from_the_outside | Steve and Sharon

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Steve and Sharon - First Meetings

"It's critical that Captain Steve Rogers adjust to his new surroundings," Fury had said, hands clasped behind his back. He was facing away from her, watching as larger-than-life still frames of Rogers scrolled across the viewscreen.

He couldn't see the way her mouth tightened at one corner. Her tone had stayed dry. "You want me to help Captain America get more American? Sir?"

Let it never be said Nick Fury doesn't have a sense of humor. He does. It's just equivalent to that of a cement wall.

His voice was desert-arid. "I'm assigning you to help him re-acclimate. These next few months may prove to be decisive. I assume you don't want to see what happens if a man in his position, with his abilities and history, fails to recognize a place he once called home. I can only imagine it would lead such a man to paranoia and possibly desperate measures. Do you want to find out, Agent 13?"

"No, sir."

Still, she considers, after a trip home to change, and now making her first sweep of the block nearest Rogers' SHIELD-maintained apartment, he can't be that easy to crack.

She's heard the stories. Captain Steve Rogers was as much a fixture of her childhood mythology as Santa, and, to the young Sharon's mind, far more interesting, due to actually being real. He was a war hero, a soldier on the front lines. A symbol, sure, but she's pretty damn positive there was always a person walking around under that red, white and blue, the star-struck shield.

And that person has seen a hell of a lot worse from the world than faster cars and sleeker tech. Fury's underestimating him.

She won't make the same mistake.

Dressed in sleek black yoga pants bagging loosely against white running shoes, arms bare under a white tank top, hair tossed in a loose ponytail, she looks like every other woman on the sidewalks during a nice afternoon in the city -- a little sweetly disheveled from some post-lunch vinyasa, without working hard enough to ruin her makeup, cheeks lightly flushed and relaxation flowing from every motion.

She'd tried yoga once. Got bored mid-way through the second sun salutation, but then Fury called her in and she'd spent the rest of the day infiltrating a sleeper cell that decided to take matters into its own hands, and she'd felt much better afterwards, so, hell, maybe there's something to be said for this shavasana crap?

It's sunny and warm, and that's as good a reason as any for the aviators she's got on.

Better than showcasing the way she's casing the shops she passes, looking for a certain, particularly recognizable, set of shoulders and the regulation-neat combed hair of American's favorite boy next door.

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God, he hates that moniker. Boy next door. He sees it splashed across newspapers, scrolling along the bottom of the television screen during cheery morning talk shows, right as the next presenter promises the perfect all-american apple pie recipe that's sure to make your Fourth of July barbecue a success. It's the first thing to get shouted at him in the morning, and the last sarcastic jab from people on the street before he heads in at night.

He grew up in Brooklyn, next door to a pawn shop.

Some things about the boroughs are the same; other things have changed. The neighborhoods that were rough when he was a kid are upscale apartments and swanky restaurants now. The dynamics have shifted. His old neighborhood hasn't changed all that much, but the people are different, the stores all new, and nothing really feels like it fits.

Like he went off to war, and never came home.

He sits outside a cafe on West 20th St, just a hole in the wall with outdoor tables big enough for his sketchpad and a drink. His elbows are relegated to his knees if they need a place to rest. The street is shady, away from the madness that is Times Square, and best of all away from SHIELD and the SHIELD-sanctioned apartment just over the river where the last paper traces of his friends sit in stacks for him to go over.

He's sketching a kid across the street, maybe about fifteen, working on a bicycle that's thrown its chain. His fingers are black with grease, the way Steve's are black with charcoal.

Very occasionally, he stops to sip his coffee. Black, because everything else tastes like dessert.

When you're looking for someone with celebrity status, the trick is not to look for the person themselves, but for the way people act around them, like a shoal of fish turning all as one to avoid a predator, flickering excited glances of light into the surrounding water and subtly changing the patterns of movement for everything around.

This is New York. She saw Jeff Bridges picking up bagels yesterday morning, has glimpsed A-listers out and about on errands or in between shooting scenes or ads more times than she can count. New York is used to Hollywood glam, has seen beneath the airbrushing to the neighbor who just wants to be left alone beneath.

But even New York can't quit being proud of Captain America, even if half of them already talk shit about him and his throwback ways, argue about the war effort he was a symbol for.

This is his home. New York is his city, and so people care. They won't bug him, won't ask for an autograph or a picture, but they'll glance beneath their Wayfarers, gossip on their way to work.

The first signs start about a block away: two giggling girls who keep glancing back over their shoulders, wide-eyed and blushing. A man who stands a little straighter than most.

She crosses the street, tucks her hand a little more solidly into the strap carrying her yoga mat across her back, and heads towards the table that people are studiously avoiding, without seeming to avoid it at all. He's engrossed in some project, a cup of coffee balancing nearby, and she can just see the little frown of concentration between his eyebrows as she nears, right before she catches the toe of her sneaker awkwardly on pavement, and trips. Her hip and palm slam into the table, and she makes a face -- that hurts -- as the chain reaction of trying to catch herself and right the table set the coffee cup spinning, and finally topping over, spilling black coffee everywhere in a fragrant wave.

"Oh, crap --"

Edited 2013-07-26 12:45 (UTC)

His heightened reflexes work in tandem with his instincts to reach for the most important thing first: a bracing hand curls around her elbow, a respectable distance away from her inner-arm, avoiding the sensitive region of her wrist altogether. He's already getting to his feet with a "ma'am?", but his second hand is waylaid when the coffee starts to tumble, and then there's a comical fluster.

The sketchbook is rescued second, and the cup righted third. By the time he gets to it, it doesn't make that much of a difference. The last sketch he worked on is dripping, antiqued, and the boy with his bicycle is flecked with brown spots. Additionally, there's an embarrassing stain on his left thigh.

Well, phooey.

"Um. Are you all right, ma'am?" he manages, disappointment getting the backseat to concern. His hand returns to her elbow.

He's quick. She knew he would be; also bet on his manners being ingrained enough to help her, first, thus allowing chaos to take over his table and provide her with a decent introduction.

It's not exactly a meet cute, but it'll do the trick.

"Damn," she says, frustrated. Her hands knock into his as she tries to help stem the destructive tide, hands bumping his, searching for napkins to staunch the flow. There's a moment of flurried motion, and then he's giving his dripping sketchbook a resigned look, and...hey. There's that hand, back again, warm and steady at her elbow. She glances at it, then up at his face.

It's all filed away in her head. Steve Rogers, native of Brooklyn. Captain. Also known as Captain America. She could pull his height and weight from her memory, if needed; list off a reel of his missions, both accomplished and not.

She knows he was close to her aunt. They were...friends. And Sharon isn't the kind to let herself be swayed by celebrity or a handsome face.

That doesn't mean she can't appreciate.

"I'm fine, I just tripped, these stupid sidewalks...I'm so sorry. What a mess." Her eyes go to the now sepia sketch, and widen. "Oh, your drawing!"

A look over her shoulder finds a napkin dispenser at a different, tiny table; she pulls away from his hand to reach over and grab some, trying to sop up the mess. "Sorry. I'm not usually such a klutz."

When he was a kid, someone stopping to give him a long, hard look came with a flurry of feelings: terror, insecurity, and awkwardness when he was confronted with girls; stubbornness, anxiety, and adrenaline when it was a bully. Now, he's dreading the slow blink of recognition from her, heat already on its way to his cheeks.

He's relieved when the recognition doesn't seem to come. "It's okay ... "

He looks at the drawing again. The back page had been sparrows, birdseed, and a potted plant. A few pages in are landscapes, portraits, and a pair of stern, chocolate eyes he can't seem to get out of his head. He lets the woman help sop up the coffee stains, but there's not much he can do but wait for it to dry and try to keep the pages separated. He laughs softly.

"I've tripped over my own two feet plenty of times, so don't worry," he says. "It could have been worse. I'm glad you aren't hurt."

"Believe it or not, cafe tables are hardly the worst thing I've ever run into," she assures him, with a tiny twitch of her lips. "Nothing bruised but my dignity."

The damp napkins get scrunched into a ball; she turns to find a trash can to toss them into, looks around again to find him studying the paper that had been ruined, and leans a little closer to get a better look.

"Does that kid with the bike has a great career ahead of him in modeling, or do those belong to someone else?"

They don't belong to any boy. Those eyes are clear, almond-shaped, and ringed by sleek black lashes. They're feminine, despite the firm expression, and that's as interesting as anything else about him.

She ignores the tiny clutch of her stomach reminding her of the only woman she knows of in connection to Rogers. It could be anyone.

He grins absently. "You couldn't have gotten yourself too banged up, I noticed you look pretty whole."

Beat.

"I mean," he rushes, snapping to attention; "not that I noticed ... I just meant that you look all right. I mean, great! You look great, not a dent in you."

Right, Steve, stop talking. He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. Friendly banter isn't his strongest forte, which might account for why he's got a really great apologetic face.

"Huh?" He glances at the drawing. "Oh, yeah. No, different person. Just a ... someone I used to know. I've been trying to get the memory right."

He traces the corner of the left eye with his thumb, almost tender about it. It's quiet for a beat. He sets the sketchpad upright, pages fanned out as good as they'll get, and wipes his hands on his slacks. His leather jacket looks unhurt, but his shoes have taken some damage. He grabs one of the semi-dry napkins and tries drying off the wet spot on his leg.

"I'm sorry, won't you have a seat? I mean, just to catch your breath. I could get you a coffee, or ... ?"

Her eyebrows start lifting at the word whole; by the time he hits not a dent in you they're flirting with her hairline. "Good," she says, mouth quirking. "I wasn't looking forward to a lot of body work."

There's that twitchiness about her lips again for a second, but she masters it to nod at his comment. The way he touches the paper makes her feel like she ought to look away, but when she does, she looks to his face instead, and it's a tactical error. He's all straight-forward good looks, wholesome as milk, and that's why he was such a fantastic symbol, but there's a shade to his expression that sharpens now, enough to make her think maybe it's been there the whole time.

Nostalgia?

No. If she felt it, it would be nostalgia. Homesickness, maybe.

Grief.

His life has changed, rapidly and without warning, twice. She wonders if he's starting to expect the rug to get pulled out from under his feet. "Thanks," she says, caught a little by surprise when he glances back at her, comes back to the moment and snaps her out of her thoughts.

"But I was actually thinking I owe you a coffee." Rallying, she lets the grin that was trying to appear earlier tug a little more free. "I promise not to spill this one. Scout's honor."

One thing you get used to, even before the unexpected nap, is having the rug pulled out from under you. Black Tuesday started it, changing modest means into living hand-to-mouth. It only got worse from there.

Everything he did, he fought for. Against naysayers and bullies, against his superior officers. Now he's here, like some bad dream, dealing with a whole new set of superiors that make his skin twitch. Some he respects more than others, but he doesn't trust any of them. Not yet.

"Me?" Oh. He grins lopsidedly, breathing a laugh at her joke. Letting a lady pay for drinks isn't part of his creed, but he's gotten enough stern looks from the likes of Peggy and Agent Romanoff not to argue too stubbornly. "It's not a problem, ma'am. Really."

She's used to being called ma'am -- it's an office moniker, one in the field, goes along with her uniform and SHIELD-issued sidearm, is sometimes traded in for sir, depending on who's doing the addressing and on what level of "frozen" she sets her glare.

But out in the world?

Which isn't a fair comparison. She's never "out in the world," isn't now, either. This isn't a day off; it's just a different office and a new uniform.

So maybe it's not so strange to hear. The word itself, that is. The tone, though -- that's all different, and her lips twitch again. "A gentleman, huh? I didn't think they made you guys anymore."

They don't. Still, she's not convinced they ever actually did, even with Captain Throwback standing right in front of her. "Tell you what. I'll sit down and have a coffee with you, and when the bill comes, we can arm wrestle for it. Deal?"

Edited 2013-07-27 13:20 (UTC)

It's strange. When he was a kid, you couldn't get him to shut up. He was always taking Bucky's elbow to the ribs to keep his mouth shut in school, always told to mind his place and be grateful. But something's changed since he came off the ice. Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe he doesn't have that much to say.

He looks up quietly, mouth in a frown, line deep between his eyebrows. It's a joke, but it hits a little close to home. Maybe they don't make guys like him anymore; he's heard it before. A little old-fashioned, Gramps, the All-American Kid ...

He smiles tightly, clenching his jaw twice, and huffs out a laugh at her compromise. He'll stay standing until she's seated. "I don't know, ma'am. You look awfully strong. But I guess you've got a deal; at least it'll look like I made the effort."

Back in the golden age of sailing, they called it a lead line. Some poor sailor, hoping his timing would keep pace with the lift of land under the sea, would let out a line weighted with lead, sound the depth beneath their hull.

Inaccurate. Wildly inefficient. But Sharon's always found something appealing in the idea of dropping a lead weight in the water to see whether she's about to run aground or not. As far as direct results go, it's blunt, but effective.

Thus, appealing.

By the mark four, she thinks, pulling out the chair to take a seat, his expression hovering in her head even as her eyes drop away. And shoaling fast.

Seems like a touchy subject. Fair enough -- she doubts even Stark would be able to have much of a sense of humor about waking up seventy years after he was supposed to.

But this is all about reconnaissance. Find a baseline, and figure out how to get him past it. Out into the world, as if that would be an appealing option for anybody.

Fortunately, she doesn't have to think about the morality of that question, or what he'd prefer. None of her orders instruct her to do any coddling of Captain America, whatever her personal opinions might be. "How about another deal?" she offers, crossing one leg over the other, running shoe bouncing lightly in the air.

"I'll tell you my name, and you can use that instead of ma'am."

He takes his seat, blotting at the coffee stain he knows isn't going to go anywhere no matter how much he works at, bending to brush droplets of caffeine off of his shoes. They're new, still hold a lacquer and shine, and that unsettles him on some unconscious level, where the kid from Brooklyn never could afford a shoeshine.

His brow furrows as he looks up, surprised and sheepish. Romanoff had made a casual comment, once -- "ma'am" is dated, awkward, and not every woman likes it. It still baffles Steve as to why, but he didn't survive high school and a World War by not learning to adapt.

"Sounds reasonable," he says, stifling a chuckle. He dries his hands, and reaches across the table. The proffered handshake is modern, the way he rises from his seat and bows his head is not. "Steve Rogers, Ma–mmm, right. Forget I almost said that."

The smile she flashes him is breezy and completely natural, and it widens a hair at both the little inclination of his head and the stumble over that title he can't seem to drop. "Sharon," she says, taking his hand to shake. She's got a good grip: a little firmer, with slightly better leverage (one foot slightly back and flat on the sidewalk, her ankle behind the leg of her chair, her other hand braced on the back), add in the element of surprise, and she'd be able to shift her weight and his, throw him over her shoulder and either make a break for it or find the high ground before he knew what was happening. Especially considering the handy way he's already on his feet, leaning towards her.

If it was necessary.

No threat looms, though, so her grip remains friendly, if strong.

She doesn't continue with her last name. Steve Rogers, boy from Brookyln, man from the past, soldier of World War Deuce, won't like being forced into casual intimacy by the lack of a name he can't attach to Miss, and that's the point. Aunt Peggy would frown. Her parents would disapprove. Fury would roll his...

Well.

Sharon's just paying out the lead line. Letting go of his hand, she waves hers easily: it's forgotten. "Nice to meet you. And I hear soda water does wonders for stains -- but I can't honestly say I've ever tried it. My guess is it'll dry fine anyway."

Such is the benefit of splashing coffee on pants that are already at least marginally a shade of brown.

Edited 2013-07-30 02:40 (UTC)

Sharon might be underestimating Steve's stubbornness. If he wanted to find a way to use an honorific, he could. He would. But in this case, he's happy to let it be. She's got a strong shake and a disarming smile, and for the first time Steve realizes how pretty she is.

Not that he didn't notice the sharp eyes and silky hair the second she bumped into his table (right after admiring gams that went on forever in the split second it took him to look up and away), but his mind has been elsewhere, and in the excitement of the moment ...

He clears his throat and resettles, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll take a look in the corner market on my way back, but I have been told to update my wardrobe. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were part of a conspiracy." He smirks fleetingly. "Nice to meet you, Sharon. Did fate intervene on your way to an appointment?"

He points at her yoga mat.

The aviators, pushed up into her hair, make a good headband for the wisps escaping her ponytail, and she squints slightly against the sun as she slides the mat off her shoulder, props it up against her leg, butt of the roll resting on the sidewalk. Her own smile is faint, and fractionally tilted. "That seems like a pretty specific conspiracy to be worried about, Steve. Why, do you need a fashion consultant?"

She lets her eyes track assessment over what he'd picked out for himself this morning, and it's honestly not bad. Men's fashions haven't skewed nearly so far as women's have, and while she wouldn't expect him to pick up skinny jeans or a graphic tee, he looks...totally normal in his khakis and shirt. "You look pretty good to me."

In all honesty, he'll turn heads, but not because of his clothes, or the fact that he's the sort of guy to wear his shirts tucked in and keep his hair combed instead of purposefully mussing it into careful disrepair. It's partially because of his height and size -- those shoulders look like he could cart a tank around on them without breaking a sweat -- and it's partly because of the way he holds himself, a little too conscious of the space he takes up.

Which is a lot, at a table that barely fit his coffee and sketchpad and is now hosting both of them, meaning that her knee bumps gently against his when she shifts to put the mat down.

But it's mostly because, not to put it mildly, he is by any standards unfairly attractive. Long straight nose, clear steady eyes, wheat-colored hair, a strong jawline, plus that self-effacing air that means it's possible he know he's good-looking, but it makes him uncomfortable instead of cocky.

Good. She gets enough of cocky. "Just the opposite. I was on my way back when gravity decided to reassert itself." The smile she gives him goes all the way to her eyes, and she lets it. The best cover is the one that's all truth, and she's not faking anything, here.

Just leaving a few parts out. "It seemed to pick the right table, though. Most people would've tossed their cup at me and screamed about how I messed up their work...so I'm glad to get a reprieve."

Edited 2013-07-30 17:54 (UTC)

"No," he answers quickly, the second the word consultant falls off her tongue. He's heard that word enough from Stark, and is only glad the guy lives a few thousand miles away. He quirks a smile, and shakes his head. "It's part of a larger conspiracy, but I've been told I'm a little old-fashioned."

He stood outside an Adidas for eight minutes once, just staring at a pair of neon green running shoes in the window. Like they hypnotized him, so loud they made his teeth vibrate, and it was the puzzle of the universe in that moment to figure out what they were for or why anyone would want to buy them. Steve dresses in button-up plaids and classic colors, parts his hair, and throws on his leather jacket when he's going out and calls it good.

He's definitely not expecting her to say he looks good -- pretty good -- and it shows. He doesn't bluster or flush, but he looks at her a little sharper, eyes a little wider, and when he feels her knee brushing his he jumps about an inch. He coughs, clears his throat, and grins at the tabletop. "Uh. Thanks."

He's used to getting compliments. Still not used to responding to them, though. It's just like his bulk; you live so many years in one body, you can barely get around in a new model without tripping all over yourself. He has heightened senses, a faster metabolism, stronger reflexes, but it hasn't changed the gawky little nerd from the neighborhood, and until you learn to get around you're going to go everywhere with your flashers on.

"I don't believe that," he says at last. "Nobody could be that rude to someone as ... nice as you are. It's just paper, it'll dry. I can always draw something new."

His eyes linger on hers a beat too long as he says so.

"I don't know," she says. The words are considering while she studies him, foot swinging gently in the air. "We've kinda gotten shoved head first into the future, recently. Maybe a little old-fashioned isn't such a bad thing."

Aliens, Norse mythology come to life, the kind of technology that can be implanted in a human body to keep it ticking. The Avengers initiative isn't just strategy; it's science fiction.

And it's spilling out into the real world in a big way.

She pretends the jump doesn't happen, rides right over the cough and throat-clearing like she didn't hear either, just allows a pleasant curl of a smile that's already fighting to be wider, brighter, when he ducks his head to direct that sheepish grin at the tabletop.

Not good with women, but better than Fury had made him out to be at rolling with the punches. It's not a surprise; there's a reason Steve was picked for the serum. Adaptability, intelligence, a strong moral compass, a deep sense of compassion: she's heard it all.

He'll be fine. Twenty-first century mannerisms aren't necessary, just a basic ability to adjust. He's not going to need any hand-holding. It's the conclusion she's drawn when he looks back up, brushing off her joke, and holding her gaze with his own steady and sincere.

There's a heartbeat before she blinks. Where the hell is a waitress?

"Don't be fooled," she says, wetting her lip and smiling a little more widely. "I'm not as nice as I look. So, an artist?" It's a smooth recovery, but one she shouldn't need at all. Head in the game, 13.

"A hobby? Or something they pay you for?"

Edited 2013-08-01 15:21 (UTC)

The world could use a little "old-fashioned".

"Yeah, I've heard that," he mumbles, picking up one of his pencils to give his hands something to do. "Getting shoved head-first into the future, I mean. I can sympathize."

He frowns at the #4, twisting it between the pads of his fingers and thumbs. The business end leaves smudges of black on his skin, but he doesn't mind. Getting shoved head-first into the future. Yeah, he can sympathize.

He grits a grin. "No, I don't get paid anymore. I used to, but that job was ages ago. I guess you'd call it a hobby now. I'd like to make something more out of it, if time allows, but ... you know how it is," he shrugs, smiling good-naturedly. "And I don't fool easily, ma'am. I mean -- Sharon. Sorry."

There's that sheepishness again, but it only blankets a harder core. Not much gets by him, and he's good at judging character. It comes from a life of seeing both faces of a person: the face they'll show the world, and the face they let slip with someone they don't think is worth their time.

He would. The media circus, all based around the 'man out of time' tossed headlong into a future he never expected, has been blunt and less than tactful, but they're not wrong. If anyone understands that feeling, the one of being faced with a pit where you expected a bridge, it's this guy.

"I bet."

It serves as answer to both his comment about sympathizing, and the assertion that he's not easily fooled.

He's pretty canny, and if his radar isn't pinging an alarm, it's not wholly his fault.

She's very good at what she does.

Which is why she leans forward, folding her arms on the table, and tilts a disarming, I've-got-a-secret smile at him across the short distance. His fingers are blackening with graphite; it's distracting, making her wish she had something to fiddle with, too, and she's not normally a twitchy person. "Habit's hard to break, huh?"

The real question comes with which alarm he should be listening to. The one that goes off every time a pretty girl gives him the time of day? The one where convenient meetings like this one are favored traps of enemy agents? Or maybe the one where she doesn't seem to know who he is, when half of New York stops to gawk when he crosses the street?

He feels a pinprick of nervousness at the back of his neck when she leans in, and it's the kind of feeling he hasn't had since 1943; June 22nd, to be exact, in the back of a new Ford, sitting next to Agent Carter. She could make him sweat more than any experimental procedure ever could.

"My mother raised me on her own," he explains. "You should see my table manners. She was an everyday hero; part of me sees it as honoring her when I remember the lessons she taught me. She'd have me by the ear if she knew I didn't pull your seat out for you."

His mouth tilts to one side. "Just more of that 'old-fashioned' business you were talking about. Funny thing is, she was always so brave and modern when I looked at her. That's what I wanted to be."

"Okay," she says, easily, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, blithely, purposely taking a common turn of phrase as an actual invitation. "How about dinner sometime?"

Tossed out without expectation or affectation, though she's watching him like a hawk from behind friendly blue eyes and a slight, winning smile. To stick the card on the table, she keeps going, picking up on the offered topic with her own smile edging a little closer to wistful than warm.

Gaze sliding down to the picture she'd commented on, earlier. Almond eyes, a stern expression. "I had someone like that, too. Sometimes I think I'm still just hoping to do her proud."

A blink, and she lifts her eyes back to his face again, the wry tug of her lips quirking a little stronger. "Do you think you made it?"

What did she say?

Everything grinds into a lower gear, and suddenly he's trying to get his bike up a steep hill when it feels like he's moving through quicksand. Time expands, like the blacktop in the old neighborhood on really hot days, and he's seeing every second like they're ten. Those eyes, blue and sharp and maybe a little saccharine, that smile. He memorizes the lines of that smile. It'll be burned into his memory when he looks back on this moment later. The flutter of her eyelashes when she looks at his sketchbook, subtle and not in the same instant, the way she delicately shifts from the present to somewhere vaguely far away.

That pinch at the back of his neck returns, only this time he's hearing the winsome invitation and the sudden dip into familiarity as if they're designed to glut him on some subconscious need, and he's pricked with sudden awareness. She's flirting on purpose.

While he's working out whether he's supposed to answer the invitation and organizing the clues he's gathered, he realizes she's hit him with a more pressing question. One he wasn't paying attention to. With any luck, it'll just look like he's nervous (which isn't too far from the truth). "Do I think I ... ?"

"Got to what you wanted to be." Her eyebrows arch delicately as she prompts. "Like your mom?"

This feels more than a little like a game of tug of war. Rogers is hardly the country bumpkin the media loves to portray him as; those good looks of his aren't corn-fed and wholesome, they're the product of desperation in the face of annihilation. He wasn't naturally gifted with a build like a tank, would never have caught anyone's eye before the transformation.

What he was, before all that, was a soldier.

And a good one, if weak, asthmatic, more compassionate and empathetic than would really be considered ideal.

That's the media's mistake, and Fury's too. Everyone forgets the guy has a brain inside that perfectly crafted head; that he learned to fight on the mean streets and alleys of New York, not at boot camp. That he had to rely on his wits for far longer than his bulk.

Of course he's sizing her up. She'd be disappointed by anything else.

So: tug of war. Or maybe Battleship. Tossing out bombs here and there, at seemingly random intervals, just to gauge his reaction.

Not that she'd say no to dinner. He's pretty cute, after all, and Fury did say to stay close.

But this is more like it: the way his eyes narrow just slightly after they widen. Good. He doesn't trust her; he shouldn't trust anyone, especially someone showing up out of the blue and being this immediately friendly. If she'd been sitting in that chair, she'd have had a gun trained on the interrupter by the time the coffee cup fell over.

Still. He's a solider, not an agent. A little more time around Natasha, maybe, and he'll come right up to speed, but not just yet.

She's curious about his life, and it feels ever so much less like friendly banter and more like she's hunting for intel. He thinks on the question, brow rucking together, and it buys him enough time to shift to a more comfortable position, feeling the press and pull of wet fabric against his thigh.

He eyes the coffee stain, and the hand -- empty, but readied -- beside it.

"I guess I'm still figuring that out, Sharon," he says, with every ounce the same bashful, if not friendly, tone he's been using the whole time. "Both my mom and my dad served. For my father, it was duty. But for my mother, she wanted to help people."

He's got a little of both inside him, driven by that sense of duty and obligation, but stubborn and strong-willed from the need inside of him to do the right thing. He realizes which page of his sketchbook is open on her side of the table.

"Can I ask you a question?"

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