114.

Washington, DC

August 28th, 2013

The soft hum of the city outside the apartment window is barely noticeable to Isabel, who has already grown accustomed to the constant noise. But today, something about the quiet in the apartment feels different—an anticipation hanging in the air. She stands by the window, looking out at the street below, fingers idly playing with a strand of her hair. It had been a few weeks since she had been found, a few weeks since Steve had pulled her from the frozen, fractured world she had known, but every day still feels like a new beginning. A bit surreal.

Then the doorbell rings.

Isabel freezes, the noise jarring her from her thoughts. She knows who it is. Steve mentioned that Natasha was coming over, but for some reason, she wasn't quite prepared for it. A slight pang of insecurity flares inside her chest—was this a casual visit? Or was there more to it? The thought of Natasha as something more pops into her head unbidden, and she feels a strange flutter in her stomach. For a split second, the old, familiar feeling of being replaced creeps in. After all, Steve had spent months alone, grieving, thinking her gone forever. Maybe someone else had filled the void.

But when she opens the door, Natasha's smile is warm and genuine, the woman's presence filled with a quiet kind of assurance. Steve has told her about Natasha, about how they work together, how they both played a role in helping bring her back. But it's one thing to hear about someone, and another entirely to meet them.

"It's nice to meet you," Isabel says, breaking the silence. She steps forward, offering her hand, as Winifred had always taught her. A firm handshake, a polite greeting. She wants to make a good impression. The lessons are still there, the rules her mother drilled into her as a young girl, she realises. She would never forget her mother's lessons, no matter how far she had come or how much time had passed.

Natasha's eyes twinkle with a hint of amusement, and she shakes Isabel's hand, her voice carrying a sharp but friendly edge. "We technically have met before, but you were unconscious, so I'm not going to count it," she quips, her voice gravelly with a smirk tugging at her lips.

Isabel invites her inside and they sit at the dining table, a cup of tea between them. They smile at each other awkwardly, quietly. Isabel twiddles her thumbs, not really sure of what to say.

"So, how are you dealing?" Nat finally asks, eyeing her carefully. Her eyes are calculating.

Isabel feels her cheeks flush slightly, but she shrugs, trying to brush off her earlier thoughts. "Eh," she says, holding up her hand in a half-hearted 'so-so' gesture. "Truthfully, what they did to me could've been a lot worse."

"They as in… you're still thinking Hydra?" Nat clarifies.

"I think so. The more I think about it, the more I think I'm right."

"Okay," Nat allows. "How could it have been worse?"

"Well, sure, they experimented on me, and apparently they wiped my memories. But I think, for the most part, I was mostly just bait or leverage. They used me against… someone, but I don't know who. I can't place them. I think I spent most of my time in this big… fridge."

"It's called cryostasis," Natasha corrects, her tone light.

"Right, that," Isabel replies, managing a small, rueful smile.

"How do you know it was Hydra?" Nat asks quietly. She cocks her head to the side in thought.

"Just a feeling," Isabel says offhandedly. "I don't… really know. But what I do remember, and the flashbacks. I'm sure its Hydra."

Natasha seems to accept this answer, nodding and taking a sip from her cup of tea.

"Mainly, I'm… grateful?" Isabel continues.

"Are you sure?" Nat laughs at the questioning imposition in Isabel's words.

"Yeah, I think so." Isabel thinks for a moment. "It could've been a lot worse. And I get to be here with Steve. I thought I lost him back in 1945, and he thought he'd lost me when he woke up. If they hadn't taken me, I wouldn't be here. I'd either be a very old woman by now, or I'd be dead. Really, they… kind of did me a favour. Aside from the whole PTSD, torture thing…" Isabel trails off, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth.

"That's an interesting way of looking at it," Natasha says, her voice softening just a little. "I'm glad."

She reaches into her bag, pulling out a small package wrapped in brown paper, which she hands to Isabel. "I got you something. Really, it could be for both of you, but I get the feeling you're more into music than Steve."

Isabel's eyes flick down to the package, curiosity sparking within her. When she unwraps it, her breath catches in surprise. "I saw this online, I think. It plays music?" she asks, eyes wide.

Natasha nods. "It's the new version of the Walkman Tony gave to Steve a few months ago. It plays music. You load the songs onto it, and then you listen with these," she adds, holding up a pair of sleek white headphones. "Only you can hear the music through the little speakers. I've already loaded some songs onto it, but you can add your own with your laptop."

Isabel turns the music player over in her hands, the sleek device feeling foreign but exciting. Natasha had put playlists on it, organised by decades, starting from the 1920s all the way to the present. "I chose the less grotesque, "out there" songs, and only the best," Natasha continued. "In my opinion, anyway. Over time, you can build it up."

Isabel can't help the smile that tugs at her lips. "Thank you, Natasha. This means a lot."

Natasha gives a small shrug, but her eyes are warm. "You're welcome." She pauses in thought. "Music helped me a lot, when I traded in the KGB. I would lay there sometimes, when the thoughts were taking over, and just let the sound drown it all out. Songs, they create a lot of emotion. It was kind of an anchor to my new reality. Maybe it can be that for you."

After Natasha leaves a short time later, Isabel immediately put the headphones in, letting herself be absorbed in the music. She falls onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and just listens, lets the music take over her body. Each song feels like a bridge between the past and the present, a way to connect with a world she barely understands but is so eager to know.

From that day on, Steve rarely sees Isabel without the headphones in or a book in her hand. The music is her new companion, her way of understanding the world she missed. It becomes her escape, a way to lose herself in something familiar and comforting.

August 29th, 2013

By the next day, Isabel has grown more comfortable with Natasha. Their first meeting had been a little awkward, but something about Natasha's no-nonsense attitude put Isabel at ease. The way Natasha understood exactly what to say, how to say it—it reminded her of Peggy, a bond formed over a shared strength that she couldn't quite put into words.

Later that night, as Steve was training at the gym with Clint – finally letting himself go out for longer than to just pop to the grocery store, not wanting to leave her alone – Isabel finds herself holding her phone in her hands, staring at the screen. Natasha had given her a few tips on how to use the music player, and now she's eager to add more music. But she still isn't sure how to do it. She could ask Jarvis, of course, but it feels different asking a person. It feels more natural, somehow.

A little nervous, she types out a text to Natasha:How do I put more music on?

A few moments later, Natasha responds.I'm free now. I can come over and help?

I don't want to bother you, Isabel responds.

No bother. Helping out a friend.

Isabel hesitates for a few more seconds, her hands hovering over the phone. She sighs and then gives in, feeling a mixture of nervousness, guilt and excitement.Perfect, Isabel responds.

Natasha rocks up 15 minutes later with a bottle of wine and family bag of chips in hand. "I brought snacks," she says, walking into the apartment and half-jumping onto the couch. She holds out grabby hands toward Isabel. "Laptop, wine glasses," she instructs.

Isabel returns with both. As she turns on the laptop and logs in, swearing over missing the keys, Nat pours two generous glasses of wine.

"You're a super soldier. Can you get drunk?" She asks thoughtfully.

Isabel pauses. "I-I don't know," she says. "Steve can't. Bucky took alotof alcohol. Maybe I'm the same?"

"Only one way to find out," Nat smirks, handing Isabel a glass.

And then Nat sits diligently for hours, helping Isabel load songs onto the music player. Isabel watches, taking note of the way Nat uses the laptop, suggesting songs she remembers for them to add. Nat's hands fly across the keyboard. They talk about the songs, listen to them in the background, and Isabel asks Nat about her work, her hobbies, getting to know the agent. Isabel can tell Nat likes to keep her cards close to her chest, but she seems to open up a bit, letting down some walls to Isabel. It's nice, in a way, to have a friend. Or at least, what feels like a friend.

"This is really nice of you," Isabel finds herself saying. "T-thank you."

"No worries," Nat says easily, waving a hand to indicate it's no big deal. "Happy to help."

"I don't see Steve using this much," Isabel admits, picking up the music player. "I think he'll have to fight me for it. He uses the one Tony gave him sometimes, but this one is better. And has more songs. This is really cool." She has one of the ear pods in, music playing quietly so she can still hear Nat, with Bing Crosby crooning in the background. Another song plays off the laptop at the same time.

"Good thing I bought him a birthday present of this own, then," Nat laughs. "Let's just call this your present, then, hey?"

Nat laughs, but Isabel doesn't, her brows furrowing. She looks confused, and then she looks sad.

"What is it?" Nat asks quietly, pausing with her hands hovering over the keyboard.

"I forgot Steve's birthday," Isabel breathes. She covers her open mouth with her hands. "I'm awful."

"I think you had enough going on," Nat reassures.

Isabel jumps up, going over to the calendar on the fridge. "It was nearly two months ago. July 4th…"

"Very ironic."

"Tell me about it."

Nat sits back on the couch. "I'm sure he doesn't mind," she says. "He probably didn't even think twice about it."

"I know he doesn't," Isabel replies, sighing. "He never said anything about it, and honestly, it was… a bad week. But now that I feel a little better and I actually know what the date is, I feel terrible about missing it."

"Okay…" Natasha presses, sensing the deeper meaning behind Isabel's words.

"He's done so much for me," Isabel whispers.

"What are you getting at?"

Isabel takes a deep breath, pushing through her nerves. "I want to get him a gift," she decides. "Even in the forties, when we had no money, we always bought each other something for our birthdays and Christmas. And, well, I have some money now. More than I ever thought I'd have. Steve's done so much for me these past few months, I don't even know how to thank him. A birthday present might be a nice start, but... I have no idea where to go, or how much things cost." She looks contemplative for a moment, before turning to the auburn agent. "Can you help me? If you have time, that is. If not, don't worry. I'll figure something out…"

Natasha doesn't need to be asked twice. "Isabel, I'll take you shopping," she says firmly.

Isabel breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you, Natasha! I didn't know whether I should ask you, because you're a little scary, but I don't know anyone else, and you seem kind of nice, and you remind me a lot of Peggy. She was my friend. And you're a woman, so you know how to shop—wait, is that still a thing? Do women still like shopping? Oh my, I'm rambling. Sorry. I do this when I'm nervous."

Natasha can't hold back her laughter this time. "It's okay," she assures her. "I like you. I haven't got anything on tomorrow. I'll pick you up at ten. Now come drink your wine, it's getting warm. How are we going to test that super soldier tolerance if you won't drink."

The shopping trip is a whirlwind. Isabel had been terrified at first, overwhelmed by the world of brightly lit stores and the vast variety of things to buy. But with Natasha beside her, guiding her through the madness, she felt safe.

"What does Steve like?" Natasha asks as they walked through the aisles. "I get the feeling he'd like and wear anything you bought him. And use anything else you got him."

Isabel smiles softly. "Probably. He's an artist, you know?"

"Really?" Natasha asks, her curiosity piqued.

"Uh-huh," Isabel nods, her voice quiet with nostalgia. "He used to always draw when he had the time. Sketching, graphite, charcoal, paint. We used to buy him art supplies for his birthday because he hated spending money on himself. He only spent money on the equipment he used for his commissions, which was very specific."

"Does he still draw?" Natasha presses.

Isabel frowns, thinking hard. "I haven't seen him draw since I woke up… I kept all his sketchbooks from the forties, but I don't even know if he has them anymore. Maybe Becca does. But I haven't seen him draw since I came home…"

"Maybe you could get him back into that?" Natasha suggests.

Isabel's face lights up at the idea. "That's a great idea."

They head straight for the art store, their mission clear. But as they made their way through the aisles, Isabel's skin prickled with an unsettling feeling. She looks around but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Natasha doesn't say anything. She tries to shake off the feeling. She can't quite place it, but there was something off.

The apartment is quiet when Steve steps inside, the aroma of something delicious drifting from the kitchen.

He's only gone into work a couple of days since Isabel came back, when Fury said they couldn't do without him, and he's made it as quick as possible. Other days when he's gotten home, Isabel has been busying herself with a hobby, or writing in her journal, or sometimes asleep.

But this time, the moment he enters, he stops, his gaze widening in surprise.

The sight before him is simple, but it takes him completely off guard. Isabel stands by the table, her hands nervously brushing the edge of the tablecloth, the edges of her fingers barely grazing the silverware.

She's clearly done everything herself, and the warmth of the home she's created in such a short time fills him with a deep, unexpected gratitude.

"What's all this?" Steve asks, his voice softer than usual, as if afraid to ruin the moment.

His jaw slackens, and his eyes scan the table in disbelief. It's a meal, a real meal—something home-cooked, something thoughtful. Better than anything he can make. It's been years since he had the luxury of sitting down to a proper dinner at home, not just something he's whipped up quickly with no skill at all, and certainly longer since it has been prepared just for him.

Isabel's lips curl into a shy smile, but she can see the surprise in his eyes, the confusion. She clears her throat. "It's, um… well, I realised that I missed your birthday."

Steve doesn't immediately reply, his brow furrowing. "Belle, it doesn't matter–" His voice is gentle, but he's cut off by her firm shake of the head.

"Yes, it does, Steve," she insists, her voice gaining strength with each word. She steps forward and gently takes the shield from his hands, a motion so natural it almost feels like second nature, before she sets it by the door. She reaches up to kiss him, a soft, lingering kiss, one that says everything she feels in the simplest of gestures. "This is a late birthday dinner. For you. Cooked bymoi. With a little help from the Cooking Channel. Happy birthday, baby."

Steve's heart swells at her words, the tenderness in her voice breaking through the walls he's built around himself. She hasn't called him "baby" since a night in the SSR base all those years ago, the last night they were together before they were separated.

"Thanks, Belle," he says, his voice catching for a brief moment. The weight of her thoughtfulness presses down on him, and he swallows against the lump in his throat.

He hurries to change out of his stealth suit, the excitement of seeing her try so hard for him filling him with an unexpected sense of warmth. When he returns, he's dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, looking more comfortable than he has in ages, and the sight of him, so relaxed, brings an even bigger smile to Isabel's face. They sit down next to each other, the table set for two, and begin to eat. The food is perfect—exactly what he would have expected from Mrs. Barnes' recipes, familiar, and full of love. It's a connection to the past, to the time he thought he'd lost forever.

After they finish, Isabel reaches for a small, neatly wrapped package beside her. "I know I missed your birthday, and I wanted to make up for it," she says softly, handing it to him.

"This was enough," Steve says sincerely, gesturing to the dinner spread.

"It's tradition," Isabel says with a small shrug.

Steve's eyes linger on the gift for a moment before he carefully unwraps it. Inside is a set of watercolour paints, brushes, and a sketchpad—the kind he could never afford back when he was scraping by in the 1940s. His fingers trace over the packaging before his gaze flickers up to meet hers. There's a silent understanding between them—this gift is not just a gesture. It's a way for him to reconnect with something he thought was long behind him.

"I haven't touched a sketchbook in months," Steve admits, his voice low, almost embarrassed. "I… I always thought I'd never be able to afford the good supplies again. Everything from back then is spoiled."

"It's not as expensive as it was back then," Isabel allows.

"It just didn't feel right, when I tried to doodle on a napkin at a café or on a piece of paper. I didn't feel like I really had anything to make art for..." Steve pauses, thinks for a moment. "But now I do. You're back, and my muse is back. You always thought my art was beautiful. I can start to paint again." He looks at her, sincerely, and reaches across to take her hand. "Thank you."

Isabel smiles, her heart swelling as she watches him carefully unwrap the rest of the set. She hasn't seen him this vulnerable, this open in a long time. There's a softness in his eyes that she doesn't often see, and it makes her feel like she's done something right.

He sets the paints up with deliberate care, testing the brushes, preparing the sketchpad. Isabel watches quietly, the quiet hum of the evening surrounding them as he begins to experiment with the watercolours, something she's never seen him do before. The way he moves the brush across the page is hypnotic, a dance of colours and strokes, and Isabel can't tear her eyes away from him. It's as if a part of him that had been dormant for so long is finally coming back to life, and she's lucky enough to witness it.

Later that evening, after the quiet peacefulness of the meal has settled, there's a knock at the door. Natasha and Clint stand there, carrying a cake and a couple of six-packs of beer.

Natasha's grin is wide as she steps inside, her eyes immediately going to Steve's watercolour sitting on the dining table, not yet finished. "Nice painting, Steve," she teases. "That's some good work right there."

Steve laughs softly, his cheeks colouring slightly at the praise. "It's… a work in progress," he replies, though there's clearly pride in his voice.

Clint, always the jokester, looks at the cake and laughs. "I think you've got at least fifty candles in there, Cap."

Steve's face goes blank for a second, before he shudders in mock horror. "Well, that's terrifying. Ninety-six, right?"

Everyone bursts into laughter, the sound of their amusement filling the apartment, echoing in the space between them. Clint raises his glass. "Well, here's to ninety-six, and to ninety-six more."

"Cheers," everyone responds in unison, their glasses clinking together.

They settle in for a quiet night—laughter, the warmth of good food, and the comfort of good company wrapping them in a sense of home. As the night stretches on, they end up watching a movie, staying late into the evening. Steve blows out the candles on his cake, and for the first time in years, he feels surrounded by people who truly care about him. This birthday, late as it may be, feels more like a gift than anything else.