramble Lakeside Locker's security footage, do you?"

Natasha blew out a dramatic breath, "I mean, we could go back and try to distract Paul Blart and Barney Fife back there…I'm sure I could figure out a way to delete it."

Steve looked away, "Shit…That's not a good idea. And everything that just went down with Fisk…I think we just need to cover our asses."

Before Natasha could answer back, Steve pulled out his phone.

The air shifted between them as Steve moved away a little in their booth. Natasha naturally did the same, trying to figure out what was going on as Steve started to speak on the phone, "Yeah, can I please be connected to Detective Carter?"

Natasha acted like she wasn't listening, but who was she kidding. They were still close enough that she heard every word.

"Hey, Peggy."

Natasha made a mental note. The informal way he said her name. The attempt at trying to sound nice. Steve caught Natasha's stare in his peripheral, "Steve Rogers, what have you done to be calling me at the station at night?"

The woman was speaking loudly enough, and it was quiet in their booth. Natasha could hear almost every word on the opposite end too.

"Listen Peggy. I know you have no reason to, but I need…Well, I need a huge favor from you."

Peggy made a couple of passive aggressive comments toward Steve as he explained what happened. The address of the storage facility was shared, and he asked if she could do something about the security cameras.

Natasha's knee was bouncing a little as she kept glancing at Steve as he replied, "Look I know…I know. But it'd really mean a lot…if you or Wong, or Sharon or Dan could cover my ass. And my friend's too. This story we're on…"

Steve had talked several times, about how he used to be so much like Natasha. Having a mindset like hers, with lines existing, only to be overstepped. Of ends justifying the means, actions and consequences be damned. Of only caring about the story at work but not in life. All of those conversations, turns out, weren't just talk.

They were all coming from a place of truth.

From his past.

Natasha soaked in every word while she sipped on her beer. And Peggy jumped on Steve's words, "Jesus Christ. Steven Grant Rogers, you haven't changed one bit. I swear to God, this is the last time I bail your ass out because of a story. Do you have any idea how to actually follow norms and laws?"

Steve groaned, wiping his eyes as he looked away again, "Peggy, I'm sorry. Tell Captain Phillips I'm sorry for the trouble, I just…please."

Peggy's voice softened as Natasha strained to make out what she was saying now, "Damn it. Anything for your story…right, Steve?"

"I know."

Those two words carried a lot of weight and were repeated about five more times before Natasha could make out Peggy's words again, "Look, I'm glad you and the other journalist are safe. You are okay, right?"

Steve filled in Peggy about the run in with Fisk and Jones and Castle. Which led to another round of, "I know," three times over. Natasha heard the detective give Frank and Jessica high remarks, "Those are two officers on the rise and on the good side of things. If they're saving your asses, maybe you should heed their advice and stay out of the muck."

A little silence followed as Peggy softened her tone again and added, "Steve, do you need someone from the station to come and get the two of you?"

Steve shook his head, "No, it's nothing like that. We're okay. It's just…if we're caught on tape, it could lead to trouble down the line."

Peggy scoffed, "Trouble down the line, might as well be your middle name, Steve."

"I know."

One more time, those words were said before Steve swallowed and spoke a little quieter, "Peggy? Tell Dan I'm really sorry for adding to your evening. I know your shift is supposed to be done soon."

A few seconds of silence followed before she answered, "It'll be done soon enough, Steve. Just take care of yourself. And Jesus, stop doing things that you have to call in favors with me for. Your story isn't as important as the life outside of it."

There was a world of history on that phone call that Natasha could feel in the small space between her and Steve. The heated thoughts from this afternoon and evening drained quickly as an awkwardness settled in. All of the questions were racing in her head, but his face made her question even more.

It was over now, but Steve was clearly unhappy he had to make that phone call. And most of all, the hungry journalist that everyone accused Natasha of being for so long in her life, that she may as well have added it to her business card, turned out to not be so singular.

Steve Rogers was accused of being just as hungry and reckless from Peggy Carter. And some of the pieces of the remaining puzzle started to turn over.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

Steve was brought back to the booth and pub with her words. A frown formed as he took a drink, "You don't have anything to be sorry about with all of that, Natasha. It's just a call I would've preferred not to have made. But it is what it is."

Their food was delivered with another round of beers as Natasha shifted to sit a little further away so they could look across from each other instead.

Some of those questions that were racing through Natasha's brain were about to be answered as she shoved a French fry in her mouth.

Steve sat back up and took a few seconds. A lengthy drink was taken, and then he just stared at her, letting out a breath, "You know, it's nights like these, I wonder how Peggy and I could've ever been married."

Natasha's mouth fell open a little as she put down the fry and he added, "I'm even more surprised she didn't divorce my ass, long before 13 years ago."

Natasha felt like that ice water on the table had just been poured on her head. She shifted and stared at Steve.

A lot of those puzzle pieces were making sense with the tense words and unspoken history Natasha just got a preview of. She was still stunned though at Steve's candidness with her.

And Steve wasn't done, "You know, six weeks ago at the train crash, you looked at me like I was fresh out of school with my journalism degree because we'd never met. Just because The Star recently hired me, didn't mean I was wet behind the ears, Romanoff. I've had a hell of a lot of experience, even though my name isn't attached to a book."

Steve's bluntness garnered a frown from her, but she wasn't offended in the slightest. He was like an open book right now as she tried to gather her thoughts. Natasha consumed every word as she picked up her beer again.

He continued, "Peggy used to accuse me of being so focused on a story, that I couldn't appreciate the life around me. That my drive was going to get myself killed and probably people around me someday. And that my need to break a story first and be the best, was going to be the death of not just my relationship with her, but with a lot of things in life."

He scoffed and took another big drink, "Sounds familiar right?"

Natasha swallowed, watching the man before her. It was like looking in a mirror, with every complaint thrown at her in the last 15 years, staring back. From friends. From family. From co-workers even. And from a former fiancée and several ex-boyfriends.

It was alarming, just how many nerves he was striking. And it was even more unnerving how he was looking at her.

She chewed on her lip before responding, "Yeah, sounds familiar, Steve."

His words may have come out bluntly, but Steve was being open and sincere. And was looking for more of that trust they'd started to form.

Natasha closed her eyes and took a breath, "Steve, I knew there was more to you when I first met you. But me being…well, me…I have a knack for really keeping people at a distance and screwing anything in my personal life up. I really am sorry for how I acted a couple of weeks ago."

Steve reached over to cover her hand as his thumb brushed over her knuckles, "Natasha, you told me that a couple weeks ago. I know…and it's okay. Friends, right?"

No. It wasn't right.

It wasn't right for either of them because this wasn't nothing.

And all the thoughts racing through her mind tonight, today, and really the last six weeks, only confirmed it. It didn't matter that Steve Rogers was a looker. He was. But it didn't matter. And it didn't matter that he was smart and funny and stubborn.

What mattered was that Natasha felt…something.

For the first time, in a very long time, she began listening to all the voices in her past, telling her the same thing that Peggy Carter had just told Steve.

The story they were chasing wasn't as important as their lives. Particularly the lives they'd avoided. Steve had learned the lesson the hard way and had softened a little over time. He knew he wanted more.

But Natasha was in the midst of that life lesson right now.

Natasha huffed out a breath as he pulled his hand back. This wasn't about favorite movies or crosswords or getting to know you conversations. This wasn't about heated stares or steamy thoughts.

This was about sharing with each other, who they were.

Natasha found his eyes and took another step, "Steve…I've been the lead reporter for The Herald for almost 10 years and have really had the strangle hold on sources and stories for a lot of that time. Honestly, I knew you were good, after talking with you for two minutes at The Red Line crash. I may have called you a rookie then, but that was only my way of making myself feel better."

Steve sat back and ran his finger along his glass as Natasha went on, "I'm not just sorry for two weeks ago. I'm sorry for being so damn stubborn and hard to open up. I'm sorry for not trusting you earlier. I'm sorry for…the bullshit."

Steve gave a genuine smirk as she rolled her eyes but went on, "You know, what Fury told me the morning of that crash was true. I had been phoning it in, riding on the coattails of this stupid book deal for a few months. And then you came in and were making me prove my worth as a journalist. All my ridiculous behavior was more about fighting myself than fighting you."

Steve chuckled, "I happen to like your ridiculous behavior and your fight."

Natasha blushed as she grabbed a fry, "Yeah, well. I have a history of people telling me the same thing your ex-wife just did. So, I'm mean it when I say, I'm sorry you had to go down that rabbit hole tonight."

Steve blew out a large breath and finally relaxed as he started eating, "It was just uncomfortable. That's the only reason it was weird, Nat."

There it was again. Steve called her this little nickname again. It felt so natural that it just made her smile.

Steve shook his head and chuckled, "I'll say this though. You giving a genuine apology tonight…and taking a leap in trusting me today? Well, let's just say you did it a lot sooner than I ever did back then. Maybe I was a lot more of a stubborn ass, then you ever were, Natasha."

Natasha chuckled after taking a big bite of her burger, "Well aren't we a sad pair of overly worked, beat writers…by our own choosing."

Steve grinned. Another step forward between them. It was beyond flirting and friendship and well beyond the rivalry. They were lost in that quicksand again, getting to know each other, and not just facts to add to their vaults. They were getting to know the fibers that made them who they were.

And regardless of what the other shared, they just tried to drink it up with their beers.

Steve couldn't help it as he winked at her, "The saddest beat writers to ever exist, Romanoff. Here's to shared experiences."

They both laughed as she shook her head at him and raised her glass.

Their burger and fries were eaten. Their beers were filled again, with some popcorn added to the table as Rhodey grinned, "Don't let anyone tell you I don't serve dessert."

They had settled closer to each other again as Natasha let a little liquid courage clear the biggest question in her brain, "So, 13 years?"

Natasha was asking more than the actual question and they both knew it. Steve smirked at her. What could he say? He liked that she was curious. They'd fallen into a relaxed state. His elbow was on the table, resting his head on his hand. She turned, leaning her shoulder against the booth as they watched each other.

They had a million questions and threads regarding the train line story, but what was helping them relax and get some time to re-center, was focusing on their stories.

And somehow with just enough beer and trust between the two of them, their conversation fell a little deeper into that natural cadence.

Steve told Natasha about how he and Peggy Carter met in college a long time ago when they fell more in love with the idea of each other, than who they actually were. She'd gone to school for criminal justice and he for journalism at New York University. They'd both been driven in their jobs after school, but Peggy's ambition, was more from wanting to climb the ladder quickly at the police station so she could become a detective. And eventually, so she could have more time for a life in the future.

Steve was lost in a moment of reflection, "I think it was only a couple years after we were married, that I first heard that voice inside. The one telling me I was using work for an escape from a marriage. One that I knew wasn't right for me. And that the passion for the job was more than anything felt at home."

Natasha's locked every word away as his eyes connected with hers for a couple of seconds. Seconds that felt like minutes. He went on and explained that a couple who'd only been married a few years, found themselves in counseling in New York, and they decided to make a fresh start of it and move to Chicago.

Steve chuckled to himself, "Rinse, wash, and repeat, right? I think we were more interested with the idea of the fresh start, than actually trying to fix something that just wasn't meant to be. It didn't take long for Peggy to say the same things to me in Chicago, that she told me on the phone tonight. I was too driven. Too focused on the job and was going to get myself killed, or someone else. The irony of a police officer, rising fast to detective, telling me about being unsafe in a job. But she was right. She filed for divorce 13 years ago. It was only six months after we'd moved to Chicago."

He blew out a breath and managed a little grin, "Frank Castle heard I was married to Detective Carter a long time ago…and I guess it gave me a free pass from his tougher tendencies. He joked with me the morning of The Red Line crash that, 'Anyone that was hitched to a Chicago cop and survived, must be alright.'"

Natasha scoffed, "Well that makes a lot more sense than Castle just learning to be nice out of the fucking blue."

Steve chuckled as she sipped on her beer and let a second pass. Another piece was turned over and another question answered. Natasha shook her head, "How come I didn't hear about a reporter in Chicago, as crazed for work as me when I started out then…after I was done at Northwestern? You were on my turf, after all."

Steve gave a smirk, "I was still working for The Journal in New York when I moved to Chicago, and really was still fairly new in the industry in all regards. I'm sure you found a couple of my stories from back then, but it wasn't anything big or breaking. Daily markets in New York, and how Chicago compared. The rise of social media and tech, shifting the job market in cities like ours. Nothing new or original. I'm sure I was lost in the shuffle."

"And then?"

Steve smiled, "And then…after the divorce, I really did throw myself into a fresh start. I took a job as a foreign correspondent. I did a lot of undercover reporting. Had a fake name and everything. And there I stayed for over a decade, writing about foreign policy, really finding my voice and skill and view of the world. Covering our diplomacy efforts and failings in every country we had dealings in, both publicly and privately."

Natasha cocked her head as a little a lightbulb went off. Another puzzle piece fell into place. And this one was a giant on, "Steve, your name overseas when you wrote…was it, Joseph Grant?"

Steve's grin should have been illegal with how it made her feel, "You really are too smart for your own good, Romanoff. Grant is my middle name. Joseph was my father's. He died of lung cancer right before my divorce, and I'm sure that fed into my need for a change of scenery."

Here it was, approaching 10 pm and Steve Rogers was proving he was worth every minute, that Natasha had spent thinking about him over the last month and a half.

Their beer was gone and Rhodey had brought over a pot of coffee as Natasha joked at the pub owner, "Now this is better than any dessert you could ever dish out."

Steve poured them both a cup as he went on, "I'd been wanting to make my way back to the states over the last couple of years. Pepper offered me the job a few months back, and I accepted, now under my actual name as the lead journalist at The Star."

She was a little blown away. Natasha didn't hold back at the revelation of his overseas name, "Steve, I gotta tell you. I think I've read almost everything that, 'Joseph Grant,' wrote over the last 13 years. I mean it. You really did find your voice, and it was more than compelling."

Steve hadn't written a book. He'd been offered deals, but in reality, he'd been writing as an open book under a different name for well over a decade. And Natasha had read most of his work.

Steve looked down, trying to hide the hint of red in his own cheeks. It didn't matter if he had a beard or not. He was flattered and it showed. Her words meant more than he could say. But maybe he could try to say it, because her words provoked the same feeling in him.

"It's a funny thing, Natasha. I read a lot of your work overseas too, trying to keep up on Chicago and your take on national and world affairs."

Steve shrugged his shoulders as he sipped on his coffee, "You were one of my outlets for a world and city that I left, but always knew I wanted to come back to someday."

That tension ticked up a notch as Natasha blurted out her next thought, "Is it awkward being in the same city as your ex-wife?"

Steve chuckled and shook his head at her, "I mean, at first, maybe a little. But seeing her now, re-married to her husband Dan. They have two kids even…Great kids. I don't know…somehow, it's soothing. I'll always want the best for Peggy, and I saw right away that she'd found what she'd wanted. So, I guess, no. It's not awkward, other than calls like tonight when I'm giving her a heads up about something about to go down…or trouble I've found myself in."

Natasha laughed, "Is my name trouble?"

Steve didn't miss a beat, "Well, if it is, then it's trouble I'm happy to be acquainted with."

Another lengthy pause as Steve didn't let Natasha look away from him this time.

Internally, she was saying, 'The feeling's mutual.'

Steve finally added after setting his mug down, "That's enough about me. What's your story, Natasha?"

She tapped her finger against her coffee mug and took another step forward. As curious as she was about Steve and finding out more, it only made her want to share the same with him.

Natasha repeated what she'd told him before. She was born and raised in a small town about an hour outside the city. But everything else was new. Her mother was a schoolteacher. That was why Wanda and she hit it off so well when Bucky started dating her. Wanda reminded her of her own mother in the best of ways.

And Natasha's father owned the only newspaper in their tiny town. It had dwindled in sales all her life because of how cutthroat the print business was with the online emergence.

Natasha had a somber smile on her face, looking down at her coffee, "I grew up, falling in love with the paper. It was my first true love, really. The deadlines. The sound of his typewriter. The angry calls from the locals about articles that were written. Helping Dad with the printing press. The ink stains and smell of the warm paper as it came out, ready to hit the streets…And of course, the crossword."

Natasha winked at Steve for once at the little call back, and there was no other word for it. Steve was enthralled. The way her eyes lit up, talking about writing and the paper and her father, stirred something within himself. That warmth in his cheeks from before had seemed to settle for resting permanently in his chest and stomach, so long as Natasha was sharing with him.

A sense of calm settled between them again as Natasha lost herself, talking about her dad's tiny paper called the Oak Street Gazette and the hustle and bustle of the print days. She wasn't kidding. The paper was small, with only a weekly edition. And their stories were tiny in comparison to what her and Steve deal with now.

The drug of nostalgia consumed her eyes as Steve listened to Natasha's voice soften, "We were small, but each week, I felt like I was watching a Pulitzer Prize winning story being printed. And even if it wasn't, the look on my Dad's face and his excitement?"

Steve was on the hook, waiting and wanting every detail she would give. And there was a twinkle in Natasha's eyes, reminiscing as she went on, "My Mom always jokes that she gave birth to me, but Dad baptized me into the world of writing and newspapers. How could I not fall in love with all of it, right?"

Steve's smile was soft as he asked, "I bet your Dad let you start the printing press as a little girl, didn't he?"

Suddenly, some big pieces to the Natasha Romanoff puzzle were falling into place too.

Steve was more than warm. And there was more than a twinkle in his eyes. The more he discovered, the more he wanted to learn about this beautiful and intelligent woman across from him. Parts of her history fell into place. What made her tick was starting to come together. And her motivations and her path in life was unwinding right before him to walk down and take in.

Natasha smiled and nodded, admitting that she still stops by the printing press from time to time for The Herald, to just watch the paper come to life.

Natasha sighed, explaining how the Gazette went out of business her senior year of high school, so naturally she went to Northwestern University in Chicago for journalism, "I got my first job in grad school at The Herald. Started as an intern, but then when I actually got a job there, it was the same start as you. As a young copy assistant. And then I worked my way up…the rest is history."

The picture of the woman across from Steve was fully forming. Her passion for writing and journalism, was this lifelong romance because of her Dad's livelihood. And further into that quicksand he went, "Natasha Romanoff, esteemed journalist, on a lifelong mission to prove her father's paper didn't end without reason."

Natasha quirked her brow, "For someone who likes to deflect away from compliments as much as I do, you got a wicked way with words, Rogers."

Steve didn't deflect though. He leaned in as their eyes met, "Natasha, I bet he's so proud of you."

A second passed as Natasha swallowed, knowing that Steve understood everything she was telling him. She had to bite her lip as she nodded, "He is, but he says the same things to me that I heard Detective Carter telling you on the phone. He thinks I use my passion for the job as an escape and an excuse for 'not having a life.'"

Steve filled his cup again, and topped her off before asking, "And what about that…Ever had that outside life, even if it was more of an idea than reality, like me?"

Natasha knew what Steve was asking behind the question. And she happened to like that he was curious too.

A smirk appeared, "Well, let's just say I'm horrible in a relationship, but exceptional at break-ups."

Steve let out a loud laugh as he shook his head, and she went on, "I think I've heard all the same things as you, Steve. Change a few words here. Add a few expletives there. There weren't any marriages. There was a proposal once with a very short engagement over 10 years ago. But somewhere around five years back, I pretty much concluded, that my happy marriage was to my work. I haven't seriously dated anyone in a few years."

A little silence as he drummed his fingers on his mug and she went a little further, "You were the first…would be date, I would've had a few weeks ago. If you know…everything with Hope and our competing leads…and me ghosting you didn't happen."

Steve had a mischievous smile, "Can you call it a 'would be date,' if you were the one preventing it from happening?"

Natasha played along, "Is this a play on the whole…if a tree falls in the forest schtick, but no one's around to hear it, Rogers?"

He shrugged his shoulders, "I mean, that's a stretch. The tree actually falls, regardless if no one sees or hears it. The date never happened."

"Right. And because this isn't a date." Her words had slipped out.

Steve swallowed as she took a drink, "No. Not a date. Because…we're just friends."

"Right."

Both of their quiet responses were the same.

The tension passed as Steve received a text from Peggy, confirming the security cameras had been taken care of and to just remember to be careful.

"Good news, I think we're okay from the cameras at Lakeside Lockers."

Steve's smile was anything but genuine. Good news sure. Bad news was, the moment had passed from before as Natasha cleared her throat. And before they knew it, they were talking about what they'd really come here to do. Figuring out what they knew and what they didn't know with the story.

Natasha pulled up the picture they captured on their phones and scooted right beside Steve again, "Alright, Rogers. Anyone here stick out?"

Steve looked down at her, "Natasha, what do you say about sharing a little more about this story with each other?"

Natasha looked up at him, and for the first time in a long time, she didn't fight anything. Deep down, she trusted him. She knew that. She trusted him as a journalist and a writer. As a man and yes…a friend. But she trusted this. Their connection, and that he wasn't trying to work her over. That he was really pursuing the same thing that she was.

The truth.

She nodded in response, "Yeah Steve, I trust you."

His breath was felt on her as the smell of coffee lingered, "I trust you too, Natasha."

It was late and they dove into that exciting haze of the trail and each other.

And they were off to the races.

Natasha pulled out her notepad and a baggie from her messenger bag. The Midwest Pharmaceuticals pen Jane returned to her earlier today, which seemed like a week ago at this point, settled between them in the plastic as Natasha spoke, "I grabbed this off the ground, the day we ran into each other at The Blue Line, Rogers. Not Chapstick."

Steve smirked, "You owe me a pack of Chapstick, Romanoff."

She rolled her eyes playfully, "Yeah, yeah. Send an invoice. Okay, but the lab results connected the pen to John Doe, who definitely didn't commit suicide on The Blue Line. We just don't know who he is."

"Yeah, we do."

Steve's voice was quiet as he pulled out his phone, "It can't be verified because it was doctored and parts are missing. But zoom in on that train footage. Even with it being grainy, who does John Doe look like?"

Natasha leaned in front of Steve to play the video a couple of times and then looked at her photo on her phone.

"Damn."

"I didn't know before tonight, but that man looks an awful lot like the man standing next to Hank Pym.

Natsha zoomed in. The men in their lab coats, all had badges attached to the front pocket. And unlike the grainy footage, the photograph was good enough, that names could be made out. Natasha peered close enough as her eyes read the names.

A quick google search provided her with zero details of John Doe or the connection or death, because it was still a John Doe. But it did provide her with who the man was, standing next to Hank Pym.

Doctor Bruce Banner.

Steve swiped to a picture of an article that'd been given to him by a source of his own, "The article can't be found on Google or Midwest's page, but the internet leaves traces if you look hard enough. I know a guy in tech that help me out from time to time."

Natasha grinned, "Yeah…my guess is some of our sources know each other, Rogers. They all kind of talk about how they all exist in this, 'off the books,' world together."

She was thinking of Yelena and Jane, and Steve was thinking of his own sources. They could compare those notes when this story was all done.

Natasha started reading the article from five years ago, "Doctor Bruce Banner, world renowned Scientist that Midwest snagged from a competitor, joins a team of highly respected Doctors at the Pharmaceutical company. The Doctors will start a special project at its science facility, located 90 minutes north of Chicago, just outside of Milwaukee, where their manufacturing headquarters are."

Steve read over her shoulder, "Banner joins, Doctor Hank Pym, Doctor Aldrich Killian, and Doctor Stephen Strange. The project named Wildfire has not been disclosed publicly with what it will entail, but more details will be announced as exciting developments unfold. Their CEO, Val De Fontaine would not comment any further."

Natasha didn't even hesitate as she showed Steve the pictures of Hope's body. He was shocked, but also concerned for her more than anything. It had been two weeks, but his worry when he showed up that Sunday outside her office, was still there.

Seeing what happened to Hope, sure. But knowing Natasha was there and attacked. Well, it still angered Steve as it did her.

Natasha shook her head, "I promise, Steve. I was okay then and I am now. It's just…I said it earlier. I want to expose these bastards. Hope didn't deserve this."

"Neither did you, Nat."

There was that name again as she looked up, nodding at him, "Look at the photos, Steve. I visited the morgue and so many red flags about Hope went off. Her body was cremated and the pathologist at the morgue wasn't able to perform an autopsy. But I showed the puncture wound you're looking at. The mortician doesn't think Hope died from the gunshots, rather the injection in her neck."

He looked down, and they said at the same time, "Midwest Pharmaceuticals."

Natasha added, "I bet if we would've found John Doe's remains, even with the mess the train made, we'd find it was Bruce Banner, and that there was an injection involved with him too."

Steve let out a sigh, "So there's five people dead at The Red Line Crash. And that all seems like it was an awful coincidence…"

"Or a distraction, to deter people's attention away from The Blue Line accident."

Steve tapped his fingers on the table, "And now we got two people dead with John Doe and Hope. And DNA results connecting this pen to John Doe. But now, there's no bodies or paper trail to officially tie anything to the company. It's all proof we can't use because again…no paper trail."

Natasha took a breath, showing Steve a couple pictures of the drawing of the tattoo she remembered.

Steve frowned as he looked over the image of the sun with barbed wire around it, "That has Wilson Fisk and his goddamn tracksuit mafia written all over it. The gun shots and plastic too. That tattoo is a common gang symbol."

"But something doesn't add up, right Steve? The injection and needles and drugging people…It's not Fisk's style at all."

Steve nodded in agreement, "I said two, but it's probably three people dead. I'd be willing to bet that Hank Pym's death is connected too. The odd thing is Hank died two years ago…but his house only was bought and torn down in the last six weeks. Why wait?"

Natasha rolled her neck, "That's hardly the only odd thing. Throw that in the pile to be determined."

A big breath and a groan came out of them both. Natasha was clicking her pen now, "So if Hope was able to connect the DNA from the pen to John Doe…or Bruce Banner, then that means his information was actually processed in the system. Maybe his body is gone, but test results were done, right? Maybe they got rid of Hope's body before any tests could be done because they learned from Banner's body leaving a record."

Natasha added quickly, "But as long as he stayed John Doe, it'd be easier to keep the results hidden."

Steve sighed, "Too bad for two nosey journalists catching a trail."

"Nosey, but talented."

Steve smirked as he filled their coffees again, "Talented, but stubborn."

She raised her mug, "I'll drink to that."

Natasha said, "Two…probably three bodies we can't connect, but all arrows are pointing towards Midwest Pharma. We have a tattoo pattern and the name Wildfire."

He nodded, "So if Val De Fontaine and whatever Wildfire is, are at the top of the food chain in this story, then Fisk is the muscle. He's not plotting something with a goddamn drug company. That just doesn't add up."

Natasha blew out a breath, "No, but Midwest's corporate headquarters are here in the city, which means most of their money is here in Chicago. Which also means, having muscle and thugs on your side to do you favors, who clearly don't care about hurting people, would help whatever their overall goal is."

Steve looked up at the ceiling, "So Fisk gets what in return? Backing of a candidate for mayor and some sort of kickback? The man has money. So, it's gotta be more than dollars for him. And I highly doubt they're going to give him an office at Midwest's headquarters downtown."

Natasha scoffed, "Can you imagine? That bastard moving in with the suits and accountants at their firm? I'd actually get a kick out of seeing that. But you're right. If Wilson is providing them with some of the cover and muscle, what exactly is he getting in return, besides a move to try and replace Coulson as Mayor?"

Those threads didn't have answers right now. But the fact they could form the questions they did, reflected on how much they'd learned. Steve sat back, "Think Janet Van Dyne will give up anything, if she knows more about Hank Pym's death?"

Natasha joined him, with her head resting against the wall now, "Maybe…eventually. I don't know if I want to burn that bridge yet. I'd like to go to her with more than what we have, before really pushing her."

The day's events had caught up to them. The chase and Fisk and the warehouse. All of what they'd learned about each other. The coffee did the trick while they were writing notes and comparing pictures. But the adrenaline had waned, and Steve and Natasha's exhaustion was coming on strong.

Natasha yawned as she shut her eyes for a second, "I'll dive into Wildfire in the morning, Rogers."

Steve smiled, "Yeah, I will too. Leave no stone unturned, and something will come up."

The hum of the evening fell over them. It was well past 11 pm now. Only a couple of other regulars were up at the bar. The Cubs had lost, and the jukebox was even quieter now, playing what sounded like Creedence Clearwater Revival.

A minute had passed and neither had talked. They were sitting flush against one another in the booth as that lure of tiredness overwhelmed. Steve felt a soft sensation on his shoulder all of a sudden. He looked down and somehow, the other events of the day hit him.

The feeling inside of him, thinking of all their slight touches and sounds. The lingering stares and words with double meanings. The natural banter and all the information shared between them tonight.

Labels be damned. This was so much more than a date. It was intimacy and trust that grew out of today. And now?

Steve saw Natasha's head resting on his shoulder, and he took a breath.

Quicksand.

It was calming and a little unnerving, knowing how undefined and messy this all was. But it was so much deeper than even 24 hours ago.

Rhodey came over and nodded at Steve as he brought them some water. Steve waved him off, mouthing, "Gonna let her sleep for a bit."

Rodey didn't know what the two journalists were to each other and honestly, it didn't matter one way or another to him. He knew he saw his friendly customer, happier than he'd ever been right now, so he left them alone. He'd be open a few hours longer anyway, and they weren't harming anyone.

Steve sank down just a little further so his head could rest lightly on hers as he let his eyes close too.

Somewhere way past flirtation and friends, Steve and Natasha found some shuteye, in the comfort of each other tonight.

For at least a few hours.

1:30 am rolled around as the last regular left. The man had a few too many beers and was loud, saying his goodbye to Rhodey.

The barstool tipped over and Natasha jumped up, realizing what'd happened. Her and Steve had fallen asleep against one another.

Steve sat up too, stretching, and smiling down at her.

Natasha blinked as her mind raced, retracing everything and realizing that yes, they'd fallen asleep, using each other's sides and shoulders for comfort.

Before the thoughts got away from her, Steve's hand found hers on her leg and squeezed, "We just slept for a couple hours in a booth, Romanoff. Don't overthink it. Come on, I'll drive ya home."

A goodbye to Rhodey was said and five minutes later, Natasha was telling her inner voice to pipe down as she wrapped her arms around Steve one more time tonight.

They didn't say anything for the rest of the ride. He knew her address from their jog the other morning. It didn't matter that his jacket was in back, stored with their plants. He was more than warm enough in his t-shirt. And she happily soaked it up as she pressed against him and held on tight.

Steve tried to tell his conscience to shut up. It was currently yelling internally, that he was in way over his head at this point. But all he could feel was the quicksand all around. The warmth from her hands. The feel of her legs and her cheek against his back.

And every single detail shared between them today.

The wheels spun on the road as they turned in their heads. Marinating in the events of the day and facts of the story. Swimming in the feelings they tried to keep under control.

10 minutes later, Steve arrived outside her apartment building, and she hopped off to give his helmet back and got her plant.

A bamboo and a cactus plant. A couple of leads. A run in with Wilson Fisk and his goons. Some help from Castle and Jones. And a full day with Steven Grant Rogers.

Natasha looked up at him in the moonlight, and Steve smiled down at her from his bike.

Both were tired. Both were full of racing thoughts of each other.

Friends.

Quicksand.

Bullshit.

Steve blew out a breath. With a certainty realized in an elevator today, Steve knew. He knew, that anything less than what caused his heart to beat the way it was right now, wasn't going to be good enough.

Natasha was the one who caught them both by surprise right now. Maybe it was late enough, with just enough of that haze from the day and night still remaining, that she sank a little further in that quicksand too. She took a step forward, with her plant under her arm and bag on her back.

Mere inches separated them as Steve searched her eyes and himself for words. Only silence was found with the buzz of twilight above and all around. Leaning up on her toes, Natasha's sandals stretched against the pavement. And with the stars peeking down from above, a gentle brush along his beard was made.

From her lips to his cheek, a kiss was given.

Unprompted or provoked. Out of the blue, and maybe a small step to some. But this was anything but small. Her lips were soft. The kiss was gentle. Their bodies were warm. It was so much more, than any kiss on a cheek either had given or received.

Natasha's heels found the ground again and her lips left a mark in more ways than one.

Their eyes were locked as her words came out quiet and sincere, "Thank you, Steve."

Steve found her free hand and grasped it with his own, "For what, Nat?"

Natasha blinked first as she looked down, but took a breath, "For listening and trusting. For having my back with Fisk. For being so goddamn smart."

A beat passed before she returned a gentle squeeze and found his eyes again, "For being you."

Maybe a kiss on the cheek and some hand holding…and resting against each other's shoulders wasn't enough in the long run. Maybe it wouldn't mean a lot for most people looking to act on hormones and feelings with less patience and time.

But that wasn't Steve and Natasha.

And this…quicksand or not, was enough for today.

Steve might have been doomed, knowing he would always want more than just this. But they'd come a really long ways today, and the way Natasha looked at him now, made him feel like he could fly.

Natasha wasn't ready to push Janet Van Dyne, and Steve wasn't ready to push Natasha.

Not right now. Not after everything they'd been through today.

His hand slipped from hers as he blew out a breath, "You're not so bad yourself."

A smile grew on them both as he added, "Goodnight, Nat. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

Natasha felt the same thing Steve did. Nothing was defined between them, and it was entirely too messy to sort out right now. But she knew she liked the sound of that. And she liked the idea of them working together, figuring out this story with each other.

"Yeah, Steve. tomorrow."

10 minutes later, Natasha was curled up in bed. Face washed, teeth brushed. Pajama bottoms and a tee on as she shut her eyes thinking about every last detail of Steven Grant Rogers.

And 30 minutes later, Steve was doing the same as he arrived home. He was lying in his bed and thinking of this fiery red head and all that he had learned.

Into slumber they said goodbye to today. Into dreams they welcomed tomorrow.

Into quicksand they sank, deeper into the unknown.

End Note:

Ready or not, September is in full force. Love Fall, so bring on a little cooler weather!

Some tough love from Bucky. A sleuthing scene at the warehouse. A more than feisty run in with Mr. Fisk and his tracksuits. A Riverfront Ball on the horizon. And a lot of quicksand 😊.

This chapter was a little lengthier, but I just couldn't leave the Pub scene and convo until next chapter. It was too good, with some juicy reveals and answers to their past and some of their history. It really drew these two kiddos closer…by a long shot.

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!

Cheers! ~~ Kat