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.)

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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."

Her smile is fond, and a little sad. "My first husband was like that. But welcome to the twenty-first century, you can meet girls all kinds of places now. Courting isn't nearly as formal as it was."

He clears his throat, and glances at his shoes.

"That's what I've heard. But, to be honest, I'm not good with talking to women, as I'm sure you've noticed."

He smiles to cover hesitation this time, like there's something else he wants to add but he loses his nerve; a quick sadness in his eyes, and the way he looks away to hide it.

She cants her head a little in agreement.

"I notice a lot of things. But I think girls on non-professional terms can wait. Unless there is a bookclub. A bookclub might do you good. Friends."

"A ... book club?" he grins. It's crooked, but no less charming. "So you're telling me I need hobbies, too?"

There's none of the anger or frustration from earlier; it's amusement, and after a beat he even nods in agreement. "I always did like to read. I liked drawing more, but I don't suppose there are any drawing clubs around?"

"A drawing club...that I'm not sure of. But I'm pretty sure there are adult drawing classes, or you could do part-time at a school somewhere."

She smiles a little ruefully.

"I've....lost everything more than once. So, yes, I'm saying a hobby might be helpful. Just from my own experience."

He squares his jaw.

He didn't intend to upset Agent Romanoff. Rome. Romy. He knows it comes with the territory, but he's still figuring everything out.

"Yeah," he says lamely, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, that's what they've been saying. I, uh. I just haven't figured out what to do first, you know? A week before we met, I was in the middle of World War II. It's been a long time since I've done anything just because, you know. I wanted to."

"You're coping better than I would have, if I'd been taken from the war."

The war, as if there was only ever one of that level of importance.

"Sadly, I think you're gonna have to fight them for some spare time. But I recommend a class just as a start. Hell, a cooking one, even. It's some structure to your week that's not SHIELD. And going 'hey, I've got a class I paid for' is easier to fight for than 'fuck off, I want to be alone', you know?"

"I wasn't taken from the war, ma'am. I made a choice," he says, brow still beetled.

She's seen his file. He's not happy about a lot of things, leaving the fight included, but more than anything else he didn't really expect he'd be alive. Their train arrives as she's speaking, the noise muffling his laugh.

"Yeah, I notice things, too. To be honest, I'm used to people trying to manage every minute of my time, down to the last second. When someone thinks they have rights to you, your wants are handled as secondary." He hesitates, smiling sheepishly in response to the profanity. "I don't think I'd be any good at a cooking class, though."

She's seen pieces of his file, oh yes. Enough.

But part of her is very, very old, and the question of choice when in those circumstances...

She smiles faintly.

"Cooking is independence, and you get to eat your assignments. Win/win."

As Sophie Loren once said, everything you see, I owe to pasta. Or words to that effect; Natasha forgets the exact wording. But eating enough to give her figure would be a pain in the ass if she didn't enjoy cooking. Still, she gives Steve a quick grin, and makes her way onto the train.

Independence, huh? He makes a so-so motion with his head, sort of a half-shrug from side to side. That doesn't sound so bad.

"Watch your step," he says on automatic once the doors open, unconsciously reaching a hand out for the small of her back. He doesn't touch her, though. His hand hovers about eight inches away. "It's only win/win if you're good at cooking, Rome. I made great toast growing up in Brooklyn."

He sends a quick grin right back.

"Hence the lessons," she points out, managing to score herself a seat. "I-"

Deliberate pause.

"Hold that thought 'til we're not on a train."

She knows how to cover better than that; it's an opening she's leaving herself.

"Read any good books?

His mouth twists. She doesn't hold her punches, and Steve ... well, he likes that. She reminds him of Peggy.

He nods without another word, moving to a pole near her seat, putting the conversation on hold. "Not recently. Magazines and manuals, mostly. Uh, articles of interest, you know?"

Articles, strangely, about him. And not just about Captain America, or what they did as a team to save New York; articles about his fashion sense, and where he eats dinner, and whether or not he's got a girl. Weird stuff he wants to pretend doesn't exist, and can't stop looking for all the same.

"They can be fun," she says lightly. "....sometimes infuriating, but a lot of fun once you get some good ones."

She watches him for a moment.

"Read any Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'll be sure to look out for the good ones," he says wryly.

He blinks, somewhat struck, and shakes his head with a dry chuckle. "I'd just finished the third novel, before ... " He inclines his head. "Don't spoil the last one."

Looking beyond her neat copper up-do, he catches a flash of red, white, and blue. There's a kid, maybe six, wriggling uncomfortably a few seats down, holding a plastic Captain America shield. He's obviously seen Steve, and when their eyes connect he shrinks against his mother's side. Steve smiles, saluting, and the boy lets off a gap-toothed grin as he tugs his mother's blouse in excitement.

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