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 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.

She presses her finger to lips, and then zips them shut.

No spoilers.

As he salutes, Natasha raises her eyebrows.

"Should I be worried?" she asks, not turning around. Turning around would mean during attention, and she's a redhaired woman hanging out with Captain America.

No attention would be nice.

"Sorry," he says, on automatic. "No, no threat. It's, uh. You know, kids carried around facsimiles of the shield after the first few movies came out, but it's strange seeing them now. Mass-produced and kind of realistic."

This kid is looking a little too meek to come rushing up to either of them anyway, but after a few more minutes of excited tugging and wriggling he does manage to return the salute. Steve cocks a grin.

"You were saying? About Sherlock Holmes," he says, glancing at Natasha. "Oh. That was probably a conversation starter, wasn't it?"

At the mention of the 'kid' and shield, something in her posture eases.

Then her smile turns rueful.

"It was. They are some of my favourite stories, since I was a little girl." The smile shades from rueful to a remembered fondness. "And the hardback version came in useful a few times."

He whispers laughter, eyebrows arching. He can imagine all the ways a hardback volume might come in handy for a woman like Natasha.

"Yeah, I'm -- I sometimes have trouble picking up on cues," he admits, returning her ruefulness. "They're some of my favorites, too. I like a good mystery, or adventure. Science fiction's good, too. I've gotta admit, I was hoping to meet H.G. Wells someday."

He dusts his hand through his hair, a nervous back-and-forth brushing, and barely sways when the train pulls to its first stop. "I'm a couple decades too late for that now. Unless SHIELD knows something I don't."

"On the subject of H.G. Wells, I can be honest when I say my bosses don't have any special knowledge," she says, smile small and entertained.

"I never got to meet Arthur C. Clarke, and that'd been my hope for...decades." Her choice of words was very, very deliberate.

"Actually, I think you might like his work."

"Too bad. Of all the people who could get frozen and sent to the future, you'd think he'd be the most likely," Steve jokes.

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but as hard as he thinks on it he can't connect any dots. Shaking his head, he says, "I don't think I know who he is. What did he write?"

"Sci-fi. But it's the kind of science-fiction that inspired people to make it reality. Not everything," she adds. "Sadly, we don't have colonies on the Moon yet. But his first novel was published in 1948. He was...amazingly inspirational."

It's ... nice, seeing Agent Romanoff so enthusiastic about something. Well, something other than breaking bad guys' faces (which Steve admits is satisfying, but you can only punch Hitler so many times before your hobbies get skewed). He grins, watching her speak, infected by her excitement.

"Colonies on the moon are about my speed," he nods. "I'm just catching up on over fifty years of the space program. As if I didn't have enough to catch up on with this planet, damn. Watching the moon landing brought tears to my eyes."

"It...it was incredible," Nat says, and she could stop that soft smile on her face, but she's not going to.

"They caught you up with the Soviet side, too, right?"

"As far as the Race for Space goes," he says, with no small amount of wryness. It doesn't strike him until a few seconds later why she'd be asking. "I haven't seen any of the videos or reports, other than the spacewalk and a picture of the Russian space station. It's ... "

He stops short, laughing.

"I almost said it's 'out of this world'. It's incredible."

She laughs a little in return.

"Still a good description. But you should at least hear Sputnik. Sputnik changed...the world. And for ultimately for the good, I think."

He nods. "The first artificial Earth satellite. It makes things like cell phones and global positioning possible."

Sure, it's a little textbook, but cut the kid a break. All he's really had are textbooks. And wikipedia. "I've been reading up. And, uh. I know Russia was leagues ahead of the US from the beginning, but they want me catching up on current events and US history first."

He smiles apologetically.

"I've got a lot more reading to do. Maybe you could give me some suggestions."

"They're idiots."

She smiles, quick and sharp.

"US-centricity never does anyone any good, let alone the US and the people living in it. Not that I'm saying you should study the history of the USSR and Russia in depth, that's ridiculous. But current events don't make much sense until you take in the historical context. Like this damn war in the Middle East. But then you have the attitudes of South and Latin America, and..." she gestures.

"US history is a start. But...I can given recommendations for other things. How are you at audio-books and watching documentaries?"

She almost makes him bark with laughter, catching him off-guard with her statement and her smile alike. She's a surprising woman, so much like Peggy in a lot of ways. Peggy always liked to give him what-for when he forgot there were other countries outside of America. It was funny when she did it to Stark, but terrifying when he was the one in the storm's eye.

"You can't know where you're going until you know where you've been," he surmises, bobbing his head. "Hey, I know we're the baby brother of countries here, built on just as much luck as enterprise. America's my home, Age--Rome. A home I've kind of missed after months of war. But I don't kid myself in thinking I can protect her or her citizens if I ignore the wide world out there, and seventy years is a long time to be out in the dark."

He twitches a smile. For once he's not actually trying to be argumentative, her passion just happens to be contagious. What can he say? "Uh, audio books? I don't have any experience with that at all. I mean, I've learned about MP3s and DVDs, but all I have is a TV at my place that some agents think is funny for some reason."

Some reason happens to be because it's a monstrosity. A cabinet TV with a built-in turntable and radio that sits on the floor. It doesn't even have a remote.

Steve likes it. It has character.

She looks entertained, and then mischievous. It's an expression that makes her look oddly younger - oddly, because she doesn't look that old to start with. But there is a lightness to her face that contrasts with her usual habitual reserve.

"A lot of agents are basically...children. It's disconcerting how young they seem. Anyway, audio-books are like CDs or MP3s, but instead of music, someone is reciting a book. I love them, it lets me hear the book while I'm doing something else."

"Yeah, and I'm already an old man in my twenties," he huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. It's funny to some, like Stark and Barton, and unthinkable to others to crack jokes about Steve's age. Calling him grandpa, asking if he needs assistance crossing the street -- OK, Steve will admit some jokes are funnier than others. But there's something different about Agent Romanoff. She's got this poise other agents her age don't have, this strange way of looking older and younger at the same time. Steve's started to look at some agents as children, but not her. "Not you."

It's an opening, if she'll take it. He bobs his head along to the explanation of audio books. Steve's always liked the feel of a book in his hand -- soft leather, the smell of ink and paper, the comforting weight in his palm -- but he can see the appeal. He makes a mental note to ask Agent Berman about them, and the proper device to play them. "So I could listen to a book on the subway?"

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

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