Read All About It, 4/5

[mangacat201]

Chapter Three

~*~

You stay sitting after the elevator doors quietly close, fairly sure that nobody is going to stray onto this floor for quite some time and strangely reluctant to go up to the floor where your own rooms are nestled beside his. Instead, you close your eyes and try to quiet your mind to the point where you are able to concentrate on the task at hand. Focusing actually helps dispel some of the tension that’s settled into your muscles. You let everything fall away and try to approach the issue of going public like an op, vowing to keep an open mind about solutions that are out of the ordinary, just like Barton demonstrated. That’s where you realize that before you’re going to get anywhere with this, you’ll have to break down what you actually want to communicate as a primary objective. Stark’s people gave you a lot of options, but they were all about the different ways of processing biographical information. The reason they all felt wrong was that there wasn’t enough depth to them to explain your deeper motivation of wanting to join the Avengers. You need to find a way to let people know who you are and why you are here using the fewest number of words possible. If only you knew how to translate everything into actions and images, since nowadays you are kind of ok with show, but very poor with tell.

The analogy kicks some images loose as it swirls in the back of your head, forming a connection to something you saw earlier. It takes a few moments to percolate, but when it does, a frisson of electricity shoots up your spine. Your mind is suddenly as crystal clear and sharp as you’ve ever felt it. This was always going to be about your relationship with him, your connection, and the way his friendship and example has made you want to try harder, be better, be a better person, now, but also… then. So it’s only natural that he and your mission to protect him should be at the center of your plans. And there is one place close by that is so steeped in your history, past and present, his iconic persona, your sacrifice, that if you can only figure out a way to use it, most of the talking will become obsolete.

Every challenging and harrowing event of the day fades into the background once the idea takes hold, and an excited buzz spreads under your skin. You cast around for something. You aren’t sure what exactly until your eyes land on the tablet Stark left precariously balanced on the side table next to the couch. You settle down on the floor with your back to the couch and spend a few frustrating minutes trying to get it work – you’ve been updated on modern day tech, sure, but these are next generation compound holo projectors – until you concede and reluctantly ask the man in the walls for help. He is only too happy to oblige, but after encoding your user platform with top level encryption and parking your files in a server directory where even Stark won’t think to snoop, you make a very firm point to the AI about the privacy of your dealings, (and you feel like you are detecting a very unsettling note of glee in JARVIS’ voice at the prospect of sneaking behind Stark’s back, even though you’re 100% certain that the AI would notify Stark the minute it determines that your plans are detrimental to anyone’s health and safety.) You start in depth research on inbound and exit routes, transport, time frames, crowd patterns and cell reception, gathering notes on your own personal observations and hacking municipal service systems to get at traffic tracking information. Your idea begins to take shape, and your research actually makes it out as a reasonably straight-forward executable op.

There are still a few variables you can’t really plan contingencies for – most grievously your own more often than not grossly uncooperative brain – but there isn’t really a plan in the world that covers all eventualities, so this just something you are going to have to accept. The only snag you are stuck on right now is actually how much (or little) to involve the Captain. His presence is unquestionably going to be essential, but the recent events have made you wary of his reaction to your plans, and what would happen if he isn’t 100% on board. Plus, you feel like the less other people know of the complete plan, the more secure you are going to be outside the immediate and very controllable perimeter of the Tower and the easier it is going to be for you to pull the plug at pretty much every stage except the very last step if you realize you still can’t do it.

You aren’t sure what would be worse, the humiliation you’d feel for yourself or his certainly well-hidden but still palpable disappointment if you try and fail. Or worse… him trying to sabotage your efforts in a misguided attempt to keep you out of the spotlight and the fray. You don’t really believe he would actually do something like that, given how much he’s fought for every little shred of progress ever since he found you alive, regardless of his earlier actions. But once the thought has entered your mind, it burrows its insidious claws in your brain and won’t let go. So you need a diversion, a patsy cause to leave the Tower and get where you need to go, for when you need to get there. On the off chance that something will jump out at you, you browse the calendar again and an upcoming date catches your eye and everything clicks into place. Your hands shake a little when you see it coming together in your mind’s eye. At first you worry a bit that using what is undoubtedly going to be a very emotionally charged event all on its own as a pretext is going to be too much. But the more you think about it, the more it becomes something you actually want to do, closure for one life right before the beginning of what is hopefully going to be another.

It’s only the slightest displacement of air that alerts you to the presence of another person in the room, and you instantly unclench your muscles, aborting the movement towards the closest weapon, because there is only one person in the Tower with the ability to sneak up on you like that. You blink up at Baron, eyes gritty from staring at the screen for – well if the subtle hue of dawn you only just notice is any indication – the better part of the night.

“Figured it out yet?”

You lock down the tablet screen with a casual swipe of your fingers.

“Getting there.”

Barton looks at you intently, but you meet his eyes with a blank expression, unwilling to divulge more information if he doesn’t pry.

Barton smirks at you as if he knows what you are thinking and drops it with tacit agreement.

“Alright, I think you’ve got a visitor.”

You lift your head to follow his gaze toward the elevator bay where an imposing figure is half-lingering in the shadows. Your heart beats faster immediately, because you’d be able to pick out that silhouette anywhere, even if you hadn’t known he would be coming eventually. After a moment, you take your eyes off him to glance back at Baron, who hasn’t moved. You frown a little, wondering what he’s waiting for, until you realize that Barton is waiting for you to give the all clear, and you feel your face go slack with startled surprise. That he wouldn’t even let him come forward without your say so takes your breath away for a second. There is no question of which way you are going to go with this, never will be, but to be afforded the consideration of choice makes a fierce, burning warmth bloom in your chest. You nod lightly, trying not to show how this kind of protectiveness affects you, and Barton just inclines his head in return, eyes kind and understanding. Then he turns around and walks back towards the elevator, pausing only briefly to clasp a hand on the Captain’s shoulder before leaving the two of you alone.

You slide the tablet onto the couch cushions next to your head, but don’t get up, choosing to look out into the skyline instead. There is no movement for a couple of tense minutes, but you refuse to let the discomfort get to you. Finally he breaks away from the wall and walks over quietly. You track his advance out of the corner of your eye, but make no move to encourage or dissuade him. He stops next to the couch awkwardly, clearly contemplating his next move, before he slides down to the floor, leaning back against the two-seater that is angled to your right, respectful distance, but close enough to touch if either of you decides to stretch your arms out. The silence isn’t exactly tense, but it’s also not comfortable in the way you are used to with each other. Maybe anticipatory would be the right word.

“So,… I acted like a grade A jerk this afternoon.”

You finally turn towards him and simply lift an eyebrow that says ‘ya think’ so clearly, you don’t even have to worry about saying it. He ducks his head a little in response. Knowing that he isn’t going to get off that easy is not helping to get the apology out any smoother.

“Clint told me how you almost beat him at his own game.”

You can’t keep from grumbling under your breath that you would have, if Barton hadn’t cheated, and a small smile appears on his face before his features turn earnest again.

“I just wanted to say, that I… earlier I let my reaction be unfairly determined by my own poorly reflected feelings, but… I want you to know that I’m really proud of you. For facing something when you couldn’t really be sure yourself that it wouldn’t go spectacularly wrong and… for doing so well.”

Your breath catches in your chest at those words, feeling finally the praise for what you accomplished from the one person that matter most. A lightness spreads inside you in the absence of an ache you’d been able to ignore but not shake despite all of the reassurances.

“I realize that I shouldn’t have let my feelings from that moment goad me into dumping all those insecurities on you, and for that I’m sorry,” he looks down into his lap where he’s got his hands twisted together, before continuing in a very small, timid voice, “but the idea of you being out there, facing what we face… and if something were to… I couldn’t deal with that, not again. And what you’ve been through, I mean, there’s so much… but we made it out and now… you deserve better.”

It’s all jumbled and you marvel a little at how much he sounds like you, when he’s actually one of the most outspoken and eloquent people you’ve ever known. But it’s heartfelt and you get where he’s coming from, you really do. Still, you can’t let him make that decision for you.

You don’t think he’s deliberately trying to talk you out of it, but his anguish alone is enough to make you want to reconsider. However, you’d have to deal with the exact same feelings if you agreed to stay out of the fighting and tried to adjust to some kind of civilian life, which is a lost cause anyway. So you try to work past that suffocating weight on your chest, to tell him, make him understand.

“Steve…”, in any other moment this would be grounds to call up that bright, blinding smile of his, but right now he just snaps his head up to look at you, wide-eyed and stricken.

“I know you want to, but you can’t protect me from everything that’s happening out there. And certainly not from everything that’s already done and over with. Besides, I don’t want that.”

You sweep your arm out in a gesture towards the room.

“Right now, this is a haven and some much needed distance from the world, but I can’t stay cooped up in here forever. And I sure as hell am never going to be able to live some settled, apple pie life. If you want that for me, you might as well put me back on ice and be done with it, since it’s going to be all the same to me.”

Steve lets out a pained noise and opens his mouth, but you slash your hand through the air to cut him off before he can speak.

“This… this life in the thick of it, in battle, it’s all I’ve known for thrice as long as I’ve known anything else, and all those years, all those horrible, unforgivable things, … they’re never going to go away. But that’s the past now, and if I want to get anywhere near making peace with it, I have to go out there, watch your back, so you can keep making a difference. Use what they made me into against them.” What you don’t say is how you were never going to go back anyway, that you’d got that taste for danger and the thrill of the hunt, even before the fall. That he was never going to be able to go back to being normal and neither were you.

Your pulse is thundering in your ears, and you feel spent, empty, like you used up at least an entire month worth of words on just this one speech. But it just needed out, so, so badly, that it simply burned through the barrier, and you are almost embarrassed to look over at him and see him watch with wonder and a bit of moisture clinging to the corner of his eyes.

“I… you’re right, I hadn’t… I should have made it clearer, especially to myself that I was going to support you no matter what.”

He reaches over to where your hand is resting on your thigh, tentative and slow, giving you ample time to draw away if you need to. You don’t; instead you turn over your hand, palm up so you can lace your fingers together. He looks up from your joined hands to meet your eyes.

“Are we going to be alright?”

The touch is warm, grounding, and the shiver is back. A slight sting of uncertainty still lingers, which is why you don’t tell him about your plans, not yet anyway. But you nod and squeeze his hand lightly, another human experience gone and ready to be filed away with your growing treasures. He lets out a relieved breath and keeps his hand where it is, letting comfortable silence wash over both of you. You stay sitting on the floor together, watching dawn break as the first rays of the sun filter through the high windows.

~*~

You stand in front of the door, staring at the smooth surface, trying to make your hand move up and knock. You’ve been trying for the past six and a half minutes actually, and you know that for the past three of them, a person has stood waiting on the other side. You want her to open it badly, but she’s not letting you off the hook. It’s not like you have a big problem with doors or announcing your presence in other people’s spaces, even if you’ve only ever been to your own floor and the communal areas in the Tower. It’s what you’ve come here for that’s holding you back, anxiety churning in your belly. The first step.

Finally, after another minute ticks by agonizingly slowly and nothing moves, you berate yourself that if you can’t handle this, you might as well give up and lock yourself into your room forever. You spent seventy years not even knowing what the word ‘Fear’ meant, it’s time you use that for your own gain. You lift your fist and rap it against the door before you can talk yourself out of it again and clicks open barely a second after your knuckles touch the surface, because of course she had her hand on the handle all this time. Natalia gives you a look up through the lashes of her eyes, sly smile playing at the corner of her mouth when she takes a step back, body angled to the side and open – an invitation to come in.

Your heart is pounding, but you step through into the entrance hall without hesitation this time, taking in your surroundings in an automatic sweep. The floor plan is much the same in all the Avengers’ Suites, hers however is partitioned off into smaller sections by half transparent screens and open shelves. The furniture is light colored and clean cut, and the rooms as a whole are sparsely decorated. A single item here or there stands out as belonging to her, but they all together could easily fit in one single box. Her life up to now hasn’t given her much opportunity to collect such things as personal effects, but then, she wouldn’t be good at her job if she let herself be weighed down by unnecessary clutter or mementos. Even the things here, that are clearly cherished, she would probably abandon in a heartbeat if the safety of the Tower was compromised. Still, the rooms feel far from cold or impersonal, they appear to be settled, lived in, suited to her character and familiar in their subtleties. People like you learn how to live with little comfort and private space and make up your own wherever you go. She lets you run your analysis with silent patience, the philosophical contemplation past basic threat assessment just another stall tactic.

In the end, you turn to her and work yourself up to the point of your visit.

“I… I need a favor.”

Before she can respond in any way, you take a deep breath and reach back to tug off the elastic that has kept your hair together, now that it brushes past your shoulders. The loose strands fall forward into your face, washed now, but still kind of straggly and unkempt from not being trimmed properly in what is very likely seventy years. There’ only two people in the world you can imagine letting near with something constitutes a weapon like scissors in such a vulnerable position as to cut your hair and you cannot ask this of Steve. Natalia’s eyes widen in a rare show of surprise when she gets what you came for, but she schools her expression into a pleasant, accommodating half smile in a heartbeat.

“Of course. Come with me to the bathroom?”

She says it with a completely straight face as if there’s nothing significant about your request at all and leads you to the back of the floor to a large, airy and naturally lighted bathroom all decked out in dark slate and granite stone. You stand awkward, frozen in the middle of the room while she goes to look for something for you to sit on. When she comes back with a three-legged stool, it seats you at a level that is comfortable for her to reach your head, but also just high enough so you can see everything that’s happening in the mirror. Normally, you avoid spending too much time with your own reflection, but right now, you appreciate the thought, because it’s much easier to curb your lethal reflexes if you don’t have to rely on all your other senses to know what she’s doing at all times. Even so, you are surprised to find that you trust her at your back without question. She understands you in a way Steve thankfully never will and often you feel a little less lonely in her presence for it.

Her hand ruffling through your hair makes you jump with your whole body even though the motion is telegraphed well ahead of the actual touch. She lifts an eyebrow when meeting your eyes in the mirror but doesn’t comment.

“I’m going to have to wash it first, think you can handle that?”

You think about it for a moment and then nod sharply. She smiles and beckons you to move forward over the sink. Natalia makes you hold your flesh fingers under the water first to indicate when the temperature is comfortable. Then she gently guides your head under the stream, turning the flow down to a trickle and laying her hand on your forehead to keep the water away from your eyes and nose. Her free hand slowly slides through your hair, and she rubs her fingers in light circles over your scalp. It’s gentle and soothing, chasing away the images that gather in the back of your mind from the feeling of water running over your head. Still, you grip the edge of the sink with just enough force not to crack it and watch the water circle down the drain to make sure it’s not filling up slowly until it’ll cover your face. Natalia has taken up a running commentary while you can’t see her, so no new touch surprises you. You close your eyes and let her voice wash over you. The snick of something plastic makes your shoulders tense up immediately, but the subtle smell of peppermint and rosemary that fills your nose tells you that she just opened the shampoo bottle. It smells like her and you wrap yourself in the scent to calm your fast beating heart.

Once the last suds are rinsed out, Natalia gently lays a hand on your right shoulder to draw you back up. You blink rapidly when a few drops of water run down your forehead and into your eyes. You try to imagine the face of a man emerging from beneath the curtain of your hair, something to be viewed in Technicolor that has only existed in black and white for decades now. You don’t see it.

You’ve got enough of your memories back by now to believe who you are, who you were, is the truth – theoretically – but often times you still feel like a bad actor playing at your own life.

“How do you want it?”

Her question startles you into meeting her eyes in the mirror, while she continues to untangle the wet strands with her fingers and a comb.

“Short.”

“Like this?”

She sweeps your hair over your forehead and holds it back into a messy side-part. And suddenly there it is, in a flash, the mirror small and blotched, the upper left corner cracked and your own face as bright and carefree as you haven’t seen it in seventy years, staring back. When Natalia swims back into focus, you shake your head frantically, hoping she can decipher what you are unable to say through the lump in your throat.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

She puts her hand on your shoulder and squeezes lightly until your rapid breathing slows.

“Now, let’s see if we can make something decent out of this. You ready?”

When you nod, she steps around to the vanity to pull a pair of small, sharp scissors from the drawer.

You eye them warily but make a point of keeping still. It’s not like those blades are a particularly big threat, even if Natalia is one of a very small number of people with the ability to do you serious harm if she meant to. But you can’t help the scenarios running through your head of just how to break them apart and where to stick them to cause all kinds of fatal damage to a person. The grip you have around your knees to keep your hands motionless is more for her benefit than yours.

The quiet snip of the scissors grates on your nerves, but every strand of hair that floats to the floor is also followed by a feeling of satisfaction. Your hair has grown as long as it did because nobody in charge of your well-being had cared about anything beyond your operational capability for a long time. Now it feels like bits of the Winter Soldier are falling away from you and you are glad to be rid of them despite all the difficulties along the way. It takes less time than you anticipated before the ground around you is littered with hair and your neck is feeling light and exposed. Finally, Natalia rubs something into your hair that seems a lot like pomade and makes the short hair in the front stick up in a way she calls ‘artfully tousled’. When she is done, and cleaned off all the excess strands, she lays her fingers on your jaw to turn your head and give you an appreciative once-over.

“My, aren’t you a handsome one.”

It’s said playfully, like she’s never seen your face when you’ve got murder in your eyes and it rekindles a long lost flame inside you. You try a flirty smirk on for size and answer:

“You know, doll, I can’t help the gifts Mother Nature gave me.”

Her deep and pleasant laugh fills the room and washes over you unexpectedly. It’s been a long time since any woman reacted to you like this, and it goes a long way to make you feel less phony. She strokes her thumb over your cheek, and you can’t help but lean into the touch just a little.

“You are going to be fine.”

Her lips stretch into a slow smile, half fond, half wistful, so many things unspoken, but clear all the same. And right now, you want to believe her. Then her expression changes into a mischievous smirk.

“Now, off you go, give your fella a heart attack.”

You look at her a little apprehensively, because you are not quite sure you understand, but she just chuckles and ushers you out to the front door. When she opens it, Barton is standing on the doorstep, arm raised, ready to knock. His eyes jump between the two of you fast, and after a moment something clicks in your brain, and you feel like you have stepped into something you shouldn’t have witnessed. Maybe given an impression you hadn’t intended. But Barton just whistles through his teeth appreciatively as he looks back at you.

“Wow, you’re looking, tough guy. When’s the party?”

You debate whether to treat that as a rhetorical question, but you are about to launch the op anyway and you are certain he’ll have it figured out in no time once he hears of your plans.

“Eleven days.”

Your answer seems to throw him for a moment, maybe because he didn’t expect you to be so frank with it, but then he grins.

“Well, well, I’ll be sure to have the popcorn ready then.”

You are glad he doesn’t feel the need to pry any further. Natalia snorts and drags him through the open door while gently shoving you out at the same time. You catch them exchanging a glance that is both familiar and mischievous, before the door closes and you are on your own in the hall.

~*~

You let yourself into the suite, keen ears picking up on Steve puttering around in the kitchen and take a deep breath to steel yourself. He doesn’t look up when you step into the kitchen, though he’s clearly aware of your presence.

“Hey you, do you want a cup of coffee too?”

You are too jittery to really think of an answer, but it takes only a few moments of silence for him to finally look up.

You were braced for a reaction, but you still flinch when the mug he was holding slides through his slack fingers and tumbles down. He looks wide-eyed and pale, like he’s seen a ghost, and you guess that’s not that far from the truth after all.

“Bucky.”

For once you don’t begrudge him the slip, even if it still makes you uncomfortable. It is, after all, exactly the reaction you were hoping for. It’s only when the hot coffee has spread on the counter and starts dripping on his feet that Steve recovers from his shock. He curses and rights the mug about five seconds too late, before stepping towards you with his hand stretched out, hovering a couple of inches in front of your face, as if he’s not sure whether his touch would meet skin or air.

“I… when did you..?”

“I want to go to D.C. For Memorial Day.”

You decide to come right to the point as long as he’s still caught off guard and less likely to ask questions you’d prefer not to answer right now.

“You…what?”

“There’s… The Commandos. I want to go, pay my respects.”

Steve blinks owlishly for a moment until he gets what you are talking about. There’s a memorial dedicated to Captain America and the Howling Commandos tucked away in a secluded corner in Arlington National Cemetery. For Steve, it’s just plaque with a name, really, for you too. But some of the others had decided to have their ashes buried there and it’s been a place for people to visit ever since it’s been unveiled in the late fifties. You aren’t sure if Steve has been – it is a little weird to think about it, since it was first created to commemorate both of your deaths, even though it didn’t quite stick in either case. But it’s the closest site of any personal connection with your old comrades, and visiting will give you the perfect opportunity to go where you need to be, when you want to go, without outright revealing your true intentions.

“Can you… Stark,… he can make it safe? Private? Right?”

You take his hand, well aware that the move is somewhat manipulative, but you need him to get on board with the idea without thinking too much about it.

“You… are you sure? Where is this coming from?”

“I have to get out of this tower at some point. Might as well be for a good reason, right?”

“But,… there’ll be…”

“People? I’m aware. Also something I have to face eventually. I spent months in the city without killing anybody, remember? Besides, you don’t think Tony Stark asking on behalf of Captain America can’t get the area cleared out for half an hour and drop us off right in front of it, do you?”

Steve looks stunned, but not like he’s about to protest adamantly. More like he’s thrown that you’re putting together solid arguments and fielding questions like you don’t have trouble stringing a coherent sentence together half of the time. Predictably though, he chooses to focus on something else entirely.

“Us… you mean?”

“Don’t be stupid, like I was going to do something so important without you!”

It’s baffling sometimes, how insecure he can be about his place in your life. You’ve slowly reached out, made connections with the other Avengers, true, but you wouldn’t be anywhere, be anyone, without him.

“You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

You squeeze lightly with your right hand, and his attention is immediately drawn to your fingers around his wrist.

“I have.”

He looks back up and seems to find something in your eyes that brooks not further argument.

“Is that the reason for...?”

He nods towards your hair. You just shrug lightly.

“I needed to lose some baggage.”

His eyes are kind and understanding when you meet them, but there’s also a different light in them, as if you did something unexpected and pleasing.

“I…”, he looks back at the mess on the kitchen counter. “Let me clean this up and then we’ll call Tony, alright?”

You let go of a breath you can’t remember having held until the air is leaving your lungs.

Now the ball is finally rolling.

~*~

Stark meets the request with a categorical ‘No’, citing a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is the wreckage they left in their wake the last time they were in the city together – ‘we only get a pass for making people remodel the better part of downtown anywhere once a decade, and we’re already in the red, Rogers’ – but once Steve has latched onto the idea, he becomes its staunchest defender to the point where you don’t even have to do anything more. Besides, the Avengers might have an abysmal track record about the leveling of city blocks, but it’s not like they set out to fight all those crazy super-villains in the most densely populated areas of the country on purpose.

“It’s not like anybody is going to know we’re even there. One car, a driver and we’ll go in as civilians, in and out in a pinch.”

Stark looks unconvinced, even though Steve’s soulful and honest gaze is clearly chipping away at his defenses. Still, you feel like just a little bit of a push is needed and decide to turn his own arguments against him.

“You are the one who said I needed to get out in front of people. You can’t ask that of me and then tell me I can’t go and leave the tower for a private visit completely under the radar.”

Stark’s eyebrows lift with his unique brand of annoyed incredulity when he picks up the truth in your words and he looks like he doesn’t know if he wants to shake you or kiss you for your fit of rhetorical brilliance. Finally, his eyes jump between you and Steve and he throws his hands up with a muttered ‘fucking meddling nonagenarians, I swear’.

“Alright, I’ll call the mayor about cordoning off a part of our biggest National Cemetery on Memorial Day. You’re lucky he likes me since I stuck it to the Senate Committee about the suit a couple of years ago. Those politicians, always the first to appreciate when somebody else takes a nose dive. But seriously, no funny business or I WILL ground you like teenagers, and I don’t care that you’re technically old enough to be my grandfathers. Your shenanigans dismantling S.H.I.E.L.D. alone generated enough business to occupy my entire legal department for the next three years.”

He points his finger at Steve, who ducks his head with a blush you suspect has more to do with his embarrassment about leaning on his status for preferential treatment, – which he despises, but will use for your benefit in a heartbeat every single time – because his eyes are flint-hard and you know enough to recognize that look as decidedly-not-sorry. Interestingly enough, he also doesn’t comment on Stark’s threat about funny business with neither affirmative, nor decline, clearly unwilling to let himself be pinned down on what he can and cannot do, even by his friends. You wonder, all of the sudden, how people so often seem to underestimate Captain America, dazzled by his veneer of wholesome, righteous propriety, no doubt.

But once you bother to scratch the surface, underneath there is a battle-hardened survivor, a brilliant strategist, a decisive leader with the strength to hold together the most volatile and autonomous group of people and the iron will to stand up for what he believes in against the insurmountable force of the system, with an acceptance for the inevitable loss that position entails. And just for a moment in this odd bout of introspection that feels way more loaded than the actual conversation warrants, you get a glimpse of that uncompromising ruthlessness that comes with the ability to make the people around him follow his lead even if it’s against their better judgment, to get them to do what he feels is needed. The realization that what the world sees is a far cry from all that Steve Rogers is somehow makes you feel closer to him than you have experienced since you regained your awareness as a person even if his front is much different than yours. You catch yourself leaning forward as if reeled in by some kind of magnetic attraction to…

…to do what, exactly?

Steve hits you with a brilliant, accomplished smile and you feel caught out and on the spot, painfully aware how Stark is watching the two of you out of the corner of his eyes even though he seems fully occupied with his phone call, pacing slowly by the window. You deliberately straighten your back to put some distance between you and Steve and loathe to see his smile dim as you try to sort out the tangle of feelings and confusion in your head, but at least it doesn’t disappear completely. You reach for him in a placating gesture, and he grabs your hand without hesitation, though he still searches your face for cues as to what is going on. Clearly the fact that he can’t read everything just from looking at your face is hurting him, because that used to be the easiest thing he did. But how could he if you can’t even tell yourself what is on your mind? You avert your eyes but keep your hand where it is to assure him that you are not shutting him out. Both of you just have to accept that, with all the progress that’s happened lately, there are also going to be times that remind you things are not never going to back to what they used to be. You’ll have to find your own way, a new way, but by now, you are tentatively hopeful that in time, the answers will come.

Chapter Five