redintheledger | [not-game-related] Steve, a few months post-Avengers

[not-game-related] Steve, a few months post-Avengers

Natasha might have been off field-duty for the foreseeable future (barring, of course, Strike Team Delta summons), but all this meant was more time in the office. And in conferences. And in offices doing conferences, and meetings, and plannings, and -

Well, there is Rogers exiting a room, looking even less thrilled to be in SHIELD's HQ than she is. She'd argue that misery loves company, but in all honesty, she's been meaning to catch him to see how he was anyway.

You fight aliens together, that means something. Or it should.

"Rogers!"

(She's looking altogether more polished than even the last time he saw her; no yellow leather jacket with her wavy-curls all over the place, but her red hair is darker than before and pinned up to neatness, and she's wearing grey suit pants. Still, the blouse is a deep pink that matches her heels, and from her ears dangle two delicate pistol earrings.

Natasha Romanoff is making no attempt to blend into the background of suits.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Steve never cared for the politics surrounding the war. A few months plus seventy years older, and he's understanding just how much he got away with because of men like Col. Philips keeping things oiled and running smoothly. Not that he was ever wrong, but he regrets clashing with his then superior officer as often as he did. But this? This new-aged 21st century bureaucracy that has him filling out forms in triplicate and giving everyone down to the stenographer's second cousin a formal statement after every mission report gives the USO a run for its money in making him feel like a performing monkey.

There's a ball of tension between his shoulders when he hears someone calling his name, and a severe line between his eyebrows when he turns around and sights Agent Romanoff. Steve's angry, and Steve's tired, but that isn't her fault.

"Agent Romanoff," he says, with a polite nod. He likes her earrings. They're unconventional. "You just come in from ... San Diego, wasn't it?"

"Guilty as charged," she admits cheerfully, walking her way over. "And I'll soon be retreating. I just have to...deal with politics. Nothing to do with aliens," she adds while watching his face. "There things going on before that mess."

He screws on a wry smile. "You're another one of the lucky ones, then. I'd ask if this is normal procedure, but something tells me I don't want to know the answer."

He turns around fully, running a hand through neatly combed hair and letting out a puff of air. He came wearing a suit for the first dozen or so meetings like this, but they've slowly worn him down to the khakis, button-up, and leather he's sporting today. "You look healthy. Uh, nice, I mean. How's Barton?"

"Thank you," she says, smiling at him without a single sign of the mental laughter.

"Barton is...recovering. Doing well." Or as well as can be expected for a forty-two year old man with a back injury and dealing with having his self taken over, causing multiple deaths.

"In answers to your previous not-actually-asking question, I am an intelligence officer. You won't actually have to deal with things nearly as much as I do."

Beat, and she tilts her head thoughtfully. "At least once they calm down about you. From experience, that takes a little while."

He's used to women laughing at him. The fact that she doesn't would be more disarming if this was six months ago, but since it isn't he manages a self-deprecating smile and a barely-there nod of thanks.

"I'm glad to hear it. About Barton, I mean. He's been through ... something," he stops himself short. She already knows what he's been through, so she really doesn't need Steve reminding her. And neither of them need to acknowledge what goes unspoken. "Recovering" is the best damn word a former soldier can hear. "Actually, I'm glad about the other thing, too. At least for my sake. They've got these doctors poking around in my head asking me how I feel about being here, if I'm adjusting well to the future, telling me I should get some routines. I have routines. Every five minutes I'm called back to HQ."

The vein in the side of his neck looks enlarged.

Natasha winces a little.

"I am familiar with them, and their poking. They do help," she adds. "But not always. Have you have found any good restaurants?"

He nods, more out of habit than anything. If she says it'll help, then he trusts her on that. Right now it's just getting under his collar.

"A few. Nothing very far from where I'm staying." It hasn't become his place yet.

"Fantastic. Want to go and grab something to eat?"

Somewhere not SHIELD. Somewhere on his old turf, that he chooses.

She smiles a little hopefully.

Edited 2013-05-04 03:52 (UTC)

He looks a little like the prettiest girl in school just asked him out dancing.

"Uh. Sure." He pauses. "Really?"

Double-checking is a force of habit.

"Unless you've got something else you'd rather do...?"

He tamps back the boyish urge to blurt out an apology. Steve's years beyond the prettiest girl in school, and Agent Romanoff's question makes him stop, think, and affix a crooked smile.

"Ma'am, the only thing I plan to do is get out of this building before they realize they need my John Hancock on something else."

He turns back around, and considers offering her his arm. In the end, he pockets both hands instead. "How hungry are you?"

Her smile is small, but honest.

"Starving. Dealing with INTERPOL always makes me hungry. Just let me put these files down and grab my things? Then I propose we get out of Dodge for a few hours."

He nods, managing a look of sympathy. "Meet you in the lobby?"

Maybe it will give him enough time to have a reasonable conversation with whichever one of these agents has been assigned to escort him home. Surely with Agent Romanoff's company Steve doesn't need a babysitter.

(He doesn't need a babysitter regardless, but apparently there's a "difference between reasonableness and belligerence.")

"It's a plan," she promises, and strolls off. It doesn't long at all to put the files in their relevant places, briefly update Agent Taubman, grab her jacket and her handbag, and take the elevator down to the lobby.

The nice thing about Rogers is that he's fairly easy to spot.

"Can you make good your escape?" she asks once she's strolled over.

He smiles good-humoredly. "I think we've come to an understanding."

He gestures for ladies first through the security check. The metal detectors and wands have become second nature by now. Outside, it would be a nice day if they weren't in uptown. The air is instantly muggy from car exhaust, close-clustered buildings, and the subway. It hits you in the face like a soggy pastrami sandwich.

"How do you feel about pizza? On second thought, can you survive the subway?" he jokes. "I know a great place in Brooklyn, if you don't mind the wait."

"I can wait. And I think I can survive the subway," she adds, mouth curving in amusement.

"...actually, for some decent pizza, I can survive a lot."

He laughs softly, her answer putting him at ease. He never thinks about how tense SHIELD makes him until he's left the building.

"Well this is good pizza," he assures her, leading the way to the end of the block. "It's been around since I — first lived here. The owner's different, of course, but the food's still good."

They try to feed him for free, hometown hero that he is, but he insists they take the money. SHIELD's buying for now. "You mind if I ask how long you've been a US citizen, Agent Romanoff?"

"Just a couple of years. I had to marry my husband to get the paperwork done." There is a roll of her eyes. "And it's...Call me Rome, out here. Or Romy."

That shouldn't be too hard for the boy.

"Most of my co-workers tend call me Rome."

He opens his mouth and closes it again.

Ah, right. Intelligence officer, super secret spy, and they're out in public. He clears his throat, smiles, and nods. "So not a lot of time for you to go exploring either, uh, Rome?"

That'll take a little getting used to.

"Oh, I've explored places. I was on a work visa for a while, but before that I had quite a few years where I was visiting. But I haven't been to Brooklyn for quite some time."

Her expression is a little wistful, and then she glances at him.

"So, you're gonna have to be my guide, I'm afraid."

"That makes two of us," he chuckles.

There's something soothing about the way the air changes as you go below ground. You hit that first platform and the wind gusts up, makes your jacket billow, sometimes catches your breath, and then you continue down to where it's still and warm. These tunnels he knows well, at least. It was a small concession, SHIELD letting him live in Brooklyn.

Just over the water, mind. But better than nothing. "A lot has changed in the last seventy years. I, uh. Get lost." He laughs sharply. "I've never said that before, but it's true."

"I went to university in Moscow," she says after a pause of navigation. "I lived there, with my first husband. I go back now...some bits are the same? But it's-"

Natasha makes a face.

"You know, changed."

He bobs his head. "Yeah. Weird how time goes on without you there."

He smiles tightly, leading the way to the right platform. The sign overhead says the next train will arrive in 3 minutes. Not too bad.

"So how many times have you been married? I mean, if you don't mind me asking, ma'—uh, Rome. Romy." He winces. Yep. Still not good with women.

This time, she does snort with laughter.

"I've had two husbands, properly." Which is not, exactly, an answer to his exact question, but then the whole thing with Alexei Andreyevich was complicated.

"And a guy in the middle who'd probably count as just as serious."

Beat.

"Ever been married, Steve?"

"Me?" He grins. A part of that shy, awkward nerd shines through. "I've never even been dancing."

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