Chapter 9 - Urodela

The Triskelion, Washington DC

January 6, 2014

"Is Fury back yet?" Steve asked for the twelfth time in as many days.

Fury's secretary—a stone-faced blonde with a clipped British accent—gave a slightly different response this time.

"Even Captain America needs to make an appointment to see Director Fury," she said coldly, her fingers drumming staccato on her keyboard.

It was an improvement from, 'Director Fury is currently on holiday. No, I don't know when he'll be back. Thank you for coming.'

He lifted an eyebrow. "So, he's back," he surmised. "I think he'd like to see me."

She was probably annoyed by him. Steve said 'probably' because her expression remained as stoic as ever as she said, "I don't presume to know what Director Fury would like to do. I only do as I am ordered. Granting you access into his office is not one of my orders. Good morning."

With that, she turned back to her keyboard and he slipped out of existence.

He gritted his teeth. "Could you at least—"

"Good morning, Captain."

Steve was half a second from doing something really crazy—maybe file a formal complaint—when Fury poked his head out of his office, looking thoroughly irritated to see him.

"Rogers, stop harassing my secretary and get your ass in here."

Steve straightened up. "I wasn't harassing her," he said. But even as Fury shook his head and went back into his office, he turned to her wearing a properly sheepish expression. "Sorry about that."

She rolled her eyes without breaking a keystroke.

"Here." Steve looked up from closing the door behind him just in time to catch the object Fury lobbed his way. "Got you a souvenir."

It was a pocket-sized snow globe. Swirling bits of white plastic surrounded a tiny plastic city he didn't recognize. He read the inscription on the base and raised an eyebrow.

"You vacationed in Newark?" he asked skeptically.

Fury seemed genuinely bewildered by the question. "What? I haven't taken a vacation in 15 years."

"But your secretary said…" He trailed off as Fury gave him an incredulous look. Then it became abundantly clear.

Of course. Steve almost smacked himself.

"Is there anyone in this building who can tell the truth?" he asked through gritted teeth.

In a rare moment of levity, Fury pointed at him.

"I'm not joking."

The director sighed and sat down heavily behind his desk, offering a chair to Steve. He opted to stand. Sitting in front of Fury's desk made him feel like a misbehaving high school student. And he really wasn't the one acting up.

With a shrug, Fury leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"I take it this is about your mission in Székesfehérvár," he said.

Even after hearing it multiple times, Steve had no idea how to pronounce the name of the city he'd just been to. That wasn't the point. He frowned. "Did Natasha tell you?"

Fury raised his eyebrows. "You think Agent Romanoff came running to me to tattle on you? What the hell kind of intelligence agency do you think I'm running here?" He shook his head in disgust. "I read her DB."

'DB' meant debrief. In field agent vernacular, it meant 'Don't Bother.' The majority of them ended up unread or suspiciously lost during court proceedings. As angry as he was at Fury, Steve was glad at least someone read them.

But knowing Natasha, she had left their argument out of her report. He would admit that she wasn't completely devoid of emotion, but her memos were notoriously dry.

"So, you don't know that we had a disagreement," Steve said.

"Oh, I know you had a disagreement."

"Is there a new section on a DB that I haven't seen before? 'Emoting on the Mission'? Because I can't imagine her expressing an emotion when it wasn't required."

It was bitter. But he was still bitter about what had happened.

Fury leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and folding his hands at his chin. "She listed it under 'Complications'," he informed Steve tightly.

That shut him up. He suspected that was how Natasha had seen him on the mission, but it still stung.

"Captain," Fury said. Steve glared. His one eye hardened in response. "If you're going to blame anyone for Székesfehérvár, blame me. It'll be easier on you when you're assigned with Agent Romanoff again."

Maybe it was just too soon, but Steve couldn't see himself working with someone he didn't trust. And while he did mostly blame Fury for prioritizing a favor from Stark over the lives of prisoners, he still held a grudge against Natasha. She manipulated him, lied to him. He wasn't going to get over it so easily.

"Director Fury, with all due respect—"

"If you want to show your respect, you'll follow orders," Fury interrupted snappishly. "Which I noted you did in Székesfehérvár. Tell me, Cap, why did you?"

He blinked. "Why'd I follow Nat's orders?"

"Yeah. Was it 'cause you're a good soldier? Or was it because Agent Romanoff persuaded you to do the right thing?"

"To abandon people who needed me?" he spat. "Is that 'the right thing'?"

Fury shook his head and leaned forward. "To save a hundred thousand for every person in that prison," he answered. "We're already beginning to dismantle the Syndicate. Because of you."

"Because of their sacrifice," countered Steve coldly.

Abruptly, Fury stood up and went to the window. It was more of a glass wall than a window, and it overlooked the entire city. Washington was still dusted with snow, even weeks after the first winter snowfall. Meteorologists kept saying it was going to be a cold winter.

In more ways than one, Steve thought as he watched Fury curiously.

With his back to Steve, he asked, "Do you know why my office is on the highest floor of the Triskelion?"

Steve almost rolled his eyes. And he thought he was dramatic. "I assume it's symbolic, sir."

Fury ignored his snark. "I really like this view. I can see everything from up here. I see where things work, where they don't, where those goddamn roundabouts are so I can avoid them on the drive home—"

Steve coughed.

Fury glanced back. His one good eye was filled with emotion. "I have to see the big picture," he said. "You mourn those prisoners, Rogers. Someone should. But me— I'm gonna celebrate every civilian life protected. Because I have to."

It was a lovely sentiment. But Steve was getting very tired of these personalized statements from Fury and Natasha and every other Clearance Level 7-or-higher agents. He knew they were telling him what they thought he wanted to hear.

But now the jig was up. He knew the man behind the curtain was just a man. He knew what else Fury had gained from the success in Hungary.

"So, getting a favor from Stark was just a bonus?" Steve asked scathingly.

The lines of Fury's back tensed so quickly that Steve might have imagined it. He turned away from the window, his face resigned. It was the nearest admission of guilt Steve would ever get from Fury.

"Stark's interest in the mission doesn't change the fact that the Syndicate is nasty son of a bitch—" Fury began, all patronizing again, and Steve couldn't take another second of his polished truth.

He exploded.

"You sent me on that mission under false pretenses!" he shouted. "You don't have the right—"

Fury cut him off, equally explosive, "I have every right!"

(In passing, Steve wondered if Fury's secretary could hear them through the glass walls. Of course, for all the concern she had for Steve, he doubted she would even try to stop Fury from ripping out his spine.)

"In fact, I don't have to tell you a damn thing," Fury continued, more quietly, as if he'd had the same thought as Steve. His voice lowered to a dark rumble, like an earthquake.

And like an earthquake, he was devastating.

"Do you understand the chain of command here? I'll make it clear: I am the director. You are an agent. Just because you're S.H.I.E.L.D.'s only super-soldier does not mean you get any more courtesy than any other agent. You do as you're told; you accept the circumstances for what they are. And when I tell you to jump, the only question you ask is 'how high?'"

Steve was shocked into silence. Even Fury seemed surprised by his viciousness.

Steve hadn't felt this old sting of inadequacy in a long time. Definitely not since before the ice; maybe not even since before the serum.

Because when he was Captain America of the Howling Commandos, people needed him. They needed his body, sure, but they needed his mind as well, which was one of the only things Steve had valued from birth. But save for Bucky, Peggy, and Dr. Erskine, he couldn't think of a single person who saw him pre-serum and didn't just see a skinny kid with a big mouth. It was strange, he thought, that people didn't care about what he had to say until he was brawny.

Now Fury told him he only needed his body, and maybe he did. Everything else was so different; why not this?

Part of him knew Fury was just lashing out—because Fury may have been the ultimate spy, but he wasn't Natasha. She was on a different level. Natasha was a statue. You could scream abuses at her and she'd never crack.

Fury was a tiger. A very, very irritated tiger that didn't take abuse very well. Or at all, really. Steve would admit to pushing him a little. But sometimes people were their most truthful when pushed to the edge. That scared him.

"Is that really all the respect you have for me?" Steve asked quietly. "You're going to have to tell me, because I honestly can't tell."

Fury opened his mouth. Closed it. And then he did something very predictable.

He changed the subject.

Quietly, he said, "Stark's favor is on a 'need to know' basis. You'll know when you need to. I promise."

"Your promises don't mean much."

He shrugged. "They mean more than nothing."

Steve didn't know what to think about that.

"Rogers." Steve turned around. Fury grimaced and crossed his arms. He seemed enormously uncomfortable. "I respect the hell out of you."

Steve paused, mulled it over, and then said, "Thank you."

Fury nodded. Not gratefully, or begrudgingly; just a sharp nod that could've meant anything.

He shook his head, "But like I said, I honestly can't tell."

And before Fury could get in another word, Steve was gone.

Despite getting in the last word in an argument with Fury—which, as far as he could reckon, had never happened before—Steve was in a terrible mood.

Steve didn't like arguing, not with people he was supposedly allies with and especially not about things he thought they should be on the same page about. Like telling the truth and protecting people who needed to be protected. He kind of thought that was a given.

He leaned his head back against the glass wall of the elevator. With a sigh, he pulled out the snow globe Fury had given him and shook it. It was an oddly whimsical gift from a decidedly un-whimsical man. Normally, Steve wouldn't think anything of such a gift—it was a fairly safe option for a present; you couldn't exactly get someone's size wrong with a snow globe—but this was Fury. Everything he did was laden with meaning.

He pondered this intensely as he stood in line at the café. So intensely that he didn't notice the agent standing in front of him do a double-take.

"Captain," he greeted him.

Steve pulled himself out of his deep reverie and was surprised to see Clint Barton staring at him. The corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. Steve cleared his throat and tried to look convincingly pleasant. "Agent Barton."

Hawkeye—was there ever a codename more appropriate?—didn't buy his façade. He cocked his head, looking Steve up and down from head to toe. Steve fought the urge to squirm.

"You just saw Fury," Barton finally announced.

Steve grimaced. "Do I really look that angry?"

"Oh." Barton took a second glance. "Yeah, you do look pretty pissed. I got it from the snow globe, though."

"Oh." There was an awkward pause. "Wait, what?"

Barton was more than happy to explain, "Every Christmas, Fury says he's going on vacation, disappears for a few weeks, and then when he gets back, he gives his top agents snow globes—each of them from somewhere different, so no one can find out where he went."

He said it like it was just a charming idiosyncrasy of Fury's, but Steve thought it sounded like something a crazy person would do.

"What?" he repeated dumbly.

"Last year, I got Sydney," Barton offered sunnily. "That was nice. Maria got Paris, though. No one'd ever gotten Paris. It was kind of our white whale."

"He does this every year?"

He nodded and advised, "Clear a shelf."

Steve shook his head. "It's not bugged or something, is it?" he asked anyway, anxious to dismiss his most likely theory.

"Nah," Barton replied easily, but he didn't engender confidence when he asked to see it—just to be sure, he said. Another moment of examination proved fruitless.

"No bugs," he affirmed, handing it back to him. "Fury's a micromanager, but he's not that crazy."

Steve scoffed.

Barton grimaced at him. "Thanks for getting him all nice and pissed, by the way. I'm his ten o'clock, you know."

"Sorry," Steve apologized insincerely. Fury didn't need much urging to go blow his top. Sure, Steve may have thrown some fuel on the fire, but he wasn't going to take all the blame for a chronic anger issue.

Their conversation came to a momentary halt while Barton ordered, "The usual… and a banana-nut muffin.

"Here's a tip," he continued as he took the fist-sized muffin from the cashier and waved it in his face. "Fury loves these things. They don't make him happy, but they'll bring him down from a 10 to a 9."

Noted. Steve ordered two coffees—one regular black for himself and some concoction that was more sugar than coffee for Mal. Barton noticed, of course. He didn't miss anything.

"You still seeing that girl with the blue hair?" he asked, leaning against the counter, a picture of indifference.

"We're not dating," Steve corrected wearily, knowing that, at some point, he was going to stop correcting people. Not because he thought they'd actually start dating, but out of sheer frustration. "I just like talking to people I don't work with."

Barton didn't seem to take offense to that, nor did he give any indication that he understood that that was a subtle jab at his teammate. Instead, he nodded slowly. "I get that."

Steve raised his eyebrows. Maybe he'd misjudged Barton. Maybe he wasn't as much like Natasha as he thought. Hell, maybe he had finally found a sympathetic ear to complain to, because although Mal was a good listener, he couldn't tell her everything. Clearance levels were clearance levels, and hers was too low.

Hopefully, Steve asked, "Really?"

"No," Barton answered bluntly.

Never mind, he thought glumly.

Barton's face softened, just a little. It was strange—Barton had a face that looked like it had been carved from stone, but Natasha's soft features were still harder.

"But I get why you'd like that," he explained before shrugging. "It probably sucks to fight with your coworkers all the time."

Natasha told him. As he accepted his drinks from the barista, he wondered if the young man behind the counter knew about their fight as well. It seemed everyone in the building knew.

"Yeah," Steve confided quietly. "It really sucks."

Mal wasn't answering his texts. Steve wasn't surprised; she hadn't answered any for the past three days. He assumed she was caught up with work, as she said she was prone to do every once in a while. So he decided to head up to her floor, just to make sure she hadn't died of dehydration at her desk.

She wasn't in her office. He didn't think it was a great idea to pop in on her while she was working—he figured it would be akin to Mal popping out of nowhere in the middle of a firefight—but he shook off his discomfort.

"It's fine," Steve muttered to himself outside of her laboratory's glass door. "She won't be mad at you."

Unfortunately, the whole wall was made of glass, so anyone inside who happened to be looking outside could see him giving himself a pep-talk. His cheeks reddened when he met eyes with a coltish-looking man around his age.

The scientist's mouth fell open. Steve grimaced. Oh, now you're just being creepy.

He awkwardly sidled over towards the door when the scientist opened it and stuck his head out.

"Are you lost?" he asked bluntly. Steve stifled a smile.

"No, actually. Mal—er, Dr. Cohen—wasn't answering her phone, so I thought I'd just come up," he said, holding up the coffee cups in explanation.

The man's mouth fell open a crack. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of fear in his eyes. At him? Steve was imposing, sure, but he didn't exactly have a reputation for punching scientists. For no reason, anyway. He wasn't as good at reading emotions as Natasha was. His stomach soured at the thought of her and he pushed her out of his mind.

"You drew that picture for her," he stated, relaxing when he realized that Steve was not, in fact, here to throw a cup of boiling hot coffee in someone's face. "The one on her desk."

Steve nodded, his chest swelling with pride. He was pleased that she liked his Christmas present enough to display it in her office, a drawing which had been half Christmas gift, half artistic challenge on his part. He wanted to draw something more dynamic than the Washington skyline, and there was nothing more dynamic than Mal in mid-sentence.

He was pleased with the result: a pencil sketch of her as he always saw her, her hands in a blur in front of her, her glasses slipping down her nose in excitement. He used a colored pencil to scribble the ends of her hair blue, the color it had been when they first met.

She'd gotten pretty worked up when she attacked the wrapping paper on Christmas and stared at his gift with enormous liquid eyes. Finally, after throwing her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug and wiping the tears from her eyes, Mal pouted and threw the crumpled up ball of wrapping paper at him.

"Damn it, Steve, now I look like an asshole for giving you a gag gift," she'd whined. He'd laughed at that.

Her first gift to him had been an Iron Man action figure. He'd done his best to school his expression into one of polite gratitude—because that's how he was raised; Steve appreciated what he got, no matter how stupid it was. But before he could grind out a half-hearted 'thank you,' Mal burst into a fit of cackles and snatched it out of his hand.

"Sorry," she'd apologized, sounding anything but sorry. "I bought that for myself, but then I thought, 'You know who would love this? Steve.'"

"Yeah, Tony Stark is just swell," he'd replied as sarcastically as he could manage. Her real gift was an animated movie, which was a far better gift. He'd mentioned before that he'd enjoyed Snow White when it first came out. She'd teased him about that, just as Bucky had seventy years before.

"You're talented," the scientist said, snapping Steve's attention back to the present. "If the whole Captain America thing doesn't work out, you could do, like, caricatures or something."

Steve tried not to be insulted. Caricatures? "Uh, thanks."

"Always good to have a fallback, that's what I say."

"Is Mal busy?" he asked in a thinly-veiled attempt to change the subject.

The man grimaced. "Technically, yes," he said, "But you'd be doing me a huge solid if you could get her out of here for an hour or two, at the very least."

Lowering his voice, he said, "She's been here for forty-eight hours. If I wasn't here to put food under her nose, she would've dropped dead by now."

"Forty-eight hours?" Steve repeated incredulously. "How is that even possible?"

"I mean, you could live here pretty comfortably. There's food, coffee—the gym has showers. Plus, she has a couch in her office. That's, like, the ultimate luxury around here, you know—"

"Let me talk to her," Steve interrupted firmly.

He put his hands together, bent at the waist, and said, "My blood pressure thanks you." Then he stood aside to let him into the lab.

"My name's Colton, by the way. I'm Mal's research assistant," he explained.

Steve nodded. He'd assumed that he was Mal's assistant by the way he clearly took care of her. "Steve Rogers," he replied.

By now, the other scientists in the lab were only pretending to work. Some were surreptitious about it, glancing over in between scribbles on their tablets. Others—and he noted that these were the youngest people in the room—took pictures of him with their cell phones.

"Get back to work, cretins," Colton ordered. They kept snapping pictures.

He turned to Steve, shaking his head. "Someday," he started, a gleam in his eye, "When I run this place, they'll be the first to feel my pink-slipp'd wrath—Oh, hey! What's up, Jen?"

A hawkish woman with sharp brown eyes stepped in their path. She ignored Colton.

"Captain," she said primly.

Steve consciously suppressed the urge to salute. "Ma'am."

She proffered her hand. "Dr. Jennifer Esposito."

"Steve Rogers."

"I know who you are," she replied tersely.

Well, alright, thought Steve. What could you say to that? Beside him, Colton openly rolled his eyes. It's not just me, then.

"I take it you're not here on business?" asked Dr. Esposito, raising an eyebrow at him. What business he could possibly have with a biochemistry laboratory, he had no clue.

"Oh… uh, no. Ma—Dr. Cohen—" he corrected himself (and ignored Colton when he mumbled, 'We know who she is,' in an uncanny impression of Dr. Esposito), "—is a friend of mine. Brought her a coffee."

She didn't bat an eye at his attempt to diffuse the tension. "Make it quick," she commanded. "She's not the only one who works here."

And then, before he could reply or even snap a salute, she marched back to her desk. A young woman with dark blonde hair sitting at the lab table beside them watched her as she went.

"Sorry," she apologized quietly when Esposito was too far to hear them. "She's just kind of stressed."

Colton muttered, "She's just kind of an asshole."

She frowned. "Don't be mean."

"Don't make excuses," he shot back. She glowered.

Colton turned to Steve and said, "Ashley is Esposito's indentured servant."

"I'm Dr. Esposito's research assistant Dr. Ashley Reardon," she corrected him hotly and stood to shake Steve's hand.

He handed a cup of coffee to Colton to free up a hand. "Nice to meet you, I'm—"

"Oh, but of course I know who you are!" she interrupted, pumping his hand with enormous vigor. "Captain America! Project Rebirth! You're biochem's rock star!"

Steve flushed. "It was all Dr. Erskine," he explained, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just showed up."

Ashley flapped her hand in dismissal. "That's beside the point. You're every geneticist's wet dream," she said rapidly, without thinking, and then froze just as she pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, god. That was totally inappropriate," she tried to backtrack, turning redder with every word, "I'm just saying I'd love to study you. Oh, god, wait. I don't mean while you're alive. Not like a vivisection or anything. I'm not a monster. I mean, if you were dead, then it'd be a different story. Oh—God—"

"It's alright," interrupted Steve, throwing her a bone before she dissolved into a trembling mess.

"I swear, I'm not usually this awkward," Ashley rushed to assure him.

When she turned around for a moment to grab something off of the table behind her, Steve exchanged a quick look with Colton. He shook his head and mouthed, 'Not true.' Steve hastily hid his smile when she returned, cheeks glowing, a scrap of paper and a pen in her hands.

"Do you think I could get your autograph for my nephew?" she asked. "I'd be the coolest auntie ever if you did."

Steve smiled. He couldn't remember how many autographs he signed for kids back when he was still in the USO. Before then, he hadn't really been someone younger kids looked up to. That was Bucky, of course. Even Steve had looked up to him—back when they were kids and their age-gap seemed more like a chasm than a short sixteen months. He actually enjoyed being a role model.

"Sure."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she chirped, hovering over his shoulder as he hunched over at a desk to scribble a short greeting. She supplied his name when he asked for it and then continued to say, "You're definitely his second favorite Avenger, after Iron Man. Kyle loves Iron Man."

Steve paused in the middle of his message to toss her a blank look.

Ashley quickly realized what she said and backpedaled. "I mean, he loves all the Avengers. He just really likes Iron Man." Then, with a nervous titter, she added, "If it's any consolation, you're my favorite Avenger."

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Ashley turned violet.

Colton looked between them joyously.

"I rarely get to see a car crash this spectacular," he said, voice full of awe.

They both glared at him. He cackled.

Once Ashley was gone, presumably to put cold water on her cheeks (Steve would've liked to do the same, but he was on a mission to save Mal from herself), he turned to Colton.

"Can I see Mal now?" Steve asked, hoping his desperation wasn't too audible.

He nodded and pointed down the row of lab tables. And there she was, hunched over a microscope at the last station, her glasses propped up on top of her head.

"Hey, Mal," he greeted her.

She ignored him.

Colton shook his head. "Don't take it personally. She's in the zone right now."

To demonstrate, he leaned down to Mal's ear and said, very clearly, "Agent Romanoff is a total bitch. And she's ugly."

No reaction. Colton held out a hand as if to say, 'see?' And then he smacked her upside the head. Hard.

"Ouch! Knuckle-walker!" she snarled, rubbing the back of her head. "You almost smashed my eye into the microscope!"

He ignored her complaints. "You have a visitor," he said.

She angrily waved him off. "Tell them to go away, I'm busy."

Steve and Colton exchanged baffled looks.

"He's… right next to me," Colton said slowly.

Mal jumped when she realized that was true. Steve waved as best he could with two cups of coffee in his hands.

"Steve. What… are you doing here?" she asked in a kinder voice, slipping her glasses onto her nose. "Is something wrong?"

Colton answered for him, "Some kind of international incident. Sounded urgent. You should probably stop working and help him out."

Steve corrected him before she got the wrong idea. "No, nothing's wrong. I just thought we could hang out. Here, I brought you a coffee."

Mal didn't take the cup when he tried to hand it to her. Instead, she crinkled her nose.

"But I'm working right now," she stated matter-of-factly.

He didn't know why he thought she would immediately agree. He tried a different tactic. "Colton told me you've been at it for two days."

Mal threw Colton a withering glare. Colton yawned hugely.

"He's exaggerating," she said dismissively.

"So, you've only been working for…?" he trailed off, so she could fill in the correct number of hours on her own.

She resembled a goldfish as she tried to remember how long she'd been there. Finally, with ruddy cheeks, she sputtered, "I'm not a child, Steve. Don't speak to me like I need you to be my minder."

He drew back. He hadn't realized that he was being patronizing. But he was. Of course, he didn't mean to be. For god's sake, it was Mal. He didn't want to alienate the only friend he had left.

But before Steve could withdraw his question and apologize, Colton interjected, "When you act like a child, you get treated like a child. That's how this works."

Steve glanced at him, surprised by his tone. Without realizing, Steve had placed Colton into the same category as Tony Stark—both immature, cocksure men with motor-mouths that were, deep down, good, caring individuals (as much as it pained Steve to admit that Tony was anything but an immature cocksure motor-mouth). But that tone was downright chilling. He chalked it up to the concern Colton must have been nursing for the past two days.

"I'm not acting like a child," Mal said childishly.

Colton crossed his arms and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Would you like me to list all of the things I've been doing for you these past two days?"

"No," she snapped.

He ignored her and began counting off items on his fingers. "I've fed you, watered you; refilled your coffee whenever you ran low; reminded you to take a shower, to brush your teeth, to regularly use the bathroom—"

"Colton, do you think we could talk?" Steve interrupted quietly, gesturing between himself and an increasingly incensed Mal. "Alone?"

He threw up his hands. "Whatever, man," he said, bitterly. "If Captain America can't get Dr. Mallory Cohen out of her laboratory, then I really don't have a chance, do I?"

And with one final, harsh glare at Mal, he turned on his heel and left. When he was sufficiently far, Steve spoke quietly again.

"I know you're busy. But I just…" He rubbed his forehead, struggling to come up with the least embarrassing way to say he was shaken up. She waited patiently. Finally, he admitted with a shaky laugh, "I just really need someone to talk to right now."

Steve directed his words to the tabletop. He refused to look at her. He didn't want to see her pity or her annoyance or whatever other reaction his current insecurity could conjure up.

She silently took her cup of coffee.

His head snapped up. Her face was perfectly blank—maybe a bit tired, but that wasn't so surprising—as she said, "I think I can get away for an hour."

"An hour's perfect," he said eagerly.

She was already gathering up her things, all files and papers precariously wrapped in her arms as she juggled her cup of coffee and her tablet. She waved him off when he offered to take something.

She said, "Let's go talk in my office. It's a little less… populated."

"Sounds perfect."

She frowned. "Stop saying perfect."

"Perfectly understood."

And then she cracked a smile for the first time that day, so Steve couldn't help but do the same.

As they walked out, Mal cocked her head and frowned.

"You lied," she stated.

"No, I didn't," he retorted automatically, though he had no idea what she was talking about. He was hyperaware of all of the lies that propagated in S.H.I.E.L.D. He didn't want to add any more to the pool.

Mal shook her head firmly. "You said nothing was wrong. But something is obviously very wrong."

Oh. Steve cleared his throat.

"Nothing's wrong," he repeated. Then he shook his head and tried to ignore the heaviness in his chest. "But nothing's quite right, either."

Edited August 2021