i'll swap you time, for a chance
four.
It's half past three in the morning, and Steve finds himself beating the daylights out of a punching bag. His fists connect solidly with the worn material, over and over and over, not stopping never stopping, and it's not until his ears pick up the hum of one of the quinjets that he suddenly pauses and jogs up the flights of stairs to the helipad.
The tape is still wound around his fingers and his eyes are glassy as he takes in the scene in front of him. He registers half his team checking weapons and climbing into the back, the calm authority of the lieutenant in front of him, the smell of fuel wafting in front of him, Nat's flying red hair against the black catsuit, the dizzying lights from surrounding buildings, a firm hand insistently shaking his shoulder...
"Steve. Captain."
He blinks once and looks down to see Hill simultaneously eyeing him (with a hint of concern) and the quinjet.
"What's happening? Why are they... Where…?"
She holds up a finger and speaks into the radio. "Widow, you're clear for takeoff."
"Where are they going?" He asks, over the buzz of the engines, both watching as the jet joins the scattering pricks of lights in the distance.
She stares at him, silently assessing, before answering, "Mexico. Black market trade of a shipment of alien tech, probably from Budapest in the nineties. It's old, but still a few years ahead of now. We think a HYDRA splinter cell raided the old S.H.I.E.L.D. facility and are trying to sell, and we got a last minute tip-off."
"I should be - "
" - No. Romanoff, Barton, and Banner are going."
"But HYDRA…"
"Natasha and Barton are more than capable, and Banner knows what he's doing." She softens her stance. "You don't need to be on every mission involving HYDRA, Steve."
His head snaps up. "Sure, but we're a team. The rest of us still need to know."
"No, you don't. That's not how operations work," she says flatly. "What I just told you isn't hugely confidential, but I didn't need the whole building woken up for this. Thor doesn't know. Stark doesn't know. You wouldn't know if you were still asleep. And anyway, this mission was a last minute arrangement with minimal planning."
"Still keeping secrets? This isn't S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore, Lieutenant."
"Exactly. Stark Industries is a private company. As much as me being Head of Special Taskforces is public knowledge, the less that's known about the details, the better. And that includes your team." She releases a tired sigh, "Look, let's go inside and talk. I'll make coffee."
He nods mutely and follows her into the tower, finally unrolling the tape from his hands. It's not until she has to key her code into the door that he realises they've reached her floor, and not the common area.
"You've decorated. It's nice," he says, swivelling his head and absorbing all the details.
"Sure, if you like minimalism," she says dryly. "People generally go for the opposite sentiment."
He notes the clean lines in the room, a few pictures of the Amazon framed and artfully mounted onto the wall next to the television, the two beanbags (one deep blue and one sky blue) tucked into the far corner beside the couch, and the large clock hanging over the sturdy bookshelf.
"Is this all you have?" He asks without thinking.
"Yeah, that's more like it," she smirks. "Some of my stuff's still in my own apartment. Can't let Tony take everything, can I?"
He hums non-committedly and accepts the mug she pushes into his hands.
"Sit," she orders, gesturing to the bar stool. "It's four-thirty in the morning, what the hell are you doing?"
His shoulders slump and he rubs his eyes tiredly. "Couldn't sleep. Kept seeing Bucky. On the bridge, on the helicarrier. Needed – wanted – to hit something."
She nods once and he continues, "You should have let me go with them."
"Rogers, you can't fix every HYDRA problem that appears. God knows there're too many, and always will be." She glances over at him and adds gently, "Stay here; take time to think about how you want to find Bucky. Start again next year."
"Don't you need people for, I dunno, your strategies and missions?" He looks over at her curiously.
She hesitates before answering. "You need people you can trust, too."
"In general, or me personally?"
"Yes," she says simply.
"And what about you? Who do you trust? Because it sure as hell doesn't seem like it's us," he challenges.
"I'm trying," she says tiredly. "Why do you think I'm here? I'm fucking trying."
He glances away, looks around in every direction except at her. He counts the seconds as they pass, willing his heart to stop pounding, to stop adding to the rising fear that he's screwed this up before it's started. He compulsively rubs the back of his head, runs his hand through the mess of hair, rubs his gritty eyes, tries not to jump out of his seat, takes a deep breath, tries to apologise.
"Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed - "
" - No, you're right," she interrupts, her low voice sending a wave of calm through him.
"I'm sorry?"
"I keep secrets. I mean, one of the basic elements of my job at S.H.I.E.L.D. was to keep secrets. I get that it's different now, after Project Insight – which, by the way, I disagreed with from the start – but I came to Stark Industries to continue to do what I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to do, just from a different angle."
She takes a deep breath, looks him in the eye, and continues, "Look, I was wrong, and you were right – I am in a different position now. But operationally, I still can't tell you everything. It's not a power trip; it's just the way it is. If you ask, though, I'm willing to listen. Does that make sense?"
Maria keeps looking ahead, not letting her nerves betray her, her fingers itching to tap but lying still and flat wrapped around her mug.
"What changed?" He asks, voice hoarse.
"People," she says uncomfortably after a moment. "People asking, prying. I hate it, but…"
"And what about non-operational things?"
She looks at him strangely. "There's nothing interesting to know."
"I don't believe that. You're an interesting person," he says, then winces after hearing what he's said. "I mean…"
He trails off helplessly before she decides to relent.
"Well, I didn't hear a question, Captain," she says eventually, with a small quirk of her mouth.
(And he takes that as permission, and the smile on his face is the most glorious she's ever seen, and her fingers are still tightly wound around the ceramic stopping her from reaching out, and he's grinning, and the sheer force of it makes her realise that she would say it over and over and over just to see the damn smile.)
They sit in companionable silence for a while longer before his curiosity gets the better of him.
"So yesterday lunch. Why did you leave so soon?"
"I had to fly to D.C. – one of my agents moved there after the information dump, heard something about the old tech."
"Is that it?"
"No."
"So…?"
"God, I was watching the Avengers make and eat a fucking gingerbread house. That's not in my job description; it's not normal, it's too close."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, as you've been pointing out," she says with a touch of frustration. "But it's not what I do. I send people out to do things that are morally ambiguous, or where there's a high chance of failure. I don't have the luxury of being able to personally get close."
"Maria, it's different now," he says gently. "We're a different group of… people. And there's no hierarchy now. You can afford to let us in. You need to."
She turns away, preferring to stare into the bottom of her cold coffee. She thinks about New York two years ago, thinks about the gleam of determination in his eyes after hearing about Phil, thinks about confident hands explaining a tactical procedure, thinks about the vocal resolve echoing around a damp underground hideout, remembers the eerie quiet when she got the order to press the button and sent him plummeting.
"Some of you," she says finally.
He gives her another broad smile. It's a start.
She catches him fighting back a yawn and she rolls her eyes, before flicking them to the clock.
"Get some sleep, Steve. Go for a walk, draw something. Pepper and I are going to put a movie on tonight, so feel free to join us."
"Yes, ma'am," he grins.
"Don't sass me, Captain."
He shrugs easily. "I'll be there."
...
There's something oddly surreal about watching a movie where a group of kids spend Christmas Eve on top of a train. Steve splits his time thinking that they should get off the damn roof because hanging from snow-capped trains is dangerous (been there, done that), that it's kind of surreal because the characters on screen look creepily human, and that he really shouldn't be this freaked out because he's Captain America and he's faced weird aliens from other worlds.
Nevertheless, he's contently seated next to Maria on the floor with their backs against one of Stark's plush couches, watching The Polar Express on a makeshift screen made from a white bed sheet (Pepper had smiled indulgently, and Maria had just smirked), and they're halfway into the movie when Natasha, Clint and Bruce traipse in, slightly singed and covered with snow.
Maria looks up from her half-typed report, and offers them the bowl of popcorn. "How did it go?"
"Someone was following your agent in D.C. and tipped off local police in Mexico," Nat says irritably as Barton lunges for the proffered popcorn. "They weren't after the tech, but it was still a mess. I hate law enforcement."
"Yeah. Also, your agent needs a refresher course on how to be a fucking ex-secret agent," Barton chimes in.
"Noted," Maria says. "Give me your full report tomorrow."
Steve pauses the movie. "Are you okay, Nat?" He frowns, watching her press at a spot on her left shoulder.
"Fine," she says shortly. "Bruce has the tech right now."
"Yeah," Banner says, holding up a black heavy-duty bag. "I'm just gonna head down to the lab, sort through it."
"Speaking of the lab," Clint yawns, collapsing onto the couch above Steve, "I need new trick arrows. Lost three of them. And they were my favourite ones, too."
Steve watches as Bruce leaves with the bag in tow. "We're watching a movie. Or, educating me," he adds as an afterthought, pressing play.
Pepper doesn't look up from her messages on her phone. "And here I thought I was going to have a quiet movie night with Maria, without interruption from you lot," she says wryly.
"Sorry?" Steve says sheepishly.
She shakes her head, "It doesn't matter. Tony's going to walk in at any moment anyway."
And as if on cue, Tony Stark indeed walks in, before doubling up in hysterical laughter at the sight of them.
"Oh my god, look how domestic this is. Pepper, I expected better from you."
He dodges the projector, walks around behind them, drops his hands on Pepper's shoulders, and kisses the top of her head. "Also, you're in the most technologically advanced building on the East Coast, and you're watching a movie on a bed sheet? I may as well burn all the R&D money."
"Tony, be quiet," Steve says. "It's fun. And I'm watching."
Stark sighs theatrically. "Fine," he says. "But don't blame me if you get nightmares. That sheet makes them look even creepier."
"Stark, just shut up and sit down," Maria says.
"Sure, Lieutenant," he snarks, sitting down beside Pepper.
Curious, he watches the pair seated on the floor subconsciously coordinate taking popcorn from the bowl. With an evil grin, he steals the bowl from them, and when both of them whip their heads up, he chirps, "Watch the movie, kids."
(Miraculously, Steve manages to watch the rest of the movie in silence, with only Barton's soft snores punctuating the air.)
...
Natasha likes the quiet. She likes the dark seeping through the expansive windows, when she's still awake and everyone's asleep, when she can hear herself thinking. Which is why she lets herself sink further into the leather seat, relax as much as the Black Widow can, with only her sleeping partner for company.
She's scrolling through the news on her phone, while trying hard not to scratch at the stitched-up gash on her shoulder when she hears a whisper in her left ear. Suppressing all instincts to jam her elbow into the offender, she looks up to see Tony trying his best to look covert.
"Okay, I was wrong, and I want to change my bet."
She jerks her head to one side and motions for him to follow her, pushing a sleeping Barton onto the empty couch.
"I'm sorry, could you say that again, slowly this time?" Natasha smirks at Tony hovering in front of her.
"I. Was. Wrong." He enunciates, rolling his eyes. "Happy? Now change it."
"To what?"
"Steve's not a chicken, and Hill's not as much of a bitch as I thought. He's totally gonna make out with her," he says triumphantly.
"That's sweet, and you're a sentimental idiot," she says. "But no, I'm not changing anything."
"Come on, Romanoff - "
"That's not how it works, Stark," she shrugs, wincing slightly as it pulls on her stitches. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll let them know that deep down, you're a hopeless romantic."
"Hey, that's not what I meant! I have a reputation to maintain!"
"It doesn't matter. I know what you're thinking now," she says, walking back to the couch. "Good night, Tony."
"Okay, fine, but this isn't the end, Romanoff. You've got three days," he declares from the doorway. "I want my money back!"
"Sure, looking forward to it," she says, her turn to roll her eyes. She waits for all traces of Tony Stark to disappear before sinking into the couch and letting the quiet sweep through again.