"So that's it," Skye concluded the summary of Mitrea's interrogation. "The Mandarin is taking what's probably Centipede, but Mitrea doesn't know where he is. He does know where to find people who know people who know where the Mandarin is."
"Did he give a description of the Mandarin?" Steve asked.
"Not enough for you to do a drawing like you did of Mitrea," Natasha answered from the co-pilot's chair she'd turned to face the interior of the quinjet. "Unless you can extrapolate really well from descriptions of pallid skin, stringy dark hair, and feverish eyes, all of which are overlaid by tubes and wires leading to various medical apparatus."
Steve swore under his breath, wished for a moment that there was room in the quinjet for him to pace. He'd always thought best in motion, and right now he needed to think, to plan, to figure some way to find and stop the Mandarin, once and for all.
The Mandarin would need regular injections of the Centipede formula, Steve knew that much. Which meant that someone would be delivering those to wherever he was hiding – just like he and the Commandos had tracked supply shipments throughout Western Europe during the War.
"Skye, can you track people coming and going from those locations Mitrea gave us?"
"That question has more layers than you might think," she said, which wasn't an answer at all, and Steve looked up at her.
"Explain?"
"He mentioned a bar called The Hammer and Sickle," Skye said. "If it's open from, say, nine in the morning until two in the morning, that's seventeen hours. If it has a hundred customers an hour, that's almost two thousand people to track. I'm not saying it can't be done. I am saying it'll take a long time to match the regulars and the one-offs, and then follow each of them through the traffic cameras, and so on. Mitrea mentioned two other bars, so triple the number of people we'd be following."
"And then cross-referencing the faces from all three to see whether there are patterns in their patronage," Natasha added. "Assuming, of course, that all of the bars have surveillance systems to hack into. In this part of the world, that's not a guarantee."
"Then we're no closer to finding the Mandarin than we were before we found Mitrea." Steve hated to fail in a mission. Failing a mission usually meant someone died.
"Not true."
Rumlow's declaration drew Steve's attention. His former comrade in arms leaned against the pilot's seat, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Explain."
"This is good intel," Rumlow said. "Now we need to follow up on it the old-fashioned way."
"Torture?" Skye asked, and Steve heard the disapproving note – almost a symphony, in fact – in her question.
Rumlow ignored her. "Boots on the ground. Someone who can get in and get real, up to date information."
Steve found himself nodding. For all that the world had surveillance systems undreamt of when he was a kid, he and the Commandos had brought down a lot of Hydra bases with nothing more than human intelligence analysts.
"I suppose I can –"
"No." The chorus came from three voices, and Steve found himself staring at each of his companions in turn.
"Why no?" he asked.
"You're a terrible liar," Natasha said.
Steve had to admit that was true – or at least, she'd told him that was true, and he believed her. Lying hadn't sat well with him even before Dr. Erskine's formula had changed him forever. Now, he sometimes wondered if he'd even be able to tell a white lie to conceal a surprise.
"And you're too recognizable," Skye added.
"This is Ukraine," Steve said. "I'm not that well known here."
"People recognized Barnes in Russia, and he's had lots less press than you have," Natasha observed.
Steve grimaced. "All right, I'm outnumbered. But you could be recognized too, Nat, after your data dump."
"Which is why I'm not going," Natasha responded easily.
Anger flared through Steve. "If you think I'm sending Skye into a den of -"
Rumlow cut him off. "I'm going."
Steve's response was automatic but still firm. "No."
"You just explained why it has to be me." Rumlow hadn't moved, hadn't even tensed. "Unless you want to call the whole thing off, and leave the threat to Ms. Potts unresolved."
"Unacceptable," Steve said flatly, and it would be unacceptable even if Pepper Potts wasn't his best friend's soulmate.
"Then I'm your best shot," Rumlow said. Steve waited for the explanations, the justifications, but none came. Rumlow just laid the statement bare and waited for Steve's response.
Steve's mind rebelled at the thought of sending Brock Rumlow - a man who'd tried to kill him more than once, who worked for an organization he'd fought during the war and now in the 21st century too, who stood for things he found anathema - on an undercover mission into the heart of a very similar organization when the life of his best friend's soulmate was at stake.
Then he realized that the silence was stretching beyond thoughtful to awkward.
"How am I supposed to let you do that?" he asked.
"Can't answer that, Cap," Rumlow replied. "I can tell you why I'm the right man for the job, but I can't tell you how to let me do the job. Not that I need your permission."
And there it was – the challenge Steve had been expecting since Natasha had introduced Rumlow as her soulmate.
"If you don't need it, why are you waiting for it?"
"Same reason you agreed that I could come. We need to be able to work together." Rumlow glanced at Natasha briefly before refocusing on Steve. "For what it's worth, I respect your leadership."
"I respect your skill." It was the truth- Rumlow had been a Navy SEAL (not that Steve had initially understood what that meant) and a good soldier - and Steve had no problems with the truth, even when it hurt. "It's trusting you I'm having problems with."
"Then don't," Rumlow countered. "I'll go do this because I like Ms. Potts. When I get the intel we need, then you can trust me."
"Or start to," Steve murmured.
"Or start to," Rumlow agreed.
It was a reasonable suggestion, and Steve blew out a breath. "All right."
Was it his imagination, or did Rumlow actually relax, however fractionally, at his agreement? Steve filed that observation away to think about later, and said, "Nat, get photos of anyone of interest so Skye can run them through facial recognition."
"Will do." Natasha uncurled from where she'd been sitting and joined her soulmate at the cargo area.
Now that the decision was made, Steve wished he could relax as he usually did when he'd done all he could and the outcome was out of his control, but that contentment eluded him this time. Rumlow was in the mix now, someone he didn't know well and trusted less, and Steve could only hope that this decision wouldn't backfire.
#
Skye had felt almost invisible while Steve discussed the mission with Black Widow and Rumlow. She wasn't an undercover operative - hell, she barely qualified as a field operative - and she knew she had other valuable skills, but in the middle of planning a mission that didn't require those skills, it was hard not to feel useless as well as invisible.
Then Steve had mentioned running facial recognition on the people Rumlow would meet on assignment, and Skye felt like a part of the team again. She had no idea how long the feeling would last, but she'd enjoy it while she could.
Now, a couple of hours later, still night but not too far from dawn, Skye watched with Steve as the other two hefted backpacks onto their shoulders, preparing for the trek back to Ternopil and the Ten Rings.
"Not going to tell me to be careful?" Natasha asked.
"Why waste my breath?" Steve grinned in return.
One corner of Natasha's mouth twitched upward before she sobered. "We'll send back what we get as soon as we can."
Steve nodded an acknowledgment, and then the other two were gone.
"Should we have told them to bring us back pizza?" Skye asked. "Or whatever passes for fast food here. Pierogis, maybe?"
Steve chuckled. "Hard to do, when we have no idea how long they'll be. This could take a while."
Skye understood the implications of that observation, even if Steve seemed oblivious. She swallowed and fought to keep her voice normal when she said, "So what do we do while we wait? Play cards?"
"If we do, it'll have to be a game that doesn't involve bluffing."
She'd added the suggestion as a joke, but still Skye thought she shouldn't be surprised that he'd followed it, giving them a few more minutes of conversation before the situation got awkward. "What's wrong with bluffing?"
"Didn't you hear Nat? I'm a terrible liar, and that includes having the worst poker face known to man." Steve smiled - more at a memory, Skye thought, than at her - before adding, "If we'd played for real money during the war, the Commandos would've bled me dry."
"Isn't bleeding Captain America dry un-American?" Skye grinned back.
"I wasn't Captain America then, just Steve Rogers, a guy from Brooklyn."
That didn't sound right, Skye thought. "You're saying all those history books are wrong? The ones that say you were Captain America before you went overseas?"
"I was Captain America - the costume, the bond rallies, the USO tours - in the States." Steve sounded firm on that point. "All that played really well for the civilians."
Skye understood. "Not so well with real soldiers, I guess."
"Not at all well," Steve agreed. "And yes, I wore the costume when I was on mission. But otherwise, I was just Captain Rogers, a mook from Brooklyn. Nothing special."
"I don't believe that," Skye said, and at his puzzled look, explained, "That you were nothing special. I'd bet Sergeant Barnes, at least, would disagree. Actually, I know Gabe Jones would."
"You met him?"
"Not exactly. His grandson's on my team." And Trip, Skye realized, would have an old-fashioned conniption fit once he found out she was soulmates with Captain America.
"Grandson." Steve shook his head before looking back up at Skye. "Still, I was just another soldier. A good one, maybe, and with enhanced abilities, but a soldier like them. Captain America made good press back home."
"But it was Steve Rogers who did the work," Skye finished.
"I'm still Steve Rogers."
There was an earnest tone in his voice that matched his expression, and Skye met his gaze without flinching. This was important, she knew. This mattered to Steve, probably more than anything else could. It mattered that his soulmate - that she - understood she was getting the man, not the symbol.
"Well, Steve." She turned to face him, rested a hand on his chest, felt his steady heartbeat through the flannel shirt he wore. "It occurs to me that we have some time to ourselves, and my soulmate hasn't kissed me yet."
His hands came to rest on her hips, large and warm through the jeans she wore. "Maybe he's concerned that if he starts, he won't stop."
"Maybe I don't want you to stop." Skye slid her hand up his chest to cup the back of his neck, applied the slightest pressure to encourage him to close the distance between them.
When he did, the kiss was soft but not hesitant, exploratory, and Skye let herself relax into it. Only - relax wasn't quite the right word, as heat built within her, and she pressed closer to Steve, fitting her body against his.
Steve's hands moved up from her hips, one to cradle her head, the other to press at the small of her back, as though he could bring her in any closer than she already was. He nipped at her lips with his own, then added the hint of teeth, and Skye didn't realize she'd moaned aloud until she heard his answering growl, felt it reverberate in his chest.
His chest, that was covered with too many layers of fabric.
Somehow, Skye managed to pull back without breaking the kiss, just enough to slip her hands between them to work the buttons on Steve's shirt.
His hands closed over hers, stilling them in place, as he tore his lips from hers. "The more of that you do, the closer to not stopping I'll be."
"I said I don't want you to stop," Skye told him, taking the opportunity to catch her breath.
"But -" Steve paused, and Skye thought he was searching for words to explain how he was feeling. "We're not -"
"Married?" Skye finished.
He nodded, once, and she thought he looked mildly embarrassed. Oh. Of course. Traditional values.
"You're worth more than a - a tumble," he said, his voice raspy in a way that she suspected no one else had ever heard.
"Steve. Steve, listen to me. Okay?"
He nodded again, and met her eyes. Skye could read the indecision and the desire banked in them. She had to address both of those, she thought, unless she wanted to condemn them both to a very frustrating time.
"It's true that pretty much anything goes between people these days," she began. "And it's equally true that not everyone believes that's the best way to have a relationship. But that doesn't mean there's not a middle ground."
"How can there be?"
"Because we're soulmates."
"And that makes everything all right?"
"Aren't soulmates as much joined together by God as married people - more, even?" Skye asked. "Married people are joined by other people speaking for God, or the state. We're joined together by God or the universe or destiny, as evidenced by the words inscribed in our skin."
"I understand, but -" Steve hesitated. "Are you sure you're not pleading special circumstances, because it's what you want to do?"
"I'm sure," Skye told him. "Even the Pope said that sex between soulmates is not a sin."
That made Steve stare at her, and Skye had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing at his expression.
"He did? Who? When?"
"The Second Vatican Council, in the sixties. John the Twenty-Third."
Steve appeared to file that away. Skye had no doubt that he'd look it up later. What he said was, "Are you Catholic?"
"No, but the nuns at St. Agnes sure tried to make me. I got a lot of Church history and moral instruction from them."
"Huh." Steve considered her words, and Skye held her breath, wondering what conclusion he'd come to.
He held himself away, studying her, for a heartbeat, two, ten, and then he was kissing her again, deep and hungry, and Skye thought that maybe having decided doing this was okay, he'd further decided to give it all he had in the doing. Not that she was complaining, not with his tongue teasing hers, his teeth nibbling little bites along her bottom lip.
And then his hands, large and warm, slipped beneath her pullover top to stroke her spine, and Skye shivered and gasped his name.
"You're sure?" he murmured against her mouth.
In response, she ripped his shirt open.
Steve made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and then he was as busy undressing her as she was him. Boots, trousers, shirts, underwear all put aside so they could be skin to skin.
He was warm, Skye thought, and not just warm like any male. Warm like … like … like a super-soldier, she finally concluded when no other comparison seemed apt.
Then he tugged at her hands, and she followed a few steps until he sat in the co-pilot's seat that still faced the interior of the quinjet and drew her into the V of his thighs. She was only human - Skye glanced down, but his head blocked her view as his mouth closed around her nipple.
Skye didn't recognize the keening sound that came from her throat. She hadn't known she was capable of being so aroused she'd make unconscious noises, but being with her soulmate was different, better than any other sex she'd had - and he hadn't even touched her there yet.
"Steve," she whispered. "Steve, please touch me."
"Tell me when it's how you like it best," he murmured in return, and slipped his fingers between her legs, stroking, circling, exploring as he had when he'd first kissed her.
"Mmn." For long moments, Skye simply enjoyed the pressure of his touch. Then he found that spot, and her breath caught. "There, Steve. Yes."
Her awareness narrowed to that single point, that center of her pleasure that he brought to a tight coil. Then that point exploded, and she convulsed against him, gasping for breath.
His hands were at her hips, then, helping keep her steady on her feet, and Skye clutched at his shoulders while the world returned to focus.
When she looked at him again, he was smiling.
Skye leaned forward, bending to kiss the smile off his face, and was rewarded when she pulled back and saw his dazed expression.
"My turn," she whispered, and reached down to stroke him.