The quinjet coasted through the air, a dark swatch against the clouds and the sky. A call had come in from the helicarrier, Nick Fury requesting the assistance of the Avengers on a case being handled by one of his scouting teams. Information pertaining to their own recent endeavors was involved, he'd said, and it was therefore prudent to at least look into the matter. Sensing the issue to be serious, but not a major threat, he delegated that only two should go meet the contact who had requested the aid. The word was that the two women of the team were specifically asked for, though the final decision would be left up to them. Though it raised several eyebrows, the captain had let them choose whether or not to go. As such, they had agreed to it; Wanda needed more experience working one-on-one with another teammate, and Natasha could be trusted to meet the task. Soon enough, they were packed up and on the next flight out, ready to meet the challenge.
"How much longer until we reach...Bucharest?" the female Maximoff wondered, looking at the tablet that had been handed to her. It was approximately halfway through the flight, or thereabouts, when she asked, her normal distraction methods not at her disposal at the moment. (Her phone had run out of battery, she'd already finished her book, and the Vision was not on hand to field observations or expound on data with.) She was left finally doing her homework, and she had groaned a little under her breath at the prospect. The provided information, such as it was, had listed the capital of Romania as the drop-off point. Her personal bag sat at her feet, the seat's harness disregarded as she sat near the back of the jet. Her compatriot sat on the bench across from her, bag perched on the seat to the left.
"Two, maybe three hours max," Romanoff replied, bending down to tighten the laces on her boots. "A contact is meeting us there, he'll fill us in."
Wanda's eyebrow rose. "He?"
"Or she," the other woman amended. Shrugging a shoulder, she tipped her head to one side. "They weren't really specific by design."
As always, it was best for the mission contacts to remain as shrouded in mystery as possible. Running the risk of giving definite identification of the people involved, and by chance giving a potential infiltrator more information to pass onto his or her superiors, was not a viable option. To Natasha, it was second nature to be told next to nothing about contacts, but she knew the younger woman would need the reminder on occasion.
For her part, the Maximoff girl snorted and dipped her chin. "Fair point."
Two to three hours was enough to get some rest, which Natasha intended on doing. She did not know what exactly they would be in for, yet, and it would be best to get what she could beforehand. Another chance might not come for days. Curling up on her bench, her brain would not allow her to slip away fully. Half a mind was trained towards the cockpit, listening in on the pilot's back and forth chatter as he called in, and the other half was spent pondering another conundrum (mild irritation, she tried to correct herself, not wanting to accord the little voice in her head any further leverage than it needed).
Barnes hadn't called in for his weekly report, five days already gone by the time their aid was requested. Despite the requirements of his employment with the helicarrier crews, he had not met the stipulation, something he always did. The guy was punctual, and paranoid about keeping to the rules that allowed him his chance at freedom; it was odd to go so long without a word from him. Instead, Steve and she were left with a simple message from Fury, personal assurances left for the continued existence of the ex-assassin. Something about it didn't sit right with either of them, unspoken conversation passed between them before she had set off on the mission. When it was finished, she was going to assert her authority and take a little side-trip to the carrier to investigate that matter. Or to beat the crap out of Barnes in case it was just a case of forgetting to do so. Memory failure was not uncommon in cases like his, but he had gone over a year and a half without drawing too many blanks. Nope, she'd kick his ass, and then be relieved about knowing what was going on.
Once that conclusion was reached, it was a lot easier to fall into sleep, the rest of the trip gone in mere moments that way.
Outside the city limits, the quinjet landed, the two Avengers dispatched on foot with directions to the nearest safe house. Looking like a pair of back-packing hikers, the two women took their time getting to the city center, Wanda following Natasha's lead in regards to blending into the populace, disappearing in plain sight. It would take years before she would even be at a level close to the Black Widow's duplicity, but some carefully constructed hexes were thrown, illusory ones that twisted the nearby minds to think nothing of young women traveling alone through a foreign capital. Checking her watch, Natasha indicated silently that it was time to meet up with the contact, gesturing for her partner to flag down a cab. Another aura jutted from her hand into the cabbie's head as they climbed in, the older man's reality warped so that he would not remember anything about the fare that took them all into an older part of the city. The taxi dropped them off half a mile from the safe house. It was a hike, but neither woman verbally complained about it. Sticking to the shadows of the buildings, letting the setting sun do its natural work and hiding them as they went, they eventually came in front of an apartment building, rundown red brick with green shutters and boards over some of the windows. The outer door yielding under Wanda's touch, the swinging portal causing both of them to share a dark look. As per the instructions given to them, they traversed the rickety staircase at the back of the tenement, up to the fourth floor. The weathered door at the back seemed just as beaten as the others dotting the walls, but as she once again consulted the instructions, Natasha hooked her finger along the paneling, a number pad revealed. Tapping in a provided six-digit code, a whir and click echoed from within the walls, the handle automatically turning. Snapping the panel shut, she led the way into the rooms, the younger woman on her heels. The two of them examined the living area, the warped floorboards meeting the rundown walls, the wallpaper on them faded. Two other doors flanked the far wall, and a kitchen made up the back of the apartment. It was there that the focus was drawn; their contact was at the sink, tall, dark, looming, and his back was to them. Once the outer door latched back into place, he turned, and Natasha let her face show her surprise.
"Oh, my God, you're everywhere," she ground out jokingly, eyebrows arching perfectly as she stared at him. A dark one spiked back at her, and the gloved left hand went up to tuck back his lengthening hair behind his ear. Cornflower blue eyes lit up with a devious mirth, the strong jaw setting and mouth curving into a smirk.
"That has been my reputation," Bucky Barnes asserted, some of the brightness in his gaze dimming for a moment. Shaking his head, he cast a glance at the auburn-haired woman to her left and nodded to her. "Hi, Wanda."
"James," she greeted him, the frown on her face having morphed into a tiny grin. She strode forward, giving the ex-assassin a genial pat on his arm, the flesh one. "You're looking well."
"Thanks," he replied, flashing her a tight smile of his own, the storm in his irises seemingly calmed by the green gaze she directed at him. The tiniest twinge of something registered in Natasha's gut, but she refused to pay it any mind. There was work to be done; whatever the nasty little flicker was, it had to wait. Before another word could be spoken between the pair, a blur of white and blue mist whizzed into the small room, the form of Pietro Maximoff coming to a standstill between the girl and the so-called Winter Soldier. His hands went on his hips, and after he dipped his chin at the redheaded beauty, he tutted at his sister.
"Nothing for me?" he groused, head shaking and silvered locks falling onto his brow. His sister scoffed audibly and tilted her face to the ceiling. If one could hear her thoughts, Natasha supposed they would be hearing her pray for patience.
"What's there to say, Pietro? You're you." The girl called the Scarlet Witch cupped her palms in the air, affording her brother a flat look. "If you weren't, I'd know by now."
He looked mildly affronted by that, but he accepted her offer of a hug with decent enough humor. Blinking, Bucky strode away from the siblings, allowing them a moment to catch up.
"Didn't think you'd be seeing me so soon, huh?" he asked the redhead facetiously, extending a hand and tapping her lightly on the shoulder. The corner of his mouth turned up, and the glint in his eyes returning. She snorted at that, but couldn't quite quell the amusement curving her mouth.
"Figured you'd be off spit-shining Fury's boots this week," she retorted mildly, resting her hip on the nearby table.
Bucky carded a hand through his hair, letting it drop to the table top and leaning against it. Veritably towering over her, he gave her a rueful smirk, eyeing up the toe of his boot.
"He's given me until Thursday to get it done," he riposted, a look flashed at her from beneath his eyelashes. He grinned, inviting her to take the joke, and she returned it carefully. One breath, then two, and she straightened her back, hand gesturing to their ragtag gathering.
"So what is it that has us crossing paths?" she queried in a louder tone, drawing away from the edge and pulling the twins back into the conversation. Clearing his throat, Bucky tipped his palms towards the chairs surrounding the table, all four of them sitting down and preparing to discuss business.
"My team was sent in to investigate a few discovered HYDRA hidey-holes around the country for the last few days." His sharp gaze darted around the small apartment they were in, bare save for the most essential of furniture and goods. Natasha tracked his path, taking the silent examination as a hint that they were standing in one those very hideaways he was reporting about. Now, it was a SHIELD hidey-hole. So this was where he'd been when he was supposed to report in; good to know. Shaking his head, he went on. "Some have been mostly abandoned, but a couple bore...results. One of which being a mercenary that has been on Mr. Chapman's radar."
"Actually, Finesse handles the radar. If anything, it's bothering her more," the young man codenamed Quicksilver pointed out from his seat by the window. When all he received were impatient stares (Bucky and Wanda) and an arched eyebrow of disinterest (the Black Widow clearly did not welcome the disruption), he coughed and rolled his shoulders back. Flapping a hand in the air, he muttered, "But, whatever. Continue, Tin Man."
Bucky snorted. "Sure thing, Scarecrow. This mercenary has been digging through whatever he could find in the hideouts as well. Officially, he's hired through—"
"Klaue," Pietro interrupted again, though his sober expression stemmed any form of frustrated outburst coming from the others. Blue and white mist swirled, with him exiting the kitchen and entering again, a file folder dropped between the two women. Papers spilled forth, Fury's handpicked reconnaissance operatives having come through on that score and reporting all that had happened internally with the South African's black market operations. "Well, not so much him, obviously, but his old second-in-command has him on the payroll. With his former boss out of the way, he's been making a few splashes of his own. Seems determined to find something in some way. So that's where this guy comes in."
"This guy," Bucky said, retrieving his personal tablet from the side room. Tapping through, he found a surveillance photo taken of the fellow in question and showed it to them. Thinning red hair crowned a square-shaped head, eyes hidden behind sunglasses and a scar cutting from the bridge of his nose down his left cheek. A formidable guy, if appearances were anything to go by. "With a right hook that will knock you flat on your ass."
Bright eyes glinted up at him, slowly drawing down his body.
"You seem to be alright, for all that," Natasha observed when she met his gaze fully. He canted his head to the right,
"Oh, it wasn't me," he reassured them all. With a grimace, he recounted, "One of the team went in, head first. Got in a few lucky punches before hitting the pavement. I got the left jab."
He pulled at the collar of his Henley shirt, revealing the healing splotch of purple-green along his clavicle. Revealing the chain that was still hanging around his neck, the dog tag hidden the folds of the cloth. How it hadn't been broken in the fight was beyond her, but she just nodded, and he let the shirt fall back into place.
"Problem is, this man is no spy, or agent. He's clumsy, probably because he's not hunting a person."
"So you stumbled upon him by chance," Wanda concluded, working through the flow of events out loud. "Then you alerted Fury, who told Chapman—"
"Who sent me out here," Pietro supplied helpfully. Actually, he had more or less volunteered to go, when they'd let slip who was to be the contact; though not on the greatest terms with Bucky, he did trust the man to have his back in an altercation, and was willing to work with him. It was due to that, that made the relaying operatives more careful when they called for help from the primary team.
"And now you've all brought us in," Natasha murmured. Looking from the two men to her own would-be partner, she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why?"
The two men shared a loaded glance. Their private reconnaissance had not turned up much on the fellow, save that he was at his most open and free when he attended clubs in the city. One club in particular held his attention, and it was one he would likely be at that night. His normal entourage of fellow mercenaries and hired bodyguards would be a distance, clubbing seeming to be solitary activity for the guy. Unfortunately, given that he had already escaped Bucky once, he knew his face; he wouldn't be able to approach him without potentially risking the clientele at the club. And Pietro, well, he had thought of another way to detain the guy for questioning. It wasn't the best plan, but it was really all they had, short of a raid. And frankly, none of them really wanted it to progress to that level.
Which was how they found themselves traipsing across the city center several hours later, outfitted for a covert mission after night had shrouded the sky. Though, in Natasha's opinion, it seemed more overt than was necessary.
"This is cliché as hell and incredibly stupid," the former assassin growled out the side of her mouth, eyes narrowing in contempt for the venture. The cut-off shorts she'd liberated from the closed thrift store were riding up on her, the Nirvana shirt beneath her borrowed flannel (one of Bucky's, nicked as they were walking out the door; he didn't stop her, in any case) threadbare and uncomfortable even when hidden beneath her wool coat. She cut a glance over to Wanda, who seemed oddly at ease with the torn pants and midriff-baring halter, her winter coat opened to reveal it. Her own flannel shirt had been stolen with the rest, tied around her waist and a choker around her neck. At least combat boots were not out of the ordinary, where they were going. She would have hated ditching her boots for unreliable footwear (she'd more than make do, but boots were really what she did best in).
A silvered head poked between the two women, arms draping languidly over their shoulders as he walked with them. The elder Maximoff, as well as Barnes, were not attired like the girls. Instead, they sported black shirts and pants, tactical armor secreted beneath it all. They would not be going into the club with them; rather, they would monitor the situation via comm links from outside, intervening only when their help was requested, should they need it.
"What, you've never walked into a party and seduced a target before?" he inquired, inclining his head towards her.
Natasha gave Pietro a sideways glare. Of course she had. More times than she cared to admit. Her early career alone was built on finding a mark and swaying them into compliance. Many of her assignments with SHIELD had proceeded to follow that path as well. However, since becoming an Avenger, she'd had less and less opportunity to take up missions that highlighted using her specific...seduction talents. It said a lot about the young man beside her, as he had come up with the plan of using not only her, but his sister, as the opportunity had presented itself. Since he was on her other side, she did not see Bucky's look of mild interest, his curiosity at her reply (his brief flicker of irritation as the younger man kept his arm wrapped around her shoulders, though that was swiftly suppressed).
The fiery redhead laughed bitterly, without a trace of humor. "That's why I can say it's cliché."
"But it's not stupid enough for you to actually walk away. Or come up with something else," he retorted, chuckling as she rolled her eyes and shrugged his arm off of her.
"Well, it's not like it's a benefit or something," Wanda piped up, her loose hair shifting as she craned her head to look around her brother. "We're going to a grunge club, with ear-blasting music. And we might not even have to seduce him at all. You could probably throw the man into the bar and nobody would look twice."
Acknowledging the point, Natasha felt a little cheered. However, a thought nagged at the back of her mind, and she felt compelled to voice it.
"What do you know about grunge clubs, kid?" she wondered, eager to hear the answer.
"I am twenty-five, thank you," the younger Maximoff twin sniffed haughtily. After a few moments, she broke the facade and sighed loudly. "And the late teenage years were an experience."
Leaning closer to Natasha's ear, Pietro mumbled in a stage whisper, "Ask her about October 12th, 2009. Is a funny story."
Wanda frowned, elbowing him in the stomach and shaking her head. "Shut up, Pietro."
That launched a round heated discussion in Slovak, leaving two ex-assassins very much out of the loop and passing looks to one another. The brother would retort in a sarcastic tone, the sister would snap back, and the cycle repeated as the cement and cobblestones of the streets passed beneath their feet. As a result, the two older people started to hang back from the younger ones, walking in a leisurely pace and watching the row play out. Still, when the fight went on for several more minutes, Barnes audibly groaned, tipping his head back and glaring at the sky. It was getting on his nerves, and he had plenty to be jumpy about that evening as it was.
"If they keep bickering in their first language, I'm going to have to give them some very specific words from mine," Bucky muttered to her, bending his head so that the arguing ones in question could not hear him. Natasha snickered, a small smile gracing her lips.
"English curses lose their effect after a while," she informed him, choosing that moment to spit out one in Russian while sporting the sweetest smile. He shook his head at her, unable to hide the amusement and the tiny blip of admiration streaking across his irises. The humor in her faded quickly, another pondered thought forcing its way out. "Why are you here again?"
There was no reason for him to be, after all. He'd done his duty, made contact and supplied information for the team members to use. Typical circumstances dictated that he would have been recalled, either to embark on another mission or meet with his superior to debrief on the one he had finished with. Hell, he didn't even have to be there as the contact in the first place. Something like suspicion bloomed inside her, and she stared at him as they continued to walk, their pace much slower now.
Ice invaded his gaze, but before he could formulate an answer, they had turned a corner, their journey at its end. The club's underground entrance was just ahead, and it was time for the male Maximoff and him to depart.
"Save the questions for later," he breathed, words ghosting over her ear and causing a stray shiver to slide down her spine. Signaling Pietro with a couple of fingers, he let the younger man precede him down the nearby alley. "We'll be around back if you need us."
Surging forward, he wrapped a hand around her bicep, squeezing gently before he vanished from her side. Left her slightly dazed, and a little befuddled. Wanda's fingers curling around her wrist brought her out her jumbled musings. Job, mission. Focus, she reminded herself harshly, and she followed the younger woman's lead, brilliant smiles and fake identification getting them past the bouncer.
The club was packed, Pearl Jam nearly blasting out her eardrums through the speakers as they stationed themselves at the bar. It was all dark colors and seedy posters, the bar looking distressed and weathered on top of the concrete floor. Exposed beams and bare-bulb lamps were hanging above them, the light glowing and pulsing. Other grunge enthusiasts filtered around them, a select few jumping and rocking out on the dance floor in the back corner. It did not take them long to spot their target: he stuck out like a sore thumb, dressed conservatively and making no attempt to hide his thinning red hair. Wanda tipped her head to Natasha, silently asking if she should be the first to make a move. Flicking her fingers in the air, the older woman beckoned her to follow, Pietro's chatter crackling over the comms in their ears. As one, the two took on the guise of drunken friends, American girls who had a shared affinity for balding men with dangerous-looking scars. The fellow practically lit up when they approached, and he enticed them with some bogus story involving him and a shoot-out, showing his risky side. Plying them with drinks (and discreetly disposing of them when he wasn't looking), he expressed his fondness for the new arrivals, promised to take them around the most beautiful city in Romania and get them acquainted. Arms draped around their waists, and they stumbled out of the bar with him, ears ringing and feigned drunkenness dogging their steps. Something about it all itched at the back of Natasha's mind; in general, while she found her marks to be somewhat less intelligent in comparison (in comparison to her, that was), they generally needed more schmoozing and flattery to be enticed by a random stranger. Not all of them, of course, but there was a distinct feeling of wrong ringing through her mind. It had all seemed too easy. And, as they made a turn down a wide, abandoned street, she was proven right.
Once off of the main thoroughfare, and in partial darkness, the fellow downright tossed them both away from him. Automatically, Natasha went into a roll, popping up and back onto her feet, defensive stance engaged as she threw off her coat. Wanda, a little greener than she, was shoved into the far wall, her hands spread out before her.
"So where are the rest of them?" he snarled, the rapid change from affability to rage nearly knocking them off course. A secreted blade had been retrieved from an inner pocket, a gun palmed in its holster.
Wanda looked beyond him, wide eyes catching Natasha's for a second. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not as stupid as you were hoping, princess," the fellow spat. Sizing up Wanda with a critical eye, he drawled, "You probably would have gotten away with it, but...we know her face."
He hooked his thumb at Natasha, who did no more than cross her arms over her chest and keep her expression emotionless. The notoriety was becoming more and more of nuisance nowadays; soon, she thought, she would have to eschew undercover assignments entirely.
"So, I'll ask again: where are the rest of the Avengers? Because I'm not gonna make this easy on you," he confessed, taking a lighter out of his pocket and opening it. Striking up a flame, the prearranged signal had several large, burly bodyguards tumbling out of the shadows. His team, his entourage, was not as distant as they had hoped, and he sneered. However, when neither an answer nor a lick of fear had flickered upon the two women's faces, he stalled.
Glancing at Wanda, Natasha shrugged, and her little grin became a feral smile.
"Looks like this won't be a total waste of an evening, then."
The pair moved as one, engaging the first wave of guards. Natasha was in her element, using the extended ladder of a nearby fire escape to swing herself around, her feet smashing into one fellow as he followed. The female Maximoff extended her palms, ringing herself in her auras and encompassing another man, the red mists curling about him and pulling his feet right out from under him. The man Natasha had felled had a comrade attempt to come to his aid, but her legs wrapped around his throat, her momentum carrying her through and giving her smaller body leverage over the bigger one. He, too, smashed to the ground, and the fight became an all-out brawl. Wanda slammed a hand to her ear, dropping her coat and making the call as the Black Widow launched herself into the fray.
Blue and white mists blurred around them, dashed from one foe to the next, red auras working with the timed jabs and punches. A black-swathed creature descended from the next building over, sparks flying from his left hand as he scraped his way down the side and dropped into the ring of assailants. The four worked back to back, Wanda's natural affinity pairing her with her brother, Natasha's fighting coalescing with Barnes's. It wasn't long before the head mercenary, the target, had grown frustrated with his men, their incompetence in the face of the enemy driving him into rage. He joined the fight himself, waiting for the precise opening he needed. The Black Widow had separated from the others for a split second, and he catapulted forward. Catching a glimpse of him out the corner of her eye, she executed a roll, deftly avoiding the thrown knife. Her leg snapped up, dashing his gun from his hands as well. A wail in fury echoed around her, and she rolled again, dodging his punches. Doing that kept him occupied, which had become her ultimate goal. Let the others take care of the guards, and she would distract the guy long enough until they were ready to put him out of commission.
One roll, however, brought her too close, and gave him yet another opening to exploit.
"Right hook!" the cry came from behind her. Before she could even comprehend what was shouted at her, a black blur was shielding her, tumbling over her crouched form after intercepting the hard punch. Barnes was sprawled out on the ground, one hand unconsciously cradling the part of his chest that had been struck. His eyes widened, the only signal she had to tell her the mercenary was winding up for another hit. On instinct, she shoved her legs up, the fanning motion of the appendages shoving her attacker back. Springing fully to her feet, she executed another kick, catching the guy in a very specific and unguarded part of his anatomy. He went down, knees slamming hard into the pavement as he cradled his crotch. Curling her fist, she fired out with a right hook of her own, knocking him clean out. She also added a few punches for good measure, to get the point across when he came out of unconsciousness.
The fight, such as it was, was over, the ring of assailants and their leader down for the count. Off the dip of her chin, the elder Maximoff began to cuff and tie the men up, his sister pulling out her handheld and calling in the local authorities.
"Stupid," she muttered under her breath before extending a hand out to Barnes, helping haul him back onto his feet.
When the police and the paramedics finally arrived, Natasha was nursing a cut on her lip. Gingerly, she walked over to the bus, sitting on the back bumper and shifting her hips so that the minor bruises on her bottom weren't exacerbated. She waited her turn to give the police her statement, Wanda and her brother taking the time to do so first. The shadows around her deepened, the silhouette of Bucky becoming clearer as the cops were occupied with processing the aggressors. He still was under the mandate of little to no publicity; getting caught out now would not be ideal.
Still, he was not about to let her sit there, alone and prodding her lip as though it would magically heal that way.
"I told you," he mentioned, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the lapels of it turned up to hide his face. Striding out to stand in front of her, he caught the eye roll she halfheartedly tried to hide.
"Can it, Barnes," she sniped, even as she noted the genuine concern on his face. Tipping a palm out, she inquired sarcastically, "Am I gonna make it?"
"I think the question is whether that guy will." He cast his gaze towards the police van the fellow had been wrangled into, blood and bruises on his face. Remembering a specific result of the mercenary's attack on her, he stated with a wince, "Or if he'll ever have children after this."
Despite the split in her lip, she smiled, pride effusing her expression as the blood started to dribble.
"Funny," she remarked with an edge of snark. Shaking her head, she recalled something of her own, and she narrowed her eyes up at him. "You still haven't answered my question."
At once he stiffened, knowing exactly which question she'd meant. Chatter from the officers standing by and the inquisitive civilians beyond the perimeter filtered into the silence that followed. The faintest tinge of pink had erupted over his cheekbones, but he otherwise kept his composure. His flesh hand rose from his hip, tentatively brushing at the curve of her jaw. The pads of his fingers were rough, but the graze along her skin was gentle. He bent a little closer, stormy blue eyes scrutinizing her. She held her breath, the barest furrow of her brow the only tell of her inner turmoil. His thumb smeared the trail of red coming from her lip, wiping it away for her. Awkwardly, his jaw quirked, and he cleared his throat.
"You'll make it," he told her, the light touch withdrawn, his thumb wiped along the side of his pants. A sharp gasp came out, disguised as a huffing, derisive laugh on her part.
"Smart-ass," Natasha sassed, head tilting up and shift her fiery hair. The smirk he gave her lost its potency after a few seconds.
"I'm here because...I needed to see this through," he offered, the tone strong. Even so, she could sense a weakness in that argument. His shoulders lifted, his expression tensing as he pulled at the new bruise on his chest. "If I hadn't stayed, it could've ended differently."
"Maybe," she muttered. It might not have ended differently at all. Or, then again, she might have gotten rabbit punched, which would have slowed her down somewhat. There wasn't much she could say about it, other than she was grateful to have Bucky on her side. If, for nothing else, for the fact that she would not be nursing a giant goose egg in the morning and scoring possible brain trauma.
"Also, I didn't make my report this week. Had to let you all know I'm alive somehow," he jested mildly, earning a wry twist of the lips for his efforts. His gaze flicked down to his feet, then back up to her, and he crossed his arms over his chest (another wince marring his face as he did so). "You'd have missed me."
The confidence in his tone nearly overrode the underlying layer, the one that was barely perceptible. However, she picked up on it. It wasn't a question of her missing him, but rather the opposite. Hammering in the vicinity of her chest distracted her for a moment, and she fought hard to squash it all down, regain her bearings.
"Well, yes, because you would've have left before I got here. Would have just missed you," she quipped, the comprehension in her gaze not quite hidden. Not from him. Exhaling sharply out his nose, warmth pooled in his irises, banishing the ice.
"Now who's being funny?" Taking another step closer, a hairsbreadth of air stood between them just as chiming erupted from his pocket. Grumbling under his breath, Bucky pulled out his commissioned handheld, reading the text displayed across the screen. A frown blossomed, and his eyes closed temporarily. His jaw jerked back and forth, grinding his teeth. Natasha's eyebrow spiked, but she said nothing. A deep sigh floated out of him, and he looked down upon her again. "I gotta go. Getting called in."
Ah, the summons to duty. It did seem to be about the time that Fury would be wondering why he hadn't returned yet. There was no excuse for him to delay any longer, and she could not find the tongue to do it for him. Instead, she just nodded sagely, her bright eyes focusing on the scrapes along her knee, her leggings having been torn in the scuffle. The winter wind curled around her, and she shivered a little. With the adrenaline worn off and her sweat cooling, the chill in the air was starting bite at her again. Heaviness suddenly enveloped her, Bucky slinging her abandoned coat back around her and wrapping her up tightly. Gazes locked, and his fingers gave her shoulders a tight, hard squeeze. Not meant to hurt, she realized, the feeling staying with her even as he let go.
"Stay safe, Natalia."
With that, he melted away, disappearing into the dark without another word. If she were free to do so, and not occupied with the medic then treating the cuts on her face, she would have followed after him, demanded a real answer to her question. As it was, she was left with the shadows and the chill of the night, the watch on her wrist ticking as the hours slid closer to dawn.
xXxXxXx
It was starting off slowly, making amends. It wasn't as if Steve could show up at the Tower in Manhattan, banging on the windows and screaming for Tony to accept his apology. No, the world didn't work like that. And, more importantly, neither of the men involved would have accepted that as a viable solution. Instead, Holly kept her musings and inner imaginations to herself, letting her husband figure out how to fix fences with the billionaire, his erstwhile friend. Up until that point, he had merely let Rhodey take the reins, the colonel taking it upon himself to keep Stark informed of the comings and goings on the base, the declassified mission reports, and the like. After the prompting given by his wife ("Your demand," he'd retorted when he was in a better and more receptive mood, and she'd laughed), he started to include other things in the forwards sent via email. Mainly, he sent his private reports. Some editing did have to happen, merely due to Tony's status as an inactive member, but what little he did leave out, he surmised the genius could read between the lines. The tone was kept as clinical, straightforward, but more had been said from Steve to Tony in them than in the last couple of months. Nothing had come of it as of yet, but the emails were not rejected or spat back due to the lack of a functioning link.
It was enough for the seeds to be planted, sown. What they would reap upon harvest time remained to be seen. Two weeks was not enough time to expect much more, particularly not after all that happened, but it was progress, on all sides.
As of the morning of February 14th, the silence continued to reign between the Stark and Rogers households, but the one-sided stand-off was pushed to the back of Holly's mind. St. Valentine's Day fell upon a Sunday, and as such, she had the holiday off. And, after a week spent neck deep in learning a new file sorting program that had been installed her department—which seemed to take a lot of unnecessary steps, in her opinion—she was glad to lose her mind in another endeavor: making cutesy, honest-to-God homemade cookies.
Normally, Holly wasn't much of a baker (she would never earn the title of Suzy Homemaker, not that she was too broken up over that fact), but on occasion she did like to try her hand at a recipe or two. Her mother's sugar cookie recipe was laid out before her, the march of ingredients on the counter top matched against the scrawl. The craving for them had hit hard, and she had to deny herself the treat until she could make it to the store. Unfortunately, that meant she ran into the other Sunday shoppers, which had her in line and on her feet for the register for a considerable length of time. It would be worth it, though, in the end. Damn the heartburn kickback, she was going to have cookies before nightfall.
It was a good thing that her husband had a fondness for sweets as well, she mused as she mixed everything and began to roll out the dough. Well, a fondness for anything that could be digested, was the mental amendment. She was making enough that she reckoned she could feed a small army; it should have been enough to sate the hunger of a super-soldier. (All her estimations on food consumption and amounts had altered over the nearly two years of knowing him.) She just hoped that she would be able to actually get the dough baked and frosted before he got off the call he'd been occupied with. Several calls, actually; Natasha had chimed at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night, reporting the success of a recent mission, and Holly had all but kicked Steve and his damn cell phone out of the bedroom so she cold get some sleep. Either way, his current one had him locked down in conversation in the spare bedroom upstairs, dually occupied with recording its dimensions. She was absolutely fine with letting him plot out the eventual nursery; it gave her the space in case she royally failed with baking and had to destroy the evidence.
Dumping more flour out onto the counter, the cutters on hand were run through before being put to their designed task. She'd snagged them on the way to the register at the store, hearts and a creepy little cupid on hand for the afternoon's events (she eventually just chucked out the cupid, unwilling to eat anything that had been pressed into its malformed shape and the imprint of its weird face). One by one she filled the sheets she'd pulled from storage, two trays in the oven without too much fuss. Her pregnant belly was making it harder for to bend over too far, but she could handle getting things in and out of the oven. During the actual baking time, she attempted to tidy up the space she'd worked in...and when that failed to hold her interest, she went into the living room and selected a much-ignored record to put on the player. Her husband might not have cared for AC/DC, but she certainly did not mind the band. The rockin' beat was enough for her to jam out to as she brought her laptop to the kitchen table, swaying in her seat and mouthing along the words to "Back in Black" as she pulled up a blank document page. A rough draft of a new story outline sat in front of her after several minutes, and she tweaked a couple of the plot points on the list, the hard thinking groove cutting across her forehead as she did so. In between trading out trays, she also managed to do a final check of the short story she'd been working on the last couple of months, firing it off to a couple of online magazines with cover letters in the hopes of some form of publication. Daydreams fired in her mind, and occupied her to the point of missing the chime of the hand-operated timer, and the smell of cooking on the line. A muttered curse shot out of her as she rushed over. She barely managed to save the batch, with only three or four truly inedible and therefore put in the trash. Oh, well. She'd just have to give the extra-brown ones double the icing to make up for it.
The last of the dough was cut out and in the oven when she heard the creak of the floorboards. Busying herself with actively wiping up the leftover flour—and accidentally getting a swipe of it on her face when she scratched an itch—she smirked to herself when the volume on the record player was turned down. The archway between rooms was filled soon enough with her husband's form, bright eyes taking in the domestic little scene and corner of his mouth lifting. Coming around to her, he traced a finger over the flour mark on her cheek, poking it a little when she balled it up and chuckling. His gaze tracked down to the nearly completed project of hers; he'd known she'd been planning on making something when she'd returned from the store, but he'd let it be a surprise. The smell had given the game away, even all the way upstairs, and he had wanted to see how far she had progressed.
"Mm, cookies," Steve crooned, grinning as he inhaled deeply and reached for one. Whatever he had been discussing with Sam on the phone (banal chitchat interspersed with talking shop, as it seemed on the surface, but in actuality was comparing notes on what they both had planned with their companions of choice for the evening), it was done with. Holly rolled her eyes; he might be taking a break from his project, but hers wasn't done. She slapped ineffectually at his fingers, but that did not stop him from making a move again.
"I haven't even got the icing on them yet. Stop grabbing," she reprimanded him, snatching at his wrist. She was too late; the treat was already gone, being chewed up even as she chased him away from the cooling stacks. At once, he retreated to the other side of the counter, fingers scooping up a second and cramming it in with the first.
"Wan' some hel'?" he asked around a mouthful of pilfered cookie. Eyeing him up, she couldn't help but to snicker at his exaggeratedly puffed cheeks and innocent smile. For a moment, she could see an echo of the child he once was, the part unmarred by illness and worry, in his eyes, and she grinned wider. A brief fantasy of what a frustrated Sarah Rogers might have looked like, swatting her son with a spatula and shooing him out of the kitchen while she cooked, with perhaps an equally guilty Bucky Barnes following behind, crossed her mind. A hand strayed absentmindedly down to the swell of her stomach, a flutter within passing to her palm. Chalking it up to gas, she glanced over the stacked confections, internally calculating exactly how long it would take to complete the task on her own. And also, how many Steve would try to eat before they finished. Undeterred by that fact, she made her decision.
"If you've got some time to spare, Nerfherder," she told him, reaching over and swiping away crumbs caught at the corner of his mouth with her thumb.
He swallowed hard, clearing his throat with a cough once all was gone. "Debriefing's not until tomorrow, so I can lend a hand."
It was true; Natasha and Wanda would not be getting in until later that night, and it would be better to discuss their findings when they weren't suffering from jetlag and irritability. At that, she nodded, turning to the oven when the timer went off yet again. Scooping up the dishtowel nearby, she wrapped it around her hand just before opening the door.
"Try to go for the busted cookies first, if you're gonna sneak a snack during," she called to him over her shoulder, catching him out just as he reached for another. Immediately, he jerked his hand back, tucking it into his pocket as she brought out the hot tray to rest on the stove top. Her eyes rolled again, and she giggled under her breath as she snatched out three small bowls, ready to mix and color the whole ones. Pink, white, and red frosting was made swiftly, knives placed in the bowls to prevent crossing colors. Pushing them towards the center of the island counter, she told him to go nuts. One by one, they pulled from the stack, pleased hums and muttered song lyrics hovering in the air between them. Steve's spreading of frosting was more precise and clean, while Holly tended to slap between colors and tried to finish as quick as she could so she could move onto the next one. In spite of her chiding Steve for sneaking treats, she had been holding back from diving in herself, and she wanted to get everything frosted so she could finally indulge.
About halfway through the task, she broke, the freshly-frosted cookie in her hand going straight into her mouth. Sweet, sugary goodness crumbled on her tongue, melted with the white icing, and she groaned in appreciation. Not a master baker, but damn, she was pleased with the final product.
"Hey," Steve crowed at her, eyes crinkling at the corners when he caught her out. "What was it you were saying about eating the broken ones first?"
"Baker's prerogative," she affirmed, swallowing the last of her cookie. Patting her belly, she emphasized, "Pregnant baker's prerogative."
Shaking his head, Steve let his mouth curl up as he frosted another heart, yet again delving into the red. Not having any of it, Holly pulled it away from him, pushing the pink bowl towards him and imploring him to get over his aversion to the color. That earned her a scoff and a mocking display of chest puffing on his part, and she'd laughed. Companionable silence feel for a moment, the click of knives against bowls breaking it up, her iTunes opened and playing directly from the library in the background (Steve had turned off the player in the living room, not willing to suffer through another round of the rock record).
"Noticed you had another one-on-one call yesterday with the agent," he broached after a few more minutes went by. The cookie stacks had dwindled, and they would soon be frosting the last tray. Nodding confirmation of what he'd heard while passing the office the other day, she looked up to see his curious, contemplative expression. "Good news?"
The bubbling mirth that she had been tempering with practicality shot through her. Holly had been hesitant to share what had happened so soon after the fact, but she couldn't hold back any longer. The knife she'd been holding went back into the bowl, and she braced her hands on the counter, meeting his gaze fully.
"The publishing house is sending me a contract." Steve's hands stilled midair, cookie and knife frozen as she spoke. "Once the agent and the one contact in legal that my supervisor has have looked it over—you remember Melanie, right?" She waited for his nod, the glint in his registering understanding, before she continued, "She's got a friend in the department who has agreed to help. Once everything checks out, I'll sign, start work with the editing department...and maybe get my book published within the next year."
Steve's eyes became like saucers at the prospect.
"Even with everything you wanted?" he queried in a low tone, remembering her sticking points that had lost her the last company that had taken an interest in her manuscript. Inwardly, he was crossing his fingers and praying that it would be different that time. Her smile grew wider, and she nodded enthusiastically. The new publishing company had proven to be far more flexible than the last, acceding to her request to use a pseudonym and keeping her identity out of the public's view. They even went so far as to make it part of the contract. The literary agent had given it a cursory scan, and found that it was, indeed, written in, confirming the legitimacy of their promises. It was a real, tangible step forward, and she was so excited to see it start to happen. Setting the knife and cookie down, Steve leaned over the island, frosting smudging the edges of his shirt as he cupped her face and kissed her in congratulations, the news as sweet as the sugar lacing their lips. "That's fantastic!"
The afternoon hours rolled by, with the cookies frosted and some stored in the freezer for later consumption (Holly wondered how long they would really last), and the prospective future plan for her writing supplemented by Steve showing her the sketches he'd been making while talking to Sam. His artistic inclinations allowed him to visualize the possibilities for the baby's room: where the crib would go, notes jotted down about paint colors and designs, and if structural modifications needed to be made. A couple of notes of her own were added, options debated as the sun sank lower in the sky. When dusk had settled, he splayed his hand in the small of her back, guiding her away from the kitchen to the stairs. He implored her to fancy herself up for dinner, and to not come back down until it was ready. Even though they were staying home for the holiday, he stipulated that sweats were not allowed, and she'd stuck her tongue out at him.
Holly did manage to wrangle herself into a dress, one that she hoped didn't make her look like an inflated tube (yes, pregnancy was a beautiful, wonderful part of the cycle of life, but hey, not everything offered in the maternity section of stores made her look gorgeous). Hair was pulled out of her face, and makeup had just finished being applied when he called her back down. Slipping on her nicer sandals, she made her way back downstairs, Steve meeting her at the foot. In the midst of his set-up, he had changed as well, everything for the evening having been secreted in the basement for the moment of truth. Dark eyes ran over his form, and she could practically feel her pupils dilating.
With her husband's tendencies running towards royal blue, white, gray, and navy, it was always something of a visual shock when he chose to wear other colors. The vivid red of his dress shirt was accentuated by the stark black of the vest he'd paired it with. She was jarred from her staring when he proffered his elbow to her, her hand slipping into the crook with aplomb. Leading the way back into the kitchen, he paused on the threshold, letting her cross into the room first. As she did, she paused midway, taking in the sight before her.
"Do you like it? Because it's alright if you don't," Steve stated, scratching at the back of his neck and tipping his chin almost bashfully as he came in behind her. Even two years on, he really didn't think himself at all adept at romantic overtures. Lifting a shoulder, he muttered, "I know it's last minute, but we could always try a restaurant or something for tonight, otherwise."
He watched as Holly's gaze lingered over the table, the good dishes set out with a posy of fake flowers set up in the little vase between them. It was all his handiwork, right down to the candles flickering (two survivors of his impromptu apology from a couple weeks prior) and the reconfigured playlist churning out music in the background. There was even a tablecloth in place. Everything from earlier had been cleaned and put away, the glow at the far end of the room taking all the attention. Their first dance song came on, and her expression turned all the warmer. Sliding her arms around his waist, she stretched up, planting a peck on his cheek.
"No, I like it. I want to have dinner here. That was the plan, after all," she pointed out. It was true; given the state of their lives, specifically his work life, public outings were not easily planned for. The notoriety was dealt with, and generally they could get on in peace with their meal, their outings to a museum or art gallery. But for special days, holidays, it was better for them to abstain from the public eye. Captain America was on display for those, and so was she, best behavior and stiffness invading their time together. She didn't need that, and neither did he. Not all the time. Besides, she was more touched and pleased with his efforts in their own house, in their kitchen, than with a high-end dinner that required decorum lessons and the use of seventeen different forks. "I'm not exactly the kind of girl who needs grand outings or gestures all the time, sweetie."
"I know," he replied affably, though his gaze had latched onto his shoes. About things like that, Holly was fairly laid-back and down to earth. Deep down, he was grateful to have found a girl who would be happy enough sharing popcorn and a walk in the park with him. She didn't demand more, even though with all the insanity that made up a good portion of their shared existence he felt she deserved more. "Just wanted to make sure this was at least a little special for you."
It had to be; it was their first Valentine's Day as a married couple. It had to mean more, or so he had supposed. He wanted it to mean more, as he had told Sam earlier, the other man concurring after a few moments' silence. And he sure as hell didn't want to screw it up, not with her.
"It is," she assured him, using her finger to lift his chin up and letting him see the genuine joy in her face. "Really, you've made it special. I'm happy."
A burst of warmth spread through his chest, and he wrapped her in his embrace, savoring the feel of her body along his.
"Although," Holly murmured after a minute or two had passed in that fashion, "giving me a foot massage later would definitely make the evening extra special."
Steve smirked as he pulled back, chuckling under his breath as he took her hand and led her to the table.
"I'll keep it in mind, doll."
Dinner actually was take-out from a restaurant in Saratoga Springs, fancier fare than either was used to, something Steve had taken time to swing by and get right after finishing up his reports on Friday. It had spent two days chilling in containers in the refrigerator, but when reheated it wasn't terrible in the least. Wine was eschewed for sparkling juice, but Holly did not mind it at all. Retiring to the living room with a plate of the cookies and the leftover bottle of juice, Steve introduced the second part of the evening: a romantic double feature. One movie from his generation and one from hers made up the docket. Knowing that he would prefer things with action and adventure, she was impressed with his gesture. Although, she suspected he was a little taken with Barbara Stanwyck and was willing to put up with it because of that. Either way, she had giggled and gasped her way through Ball of Fire, enchanted with the brunette onscreen and Gary Cooper's response to her as the stuffy academic to her dancing, gangster moll.
"I do have something for you," Steve piped up fifteen minutes after the second movie had started; he'd endured the one female protagonist's speech about the different kinds of love and her heartbreak in silence, and he was looking for a way to avoid the conflict of the second female lead's fall-out with her boyfriend. Thus distracted, Holly's eyes gleamed in excitement, a single nod prompting him to retrieve the present he had for her from its hiding place in the basement. Returning with a plain, red gift bag, he sat down beside her and held it out, his half-grin stretching his lips. "A small gesture."
She giggled at his emphasis, shooting him a small wink as she accepted the bag. "Well, thank you."
Tearing through the tissue paper, Holly inhaled sharply as she removed the unwrapped cloth from the bottom. Shaking it out, she could see it was an infinity scarf, silky and smooth in her grip. It was the color of parchment paper and was decorated liberally with scrawled lines. Reading closely, she recognized them to be lines from Romeo and Juliet. Even though she had grown to prefer other works by Shakespeare, she did appreciate the romantic portions of the text (regardless of the cynical analysis her brain had taken when she was beyond her schoolgirl days and understood how messed up the tragedy truly was).
"It's so pretty, Steve," she breathed, at once wrapping the scarf around her neck. It didn't quite go with her dress, but she did not care. He seemed to sit up a little straighter, pleased as punch to have done so well. His palm slid over her hair, smoothing it out of her face as he leaned towards her. His questing lips were stopped by the three fingers pressing against them. Pouting comically, he couldn't hold it long while she laughed. Tapping once, she announced, "I got you something, too. Hold on."
At once, she sprang off the cushions and ran up the stairs. Patiently, he waited on the sofa, half an ear tuned to the shuffles and grunts coming from the second floor, the other half listening as the characters onscreen began to arrange swapping houses for Christmas (he probably would have been better to choose a movie more themed to the current holiday, but it still suited the purpose, in any case). Soon enough, she was clattering back down, a rectangular object wrapped in tissue paper and held out to him over the back of the couch. Taking it, he tore through the tissue roughly, pads running over leather as the gift was revealed. Holly took her seat again as he examined it closely. It was a sketchbook cover, dark brown and supple. Wads of papers had been tucked in to give it shape, and he shook those out onto the floor, careful not to dislodge the new pencils latched into the inner flap. His delighted grin took on a questioning air as he turned it over, spotting the coordinates emblazoned in the lower corner.
Spying Steve's confusion, she hastened to explain, "It's the coordinates of where we first met. Well, even though we technically met in the hospital, I thought the ones for the park would be more—"
That time, he did get his kiss, stealing it before she could stop him. He felt the upward curve of her lips, and she hummed sweetly into his mouth.
"I love it," he murmured as they broke apart. Casting a look down, he caught her gaze after a second, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "You want that foot rub now?"
"Yes, please," she responded happily, swinging her legs up into his lap without further ado. Snorting, he placed his new cover on the arm of the couch, cracking his fingers in preparation. Her sandals were dropped to the floor, and his hands began to work over her skin. Pressure was applied, and it was both heavenly and downright sinful. A moan coursed out of her throat, and her head fell back as he rotated her ankles one by one, moving up to her calves. "Oh, you are so getting a back massage as a thank-you after this."
His fingers halted, and she looked up in time to see the expression on his face. It was one part pleasure to two parts smolder, a look that made fire race through her veins and shivers run down her spine. There was a lot of expectation to be had in that little exclamation, apparently, and he was ready to seize on it.
"No fooling?" he asked her, voice deepening and his mind suddenly very intent on her answer. Off her serious and quickly-given nod, he blew out a low whistle. "Hot dog."
She snickered at that, the intensity of the moment lightened by the slip into his generation's vernacular.
"Dork," she pronounced, no real venom in it. If anything, it simply held promise, and their resulting smiles held even more as they looked at one another.
First St. Valentine's Day as a married couple—mission successful.
A/N: As always, a lot going on here...more developments with Bucky and Nat, which is always fun for me. And of course, had to sneak in some Pietro, because why not?
Don't ask Wanda about October 12th, 2009. She doesn't want to talk about it, and it's best not to push.
...You guys ever wonder if I'm perhaps lulling you all into a false sense of security with all the cutesy stuff I write for this story?...Now, are you enjoying the second-guessing I just made you experience because I'm two parts sinister to one part adorable? :-P
In case anyone was wondering, Holly and Steve's first dance song for their wedding (and the top song on the playlist that was put together for V-Day) is "You and I" by Michael Bublé. He's kind of the middle ground artist for them, and the song is lovely. Give it a listen sometime if you are so inclined.
Cutting it down to the wire yet again; thanks for being so patient with me, folks!
Next chapter, we get to see a little bit of Cap back out in the field again...and Holly will be at twenty weeks. Prime...sex determination...time. Is Baby Rogers a boy or girl? You get one more week to speculate. It also might be a little delayed, as I will be attending a family function this weekend and may not have the time to work on the chapter. So be prepared for that!
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references in the text (AC/DC and their song "Back in Black," Nirvana, Pearl Jam, The Wizard of Oz, Star Wars, Ball of Fire, The Holiday, Romeo and Juliet, Marvel comics, etc.).
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!
EDIT: I have written a new two-shot story involving Steve and Holly. It is entitled, "Still of the Night," and can be found in the My Stories tab on my page. Word of caution: it's not sunshine and rainbows. Check it out if you feel so inclined.