Ch. 15

Bienvenidos

Feria de San Pedro Telmo

Domingos de 10.00 a 17.00

Plaza Dorrego*

Steve looked around the bustling San Telmo street market, crowded with people who were walking the narrow cobblestoned streets. There were dozens and dozens of stalls, full of antiques and jewelry as well as other various sundry items. He smiled at the majority of the "antiques" as they would have been right at home in his mother's apartment or his grandparents' house. And quite a few items were from long after the 1940s. Seeing a telephone from the 1960s marketed as an antique seemed a bit of a stretch.

The variety of items available to buy at the market was mind-blowing. There were brass pots, intricate lamps with decorated fabric shades, hand blown vases in a rainbow of colors. There were hand carved chess boards and every different type of leather good you could imagine. Steve saw gorgeous paintings for sale that tried to capture the essence of the vibrant city. He also saw the requisite tourist trap items, the T-shirts, the postcards, the kitschy magnets.

He looked over at Alma next to him, her face softened with delight and joy. He was taken aback at how very lovely she was, her flashing dark eyes, her long lashes, her full mouth. He had an urge to sketch her, to try his best to recreate her beauty on paper.

He briefly shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Sam was right. Steve needed to figure out if his attraction to her was to due to her availability or to the fact that he really cared about her as a person.

"Penny for your thoughts," Alma said impishly.

Steve colored at being caught out. "They're worth a lot more than that," he said warmly. "Kind of crowded today, isn't it?"

"It's like this most Sundays," she observed. "Be careful of pickpockets."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," he said.

A large group of people brushed past them. Alma was bumped and ended up colliding with Steve, her hand on his chest. Instinctively, he put his arm around her.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine, but like I said, be careful of pickpockets," she said. With that, she showed him his wallet in her free hand.

"How did you . . . ?" he asked, pocketing his wallet.

"Oh, I'm a woman of many talents."

Steve smiled. "So I've learned."

"Hungry?" she asked.

"Ravenous."

"There's a great stall with some empanadas down the way a bit. You can buy me a couple."

"Oh, really?" he asked, eyebrow cocked.

"Yes, another one of my amazing skills is getting a handsome man to buy me meals. C'mon."

He grinned, following behind her. She said handsome man, he thought.

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After a haphazard meal of empanadas and freshly squeezed orange juice, they walked down the street together side by side. Steve had eaten five of the warm meat pies and had drunk at least three glasses of the orange juice. Alma had teased him about his appetite, but he couldn't resist the delicious food.

Steve was overwhelmed by the variety of street performers at the festival. Some sang lively songs, some played the drums, others were painted gold and acted as statues. His favorite, though, were the tango exhibitions.

He saw the dancers' limbs intertwined in an intimate, intense dance that made him want to blush. It wasn't that it was at all lascivious, it was the intent look on the dancers faces that made it seem as they were focusing only on each other, as if the the rest of the world didn't exist. It made Steve feel uncomfortably like a voyeur, as though he were peering at a private moment between the two.

"Maybe when it's all over, I can teach you to tango," Alma offered, gesturing to the two dancers at the corner.

"I don't know if I can afford lessons," he chuckled, doing his best to chase away the image of Alma's leg wrapped around his.

"They'll be on the house," she said with a wink.

They walked past a man who had set up a specialized chair for massages and Alma stopped, gesturing towards his stall.

"Have you ever had one?" Alma asked.

"Uh, no," Steve said.

"Oh, these guys are great. You've got to try it at least once."

Steve looked at the odd chair that made the clients lean over, resting their faces on a donut shaped cushion.

"I don't think so," he said skeptically.

"I insist," Alma said, pressing a few coins in the massage therapist's hand and speaking to him in rapid Spanish.

Steve shrugged, sitting down and placing his face awkwardly on the cushion in front of him.

"Close your eyes," Alma insisted and Steve complied.

He felt the massage therapist's fingers began to work the muscles along his shoulders. He felt them travel done his back kneading the skin on either side of his spine. He felt gentle, firm pressure on the back of his neck, rubbing every bit of tension away. He was a bit surprised as he felt fingernails lightly scratch his scalp, sending tingles throughout his body.

"See, I told you I had amazing skills," Alma breathed into his ear.

Steve turned his head and was surprised to see Alma mere inches away.

"You?" he asked.

"I wanted to be your first," she said with a saucy grin. "C'mon, I still have some shopping to go."

"So, are you looking for something specific?" Steve asked as they walked down a bit farther. They had been walking around for almost an hour.

"Just a few souvenirs. A mate and bombilla. Maybe a couple of postcards."

Steve cocked his head to the side. "Why souvenirs?"

Alma bit her lip, clearly a bit indecisive. She took a deep breath. "Pablo gave me a passport yesterday. Once I finish this mission with you, get you the information that you need, I'm free. I can go anywhere."

Steve stopped, looking down at Alma. "If Pablo gave you the passport yesterday, why are you still here? Why didn't you just leave? I know you're worried about your past enemies catching up to you."

"I made a promise that I'd help you. You saved my life. I always clear my debts," she said firmly.

"Is that the only reason you stayed? Because you feel like you owe me something?" Steve asked, staring her in the eyes.

Alma looked away, not able to meet his gaze. Then, Alma stiffened a bit, peering out into the crowd. She moved to stand in front of him, slipping her hands around his waist, pressing a cheek against his chest.

"We've picked up at tail. Eleven o'clock."

Steve surreptitiously looked over and saw a large man in a long-sleeved blue shirt and jeans that looked vaguely familiar.

"Are you sure?" he asked as he hugged her back, keeping up the pretense of being together and not minding it a bit.

"Imagine him in one of the suits that they were wearing last night at Pavlov's estate," she instructed.

Steve glanced back and sure enough, Alma was right. The man was a dead ringer for one of the security guards at Pavlov's home.

"What do you want to do?" Steve asked, taking advantage of the moment to glide a hand along her long tresses.

"As long as he's watching us, we have to keep playing the fake couple. If you want, we can split up. Maybe he'll just follow me."

Steve pulled away slightly and looked down at Alma. "I don't want to do that. I don't want to expose you to any more danger."

She gave him a genuine smile. "So you don't mind playing the fake boyfriend for the rest of the day?"

"Not at all," he said with a smirk.

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After finally selecting a mate and bombilla as well as a leather belt, Alma suggested they walk over to the museum. They walked hand and hand, swinging their arms playfully. Alma noticed their tail following them. He hung back a bit, but he wasn't especially good at surveillance. She suspected that Pavlov had hired him more for his muscle than for his undercover work.

She looked over at Steve, a smile playing on his lips. She regretted this entire outing. Her goal had been to quickly finish the mission with Steve and get out of the country as soon as possible. His insistence on playing the couple muddied the waters. It was far from the first time that she had to play the adoring girlfriend for undercover work. She done it with fellow agents. She done it to fool the marks that believed that she really cared for them.

But a part of her knew that this time was different. A part of her knew that when she slipped her hand in his, when she let her hands wander across his chest, when she laid her cheek against him, when she had massaged his back, when he had held her gently in his arms the night before as she sobbed. It wasn't that he was good-looking, even though Alma would be hard-pressed to think of a more attractive man that she had ever met. He was sweet and kind and caring and utterly unlike what she had expected.

Before the breakdown of S.H.I.E.L.D., she had known him by reputation only. He was one of the heroes of the Battle of New York, one of the Avengers that had saved the world from a horrific fate. When she had heard that he had become a part of S.H.I.E.L.D., she had been proud to be a part of the same organization.

Then, a few weeks ago, everything fell apart. She felt betrayed that one of their own had participated in the destruction of the organization that she had dedicated her entire life to. The disastrous ripples that emanated from the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. had spread like a cancer. Agents being slaughtered by the dozens, missions crumbling before their eyes, criminals being set free in droves. She tried to reconcile the blinding hatred that she felt when she thought of the disintegration of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the growing affection she was feeling for the man beside her. She had never felt so conflicted in her life. She tried to guard her heart, shield her emotions, not let herself give in to sentiment. Despite her developing feelings for him, her heart was still utterly broken over what he had done.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said, playfully.

She faked a grin, doing her best to hide her inner turmoil. "They're worth a lot more than that."

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"I'm glad I came here with you," Alma said as they looked at one piece after another. "I have to admit, my appreciation of modern art ends with Picasso."

Steve gave her a grin. "I guess it just takes a willingness to see things with new eyes."

"Doesn't it seem odd to you, though? Most of these prints just seem like random geometric shapes to me."

Steve thought for a moment. "Yes and no. I feel like art was just beginning to shift in the 1940s. I missed out on all these different movements that revolutionized what art could be. I feel like all these external limits on what art could and couldn't be have been demolished, completely destroyed."

"And you like that."

"I love it. The freedom of expression. The new ways that artists are trying to create beauty and truth," he said. He looked down, a bashful expression on his face. "I guess that sounds kind of hokey."

"No, I can understand. Do you ever miss it? Do you ever miss trying to create beauty and truth? Do ever miss being an artist?" she asked, waving to the canvases in front of them.

"Sometimes. I miss sketching."

"So, what's the last thing you wanted to sketch?" she asked.

"You."

Author's Note-

*Rough Spanish Translation of sign

Welcome

San Pedro de Telmo Fair

Sundays 10 a.m.- 5 p.m.

Dorrego Plaza (square)

mate, bombilla- gourd for making mate (similar to tea) and a silver straw to go with it