Coffeebar FU II, Freie Universität, Berlin
The steam from her coffee spiraled up in a narrow, translucent curl, thinning and disappearing just a few inches above the rim of her mug.
The gentle motion was soothing and Sharon sat, watching it, for … a while. She wasn't sure exactly how long, but when she finally shook herself out of it, the barista was giving her worried glances. Sharon flashed a reassuring smile and the girl smiled back, but it was an uncertain expression. Damnit. She'd come here so she wouldn't be noticed, just another grad student enjoying a midday cup of coffee.
The major objective of her mission was completed. Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, was in the field without having signed the Accords. He had his shield, which was of great symbolic importance, if nothing else, and he had back up: Sam and his suit and, she winced slightly, Bucky Barnes. He was a fugitive and he was beholden to the CIA thanks to the efforts of one Sharon Carter.
One very tired, fried, Sharon Carter. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and she was about to enter the most dangerous phase of this mission — the aftermath. More missions were blown during this period of adrenaline let-down than any other time. She needed a few minutes to collect herself.
So she parked her car in a student long-term parking lot, wiped it of prints and found a nice, anonymous coffee house at the university on the other side of the city from both her apartment and the HQ. And sat watching the steam rise for far too long.
The logistics of the next few hours were easy enough to sort out — she was a good little spy and had planned ahead. She had to act as if she hadn't been blown. If she had been blown, there would be a specific window shade lowered in a specific window in a grey, concrete block apartment building at the corner of the Botanical Gardens on Unter den Eichen. She had safe houses, bolt holes and routes out of the city. She would be fine.
Frankly, being blown might be easier. Then she'd be on the run with Steve, which sucked but….
She curled her fingers around her cup.
"C'mon Sharon, let's have that talk," she muttered, and then glanced up at the barista, who was still darting worried glances her way occasionally. Talking to herself wasn't going to help her be unmemorable.
With a little bit of sleight of hand, Sharon reached up under the curtain of her blonde hair and pretended to take out her Bluetooth earpiece, making sure she dropped it onto the hard plastic tabletop. The loud clatter drew the girl's attention. Sharon could almost see the barista's relief as her behavior suddenly made sense: Oh, the nice blonde lady was listening to someone on her mobile's earpiece. That's why she sat still so long, why she muttered to herself. With the puzzle solved, she was dismissed from memory.
The coffee was only lukewarm when she sipped it, but well sugared. Ideally, she'd have a notebook made of flashpaper where she could write out this conversation with herself and then burn it after. But even she hadn't planned ahead for this.
Say it, Sharon. Say it out loud, even if it's just in your own head.
The goddamned kiss.
It was a good kiss. And he was so damned attractive. She could still feel the swell of his pecs under his t-shirt as he stepped away from her. He was kind and sweet and loyal to a stupidly epic degree, as evinced by the presence of Bucky in that damned VW Bug. If he was going to be on the run with Barnes and Wilson, acting like… some Secret Avenger group, she could be useful.
And she was almost certain she could parlay that kiss into sex. And once he slept with her, he'd stay loyal until the day she died. He was old-fashioned like that. Sure, she'd be relegated to the girlfriend role on the team, like some damned Pink Lion Princess Allura, her contributions as a tactician, master spy and CIA contact dismissed as sort of an afterthought. Steve wouldn't do that on purpose but… he'd do it. The other two would, too. It would suck but that was the job. She could deal with that.
But in her head, she kept hearing him say, "Late."
He didn't mean three years late. That made exactly zero sense, since he'd been flirting with a cover identity. And they literally hadn't laid eyes on one another during the intervening years.
Nope, he meant 73 years late. He meant Peggy.
Could she go to bed with Steve knowing that he was thinking of Peggy? Short-term… maybe. It was frankly unpleasant but she was a spy and spies did the unpleasant things in the shadows so that heroes could shine in the light. Also, in the privacy of her own head, she could admit that he was so beautiful that she could probably overlook any emotional ickiness.
But if they went on the run, there was a good chance it would be for a long while. Could she wake up next to him every morning, knowing that when he woke up, he'd be disappointed to see her blonde hair instead of Peggy's dark curls?
Flip the question the other way? Could she afford not to? He seemed more stable, more sure of himself now that Bucky was back in his life, but that vibrating sense of skin hunger and loneliness was still there. If, under stress, he made himself vulnerable and she rejected him, he would honor that rejection, of course. He is Steve Rogers.
But… he was even more emotionally fragile than most men. Would that wound him? Rejection broke so many men into pieces.
"He is Steve Rogers," a voice echoed in her mind, so real she almost looked around for the source. Aunt Peggy's voice, dry and certain.
Of course rejection wouldn't break him. He was a good man and he'd lived his whole life, pre-serum, being repeatedly rejected. She smiled at her own foolishness and her shoulder relaxed as she realized that she could say no, safely, to him.
That was such a rare blessing in the world.
"You look awfully happy, Sharon," said a throaty voice. "Whatcha been up to?"
"Dermo," Sharon breathed, all her relief draining out of her like water as she stared across the table at the Black Widow.
