Chapter 3 - Prokaryota

The Triskelion, Washington D.C.

October 21, 2013

Mal was not a punctual person. She was consistently late to meetings with her teachers, doctor's appointments, dates. When she got transferred to Washington back in June, she completely missed her flight out of SFO, had to reschedule it, and then managed to miss the rescheduled flight. When she told her later, Jemma laughed for five minutes straight and had to hang up to regain control of herself.

Mal wasn't absent-minded, not at all. If anything, she was too present in her own mind. She got wrapped up in her own thoughts too much and when that happened, trivial things like punctuality and deadlines slipped by without notice. So it really wasn't surprising to Mal when she checked her watch absently and found that she was ten minutes late to her coffee date with Steve Rogers.

She swore loudly.

Her office was a few floors above the café. If she ran and the elevators were on her side, she could get down there in three minutes. Mal burst out of her office, hobbling as she removed her heels for faster movement. Her pencil skirt didn't help, but hiking it up would have even more disastrous consequences.

When she rounded a corner, she collided with Colton. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed as he dropped his tablet.

"Jesus Christ," he grumbled, bending down to pick it up. He eyed at her bare feet and sighed. "Mal, this isn't the pool, even if we operate by pool rules." She cocked her head in confusion. He explained, "No running and no shitting in the water."

"Ford."

He checked the time on his watch, asking, "Where are you going? You have a meeting at noon with Dr. Krantz."

The meeting was the reason for her heels and pencil skirt. Usually, her attire was much more casual—tights under short skirts, patterned dresses, and of course the occasionally acceptable sweatpants – t-shirt combo. She checked her watch again. "That's in two hours."

He smiled tightly. "And yet I get the feeling you're still going to be late."

"I'll be on time," she assured him, crossing her heart as she passed. She walked backward before thinking better off it, turning around, and promising, "If I'm late again, I'll buy you lunch for the next week."

"Two weeks," was his counteroffer. She raised an eyebrow. "Fine, a week." He jabbed his index finger at her, staring her down just before she stepped into the elevator. "I'll still be pissed if you're late, though. Noon."

Mal saluted him with a high heel.

The Triskelion's café was surprisingly open and spacious, with plenty of small tables by the windows to afford its clientele with a truly spectacular view of the National Mall. At one of these window tables, Steve sat hunched over, his attention absorbed by something on the table in front of him.

"Oh, my god, I'm so sorry," she said without preamble when she collapsed into the seat across from Steve, unthinkingly slamming her shoes onto the table. He jumped and a pencil clattered on the floor. "I'm…" she checked her watch again. "Oh, god, fifteen minutes late. I'm s—"

He held up a hand, chuckling. "It's alright, I was just sketching." He gestured awkwardly out the window. "The view's great."

"It is." She peered at his notebook. He shyly nudged it towards her. "Wow…" she breathed, glancing out of the window. He hadn't been sketching long, she could tell—half of DC was missing in his picture—but the rest was stunning. "That's incredible."

He shrugged, the tips of his ears going red. "It's not finished and I can't get the Lincoln Memorial quite right…"

"Are you kidding?" she said incredulously, sliding it back to him. "It's flawless. Though, full disclosure, I know next to nothing about art."

He laughed. "But that's what's great about art, you don't need to know anything to appreciate it."

She twisted her mouth. "Don't you?"

"I'm an artist—I think I know what I'm talking about," he said.

"Yeah, but I'm the one who doesn't know anything about art."

"You liked my sketch," he pointed out.

"Yes, but—"

"And you admitted yourself that you don't know anything about art. You appreciate it without knowing anything about art."

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "You feel very strongly about this."

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. "I guess I don't like when people think that art is exclusive. The point of art isn't to be pretentious; it's to make people feel something."

"That's nice." She didn't agree.

Steve tilted his head from side-to-side. "Think of it this way: half of what you told me about your job was complete gibberish to me. But if you explained it to another scientist, I'm sure they'd understand."

She held her hands up. "Woah, okay, back up." Her finger pointed at him. "Are you trying to say you think science is an exclusive discipline?"

He rested his forearms against the table, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I guess I am."

Her mouth fell open, only half in jest. "Okay, now you're shitting where I live."

"Is that a saying now?" he asked, amused.

"Probably not." When he snorted, she flapped her hand at him. "Science is for everyone. Art is the traditionally hoity-toity discipline."

"We're going get into this, aren't we?"

Her arms spread out in challenge. "The gloves are coming off, man. They're coming right off."

"Should we at least get coffee?"

"Probably."

They both stood. Steve shook his head. "Hold the table, I'll order for you."

"Oh, thanks." She dug around in her blazer pocket for her wallet, handing him a crumpled five dollar bill. "Can I get a caramel latte with an extra shot of espresso?"

He nodded, but refused her money. "No, I'll pay," he insisted.

"Steve—"

"I asked you for coffee, so I'm going to pay."

At that, she bit her lip, her hands becoming a thousand times more interesting than his earnest face. "Serious question. Is this…a date?" she asked slowly, lifting her eyes to his. He had truly beautiful eyes.

Those beautiful eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed; his hand went to scrub the back of his neck.

"Honestly, I didn't mean it to be," he answered sheepishly after a moment.

She heaved a sigh of relief, her hand going to her heart. "Oh, thank god. Wow," she laughed, a bit maniacally, "We're on the same page. I was really freaked out for a second there, but whew!"

He smiled tightly. "Alright."

"Too much?"

"It's a little offensive."

She elaborated, more seriously, "I mean, you're crazy good-looking, but I'm just not looking for a relationship, you know?"

Understanding alighted on his face. "Exactly," he agreed enthusiastically. "I'm just so—"

"Busy," they said together, laughing softly at their unison.

"I really want, like, a low-maintenance friend," she continued. "Someone who won't get offended if I don't talk to them for a few weeks 'cause I'm lost in some crazy science."

"Right. I'm gone for weeks at a time; I don't want someone worrying about me back home."

"Relationships are hard," she agreed with a sigh. "You introduce sex into anything and it gets complicated."

She realized she'd said too much when Steve flushed brilliantly. He was from the forties, for god's sake. "Sorry." She shoved her five dollar bill into his hands, gently urging, "Go get my coffee."

He obediently did as he was told. When he came back five minutes later, two cups in hand, the red had receded to his ears. He sat down and slid the money back to her.

She sighed exasperatedly. "I thought we agreed this wasn't a date."

"We did. I'm paying anyway."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He crossed his arms. Finally, she said, "I'm paying next time."

"Fine."

"And after that, we go halfsies."

"Great." Both of them had their arms crossed now, glaring at each other across the table. When Steve's mouth twitched, she laughed and he relaxed. She took a sip of her coffee. Usually, she just drank whatever Colton brought her, which was only ever black coffee with sweeteners and cream on the side.

"So, you think science is exclusive?" she asked again. He shrugged. "Why?"

"Most people don't know what you're talking about. It's another language. You have to go to years and years of college to have the same vernacular and even then there's no guarantee that you'd understand."

"Okay, in that sense, you're right," conceded Mal. He raised his cup to her. She pointed at him. "But the ultimate goal of scientific research is to move society forward. Yes, there are some scientists who do science for the thrill of un-clouding the unknown because they just don't like not knowing things. But even their discoveries end up benefiting the people. We're…" she furrowed her brow in thought. "…agents of progress for the rest of society."

Steve thought about that. Finally, he nodded and said, "I see your point."

She straightened up in her chair. "Oh!"

He was bemused. "What?"

"People don't really admit being wrong about something. I don't know if that's different now or if they were like that in your day."

"My day…" repeated Steve, shaking his head. "No, people have never admitting being wrong. But I was wrong." She made a satisfied sound and took a victorious sip of her coffee. "And you are wrong about art."

Her smile became a scowl. "I guess."

He put his cup on the table as he started gesturing more animatedly. "I think people get the impression that art is always high-brow because there are little things that enhance an artistic experience, and knowing those little things comes from having an artistic background. But it's the larger picture that matters."

"Yeah, I've been to an art gallery with an artist and I can safely say I didn't enjoy it as much as she did."

"But you enjoyed it?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I get your point."

"Could you try to be more reluctant?"

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Obviously, I'm not as mature as you are. But you have approximately seventy years on me."

He cocked his head in curiosity. "How old are you?" At once, horror dawned on his face. "Please pretend I didn't just ask that."

"I'm twenty-six," answered Mal, ignoring his sudden barrage of apologies. "It's fine. Calm down. Tell me your age and we'll be even."

Still red, he said, "I turned twenty-nine a few months ago."

"Oh, when's your birthday?"

"July 4th." She almost spat out her coffee. He nodded at her as she mopped up a few drops that came out of her mouth. "I get that a lot."

"Dude, you were destined to become Captain America. It was written in the stars."

He looked like he was fighting a smile. "Might have been coincidental," he said reasonably.

"The stars, Steve."

Smiling in earnest, he looked down at his hands engulfing his cup of coffee. "I was in the right place at the right time. And I was a scrawny punk who couldn't take 'no' for an answer."

One of the first courses she took at the SciTech Academy focused entirely on Project Rebirth as a case study for successful biochemical projects. His medical record was a mess. Pre-serum, Steven Rogers was 5'4", 95 pounds, and afflicted with asthma, scoliosis, cardiac arrythmia, chronic ulcers, and pernicious anemia. He couldn't bench more than 30 pounds, couldn't sprint a hundred meters in less than 20 seconds, and couldn't swim for more than five minutes. Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.

Yet the only thing Steve couldn't do led him to change all of that—he couldn't take 'no' for an answer.

Ever since her mutation manifested, Mal had always been stronger, faster, tougher that other people. In her youth, she was a tireless athlete. As a girl in Hawaii, she had to be coaxed out of the sea most days or risk spending every hour swimming and surfing. As a new student at Xavier's, Mal surpassed all but the most physically gifted of her peers. She tagged along with Jean on jogs, then graduated to Storm, then Scott, and then she outran them all. Kurt honed her gymnastic ability, Logan her weightlifting, and Hank her agility.

When she was old enough for the X-Men, Mal said no. Yes, Mal was useless in high-pressure situations, but her professors chalked it up to a lack of experience and tried to convince her that she would adapt. Mutants are born to adapt.

But Mal never believed DNA was destiny. She walked away from the X-Men because she could run faster, jump higher, swim longer, and, most critically, survive almost any beating—but she wouldn't. She would not allow the boundaries of her life to be limited to the double-helixes in her cells. She wanted to be a scientist, so a scientist she became.

(Some insidious whisper in her mind was certain she was just a coward—maybe Mal couldn't die easily, but she could feel pain. Or selfish—if she couldn't die, then why leave the dangerous work of mutant liberation to those who could?

Aren't you responsible for any of it?)

Steve noticed her silence and asked, "You alright?"

Mal blinked at him. "Yeah… Yeah, I was just… thinking." She smiled without conviction. "You must've been a nightmare child."

He looked unconvinced that that was where her mind had wandered, but thankfully didn't press the subject. A surge of warm appreciation flooded her as he began speaking at length about his boyhood antics that his harried single mother endured with astounding patience.

Steve's eyes flickered to her wristwatch when she glanced down at it casually. He seemed to be hyperaware of everything around him. Mal didn't know too many field agents very well, but the few that she did know were the same: vigilant to the point that they reminded her of birds with their fast-twitch muscles.

"Am I keeping you?" he asked anxiously.

She waved her hand in front of her face. "Oh, no. I have a meeting at twelve with the head of my department and I have a tendency to lose track of time, so…"

He was completely unsurprised. "I'm sensing a pattern," he teased, laughing when her cheeks reddened.

"I know," she moaned, putting her face in her hands. "I'm late to everything. It's a problem. At last month's meeting, I was so late that my assistant had to stall for time by doing card tricks."

Steve snorted into his coffee. "Did that work?" he asked incredulously.

Equally disbelieving, she answered, "Weirdly enough, it did. But Krantz is super chill. If he got any more relaxed, he'd slip into a coma. I think he's a Buddhist…"

He grinned. "Your assistant sounds pretty easy-going, too," he said.

She smiled softly. "He's a funny guy," she said. "Total dork, but I'd be screwed without him." That was true. Colton was equal parts snarky bastard and concerned mother hen. There were many nights when he had shaken her awake so that she wouldn't miss the last bus home while other times he would drive her home himself, though he'd bitch at her the entire way. She was terribly lucky to have him as her research assistant.

"What's his name?"

"Colton Ford. So named because he has the grace of a newborn colt." Unfortunately, this was also true; Mal had often suspected that he'd never stopped growing. He was tall and skinny and had minimal control of his extremities. And yet despite his klutziness—or perhaps because of it—he was very popular with women. He was out on different dates every other night, it seemed, though his latest partner was sticking around longer than the others.

Steve smiled again, but his eyes drifted from her face to something past her left ear. His smile faded a bit. Just before she could turn around to see what had caused his solemnity, a voice rang from behind her.

"Hey, Steve."

Mal's knee swiftly met the underside of their table in surprise. Then Agent Romanoff was at their table, and a stone-faced Clint Barton at her side.

She smiled at Mal and asked, in an inquisitive tone, "Who's your friend?"

"Mal," she blurted out before Steve could even open his mouth. She stuck her hand out. "Mallory Cohen. I'm in Biochem."

"Natasha Romanoff," she introduced herself. Mal tried not to swoon when they shook hands. Agent Romanoff narrowed her eyes at her, as if trying to recall where she'd seen her before. "We met the other day, didn't we? At the gym?"

At this point, Mal's mouth felt too dry to open. She simply jerked her head in a nod as she started ripping her paper napkin into shreds. Agent Barton watched her hands with detached interest.

Natasha smiled softly. "So, how'd you two kids get together?" she asked, gesturing between Steve and Mal. If Mal didn't know any better, she'd say that Natasha was teasing them.

Mal flushed and stammered, "O-oh, we're not—this isn't—"

"Did you need something, Nat?" Steve cut her off finally, just as Mal was sure steam was actually coming off of her cheeks.

Agent Romanoff sobered immediately. "Fury's back," she said in a clipped voice, "and he wants to see us."

He checked his phone for messages. "You couldn't send me a text?" he asked wryly.

She shrugged. "We heard you were up here and Agent Barton wanted coffee."

Said agent had no cup of coffee in his hand and made no moves towards the counter to procure one. The excuse was surprisingly weak. Mal was beginning to understand the dynamic between Steve and Natasha. She seemed to be rather eager to see Steve with someone, but not so eager that she was above interrupting his "dates" with flimsy excuses.

Who knew the infamous Black Widow was a matchmaker and cock-blocker? Mal was in love. She was so distracted by Agent Romanoff's presence that Steve had to shake her arm to grab her attention.

"I'm really sorry about this," he apologized.

She shook her head. "Please, Steve; if there's one thing I understand, it's work interrupting your free time."

He cracked a smile. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Natasha seemed to sense his reluctance to leave. "We'll meet you upstairs," she said immediately, shooting Mal a quick smile. "It was nice seeing you again."

"Y—you—yep," she stammered, mentally kicking herself as they walked off.

When they were gone, Steve turned back to her. "This was nice," he said.

She smiled. "I agree. We should do it again sometime."

He winced. "I think this—" he pointed at the ceiling, indicating Fury's office a few floors above them, "might be an assignment, so I may be gone for a while. But when I come back, we should definitely get together again."

"Sounds good," she replied. He made to leave. She called after him, "Hey!" he stopped and turned around. She threw him a thumbs-up. "Good luck, Cap."

He saluted her and smiled. "Don't be late for your meeting," he reminded her. She saluted him smartly in return.

She didn't stop smiling all through her meeting.

"She's cute," were the first words out of Natasha's mouth when he left the café. She and Barton were waiting for him just outside the doors, even though she'd told him they'd meet him in Fury's office.

Steve kept walking. He really wanted to avoid talking to Nat about Mal—about any woman, actually. She'd gotten into the habit of drilling him with questions whenever he even stood near a woman. And Steve was a pretty private person; he didn't think that anyone had to know anything about someone's romantic life—or lack thereof, as it was with him.

Nat and Barton attached themselves to his heels. "She looks Asian to me," she went on. "Is she Asian?"

"I'd say half," Barton chimed in. Don't encourage her, damn it. "And maybe Hawaiian. Or Filipino. Some kind of Pacific Islander, definitely."

Steve rubbed his forehead. "Does it matter what her race is?" he asked tiredly.

"No. But sometimes these things come up in conversation," Natasha shot back.

He punched the elevator button with a little too much force. "Well, I didn't think it mattered," he said, exasperatedly.

Though he had, admittedly, wondered what her background was. Even discounting her colored hair and thick eyeliner, she was unorthodox. Not unpleasantly so; she just had a combination of features that he'd never seen before. From an artistic standpoint, she would be a great subject.

"She did say she was from Hawaii," he murmured to himself absently.

Barton still heard him. "Nailed it."

They ignored him. "You guys going out again?" Natasha asked.

"That wasn't a date."

"I didn't say it was."

He cleared his throat. "Do you know what Fury wants?"

It was a lame attempt to steer the conversation away from his personal life. Natasha sensed it immediately, waving off the question with a flippant hand. "Some international emergency, I didn't ask."

"Sounds dull," he said sarcastically.

"Not as interesting as your date."

"It was not a date." The elevator doors opened. A few analysts got out, gaping at the three former Avengers slipping past them into the elevator. Barton and Natasha ignored them while Steve held the door open, smiling tightly at them.

Barton and Natasha slipped on their sunglasses—the elevator was made entirely of glass and the sun beamed directly into it—and watched Steve smack the button for Fury's floor. Steve squinted at the door, half in reaction to the sunlight and half in annoyance.

"So…" He closed his eyes and sighed. Natasha was obstinate, he'd give her that. "Are you just not interested in her, or…?" she trailed off.

"We're both very busy people," he said. "Neither of us have time for dating."

"But you like her."

"Ye—not like that," he caught himself. Steve did like Mal; he thought she was charming and quick, but those were qualities that Steve was drawn to in potential friends, not necessarily potential girlfriends. With his forehead in his hand, he turned to look at the agents. "Do we really need to talk about this?" he asked wearily.

"Yes."

"No, we don't."

She tilted her head. "Don't we?"

"Nat." Sometimes, he found Natasha's verbal gymnastics exhausting. He supposed that was the goal; wear your opponent down to the point where they'll answer all your questions.

She backed off, though, because Steve wasn't an opponent. He was her friend. "Fine," she said. If Steve didn't know better, he'd say she sounded sullen.

"If it's any consolation, I don't think she's too into you, anyway," Barton said wryly. Natasha crossed her arms and sighed. Her sunglasses covered her eyes, but Steve would bet good money that she rolled her eyes.

"What?"

Barton might have looked at him, but Steve couldn't see his eyes. "It's pretty obvious she's hardcore into Nat," he said, nodding his head towards her. "For a second there, I thought she was gonna swoon."

"Clint, please," she replied, making no effort to conceal her smile.

"'Swoon'?" Steve asked incredulously, smirking. Steve could give these two a hell of a hard time for being so attached at the hip that they were starting to speak the same way, but he wasn't as intrusive as they were.

"I'm aware of the effect I have on women," Natasha said in monotone. Barton cracked a genuine smile. Steve chalked it up to another reference he didn't understand. He really needed to start writing things down.

"So what if she's into Nat?" Steve said, shrugging. It wasn't his business. Steve's number one priority at this point was to make friends, period. "We're not dating."

"You know, I think she's bi," Nat murmured to Barton, tapping her chin with her index finger. "When Steve stood up, she definitely checked out his ass."

"Yeah, but Steve's got a rockin' ass. I check it out all the time," her partner replied.

The elevator doors opened on Fury's floor. Steve stormed out into the hall towards the director's office, his cheeks blazing red, and with the sound of their laughter in his ears, he made a mental note to bombard Natasha with personal questions on their next assignment.

Thank you for reading! Please review; I love feedback.

Edited August 2021