She answered the phone because she knew he wouldn't, his body ranged alongside hers in the oversized luxury bed, his bristly cheek on the soft slope of her breast, one arm thrown carelessly across her waist, her legs trapped by his, a big, dangerous animal enjoying the lazy affection after really good sex. The way he nuzzled her told her he gave less than two shits about who was on the other end of the line. She didn't, either, particularly, more interested in the rasp of his lips across her nipple and the tickle of his cool fingers on the crease of her thigh, but she answered it anyway.

She should have checked the display.

"Don't hang up," Steve begged to her drawled,

"Romanov," and Natasha pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. "You have thirty seconds," she advised even as her lover grunted and rolled away, the bathroom light glinting harshly off his arm and into her eyes before the door schnicked closed behind him.

"Someone took … Berry."

Natasha sat up and kicked away the sheets, already reaching for clothes and weapons. "Are there any leads?" she demanded, phone balanced between her shoulder and her chin as she strapped the knife sheath to her thigh, the Widow's Bite to her wrists, and briefly mourned the mangled gun holster and missing revolver, lost somewhere in the Seine the night before playing war games.

Fucking SHIELD.

"Not really. Fury has a team here dusting for prints and whatever else they do."

Steve's swallow was audible, a choking sound, and whatever sympathy there was left to stir in Natasha whimpered mournfully as she forced herself to rap on the door to the bathroom and ask in a loud voice meant to carry, "How long has Berry been missing?"

The door whipped open fast enough to make her take one half-step back, not in defense or surprise but to make room for the metal hand that ripped the phone away from her. "This better not be some half-assed plan to bring us in," James barked and Natasha stilled in the act of pulling on her pants, struck by the realization she was going, hoax or not, a sentiment James obviously shared as he, too, began to layer weapons under clothes.

"I didn't...I didn't think of that. I wouldn't...I just need..." There was a long, long pause where no one except Natasha moved, packing their bags, tidying the bed, finding a gun tucked behind the toilet in the bathroom and another taped into the cabinet by the window. "Please, Buck."

She finished in time to hear the last, James's pale, misty green eyes closing slowly in a face gone as white as milk as he breathed through his nose. She leaned her cheek against his back, one hand spread open across the tight, flat skin of his belly, the other offering him the SIG that had been in the bathroom, the window gun already stowed safely in her bag. He holstered it without looking, his metal hand covering hers after, their fingers threading together, a tight, familiar squeeze. "Okay, Steve," he said quietly into the phone. "Okay."

She took the phone from him, rose on tiptoe to rub her mouth over the place where ropey scar tissue met replacement limb, felt him shudder and then again, his head falling forward as she listened to the details Steve was able to give her, a place and time to meet, empty but earnest promises of safe passage, a bolthole where there might be some cash and false identities. When he stuttered over the realization he didn't have Moira's contact information to give her, she just told him they'd be there in a day, maybe less, and disconnected.

"Tell me why he has your number." James peeked over his shoulder through the curtain of his dark hair, left undone yet, and she was brushing it back behind his ear to see his eyes, weary and wary, before she thought better of it, her smile wistful.

"After," she said, the phone already ringing through to the contact she'd chosen and he nodded, letting her hold him as a cheerful female voice answered,

"Talk dirty to me."

"Darcy. We need clearance. Someone has the baby."

"Shit. Okay. Shit. Give me three hours, no, two, no, three, fuck, the usual suspects?"

Natasha leaned into James, let him take her weight as his free hand slid back and around, cupping protectively over her hip. "Two hours, Darce, and it'll just be us this time."

"You're the boss." The clacking of keys grew loud and obnoxious. Natasha smiled involuntarily as Darcy rang off with, "And tell Bird-Brain Number 2 he's an asshole."

OoO

Moira had managed to avoid Steve for the almost the whole of the ransacking of her flat, the bright open space of kitchen and living area, the cool dark sanctuary of her bedroom and bath and closet, but watching strange hands digging through the fanciful fairy bedroom she'd created for her daughter, morning sunshine walls, random width pine floors stained a dark loamy brown, plush rugs in cheerful pastels patterned with dragonflies and ladybugs, the antique wooden rocking chair where she'd learned to laugh again as Berry twined her way around her battered heart, had been a brutal kind of invasion. Heartsick and alone, she finally had to retreat out into the hallway, hands balled into fists, only to catch the tail end of Steve's conversation.

"Sharon, please, try to understand..." She watched him rub his hand across his forehead and down the back of his neck, heard him sigh. She remembered that tone, that sweet, cajoling note in his voice, asking her to keep the light on, to keep the bed warm, that he'd be home in a couple of days, sweetheart. "Sharon, I didn't…yes, okay, you're right, I shoulda told you but it wasn't...no, of course I haven't!" And that one, the shocked disbelief, the surprise that she could question him, Captain America, everyone's hero, trustworthy and loyal. Oh, she remembered those conversations after she'd been more than the secret agent in the apartment down the hall sent to handle him and before Fury had shown up bleeding out to the strains of an old 45 and Bucky's less-than-triumphant return. After he'd charmed her into bed over coffee and cinnamon buns and shared laundry, her panties and his boxers snuggling together in a load making him blush and stammer, his smile hesitant and hopeful and wary when she told him who, what, she was.

Before there had been Sokovia and the Accords and a thousand things he wouldn't say as duty took precedence over love.

Steve looked up, vivid blue eyes and weary sculpted down-turned mouth and Moira was torn between the past and the present, the past where she'd have gone to him and laid her cheek over his heart, offering and accepting comfort and the simple joy of being together, and the present where Agent 13, another Agent Carter, had more of a right to touch him that she ever would again, Berry a tiny living barrier between what Moira wanted and what she had. "I've got to go," he said abruptly, dropping the phone into his pocket, and before she could retreat he was on her, the hand that had hesitated to touch her hours ago curling around her bicep and joined by its mate, and she didn't even offer a token resistance as he bent down toward her, his breath tickling her ear, his big body maneuvering her into a corner near the door.

"I called Bucky," he whispered and she jerked, caught in the act of sliding her arms around his waist. Too late she realized he'd been trying to conceal his intentions by embracing her and fool that she was, she'd been not only participating but instigating. His fingers tightened on her skin as she tried to retreat, his mouth brushing her cheekbone, her brow, the corner of her mouth, a low, animal sound drawn from deep in his chest as she capitulated and leaned into him, her fingers fisting in the back of his t-shirt.

"Fury won't let that happen," she whispered back, their bodies almost but not quite touching, a pantomime of an embrace that tightened things low in Moira's belly and loosened her thighs, and weak and needy and balanced on the knife's edge of terror, she buried her nose in the curve of his neck. Bolstered by his hands spreading open along her back, by the unsteady way those beautiful, long-fingered, artist's hands trembled and pressed her closer, she snuggled close like Berry seeking comfort, nuzzling into the hollow where he smelled of man and spice and Steve.

She was so soft against him, soft and warm and womanly, and Steve leaned his cheek on her hair and remembered how stunned he'd been the first time he'd slipped her out of her clothes. Moira was built like a pin-up girl, the kind he and Bucky had snickered and drooled over in the days before Bucky had grown up and filled out and discovered the joy of reality and Steve had lagged behind until there was serum and Peggy and a tour bus of willing and enabling females. Moira was pillowy, lush breasts, narrow waist he could almost span with his hands, wide, curved hips, the generous temptation of her ass, and legs that didn't go on forever but were perfectly proportioned for her petite height. And she was Moira with the loud laugh and the serious eyes and the first time since he'd been pulled from the ice that he remembered home.

They might have stood there for hours, holding each other, if the young man who'd been sifting through Berry's room hadn't cleared his throat apologetically. Steve's arms loosened but Moira's didn't and he frowned down at her while she barked, "What?" her voice muffled by his jaw.

"We found a listening device, Ms. Mackney. Director Fury said you could see it."

Moira didn't stiffen. She didn't even look up, only burrowed closer. Steve's embrace tightened reflexively. "Is it a rabbit? Brown, floppy ears with polka dots and a matching bowtie?"

"Yes?" At Steve's narrowed eyes, the agent shifted and swallowed, running his fingers over the buttons on his shirt. "Yes, ma'am."

"Tell the Director it was a gift." Steve shifted until he could see Moira's profile, his stomach doing a pitch and roll dive when she peeked up at him, eyes big and wide and wet, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. He knew that face, the promise and the encouragement and the big, wide open heart.

"Moira?" he asked, hesitating, and she nodded encouragingly, hopefully, and Steve's heart went on a wild, uneasy gallop. He had to close his eyes for a moment, gather his courage. Finally, he managed, "Moira, who gave you the bunny?"

She laughed, a harsh, discordant sound, soaked with her tears, and Steve felt his own eyes begin to burn and itch. He cleared his throat, dug his fingers into her lower back, resisted shuffling his feet. "Moira…" he started again but he'd already bungled whatever opening she'd given him, a tear slipping down her cheek.

"Berry, Steve. The bunny belongs to Berry. Your daughter." She stepped away, pushing him a little, palms flat on his chest. It was like pushing a tree, immovable and unfeeling. Presenting him with her back, already ashamed of her weakness as she dashed at the tears on her cheeks with her fingertips, she said crisply to the agent who was still standing in the door with his carefully neutral expression, "Fury will have to wait."

"For what, ma'am?" he asked when it became clear Steve wasn't going to. The young man flinched, visibly flinched, when Moira said only,

"Good luck," as she turned and strode away, stiff and straight, to the stairwell, disappearing into the black, gaping mouth.

"Captain?"

"Yeah?" Steve asked, trying to smile and failing utterly, his cheeks aching with the effort. "If you're thinking I can crack the code…"

The young man shook his head swiftly. "No. No, it's just…I didn't know she used to be an agent."

It wasn't what he wanted to say at all and Steve clapped him lightly on the shoulder in commiseration. "She used to be a lot of things."

She used to be everything.