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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"Yeah, I've met Fury. That's why asking if it's pure stubbornness and pride keeping me from accepting help is bogus, with all due respect," he snaps back. "I've seen his plans. 'Phase Two'. You offering to share what's going on means about as much to me as a snakeoil salesman offering me the water of life. If you answer to Fury, what makes you think I'm going to trust you any more than I trust him?"

He recognizes he's being a little unfair. He's been on the receiving end of orders he didn't agree with before, and he knows the mind of the subordinate doesn't always reflect that of the superior. He just doesn't like being lied to.

For the first time, she lets a little of her indecision show.

It's not much. A gentle working of her jaw from side to side. The tapping nail of one finger on the back of her other hand.

There's no defense for Fury, so she won't even try. She respects him, and he's very good at what he does. The best, maybe. But as a person? At working with humans, instead of schematics? At anything other than blatant manipulation? Fury falls flat on his face in the mud every time.

So it's the second question that's got her hung like a coat on a rack. "I don't think that for a second, Captain Rogers. It's best not to trust anyone, even if you've got their file in hand. Fury's a dick. I don't trust him, and if you're going to feel any differently about me, it'll be because I earned it. But --" The pause only lasts a heartbeat before she slides her eyes in a deliberate shift from his face to the sketch she'd pointed out before. "I know who that is. And I know just as sure as god made little green apples she'd have my ass for lying to you. You can believe that."

Sharon has peppered backhanded remarks about Fury throughout this whole conversation. It's occurred to Steve that she could be sincere, or she could be digging for common ground. Any good agent -- any good soldier -- would know that finding a common enemy is the first step to establishing a parley. It's why he hasn't replied to it, why he hasn't reacted to it, why he's only tucked it away in his subconscious while he puzzles her out.

What he finds harder to ignore is her declaration of earning his trust. Steve is a working class guy, and he respects the sentiment. That's the only way she'll ever gain his trust, if she makes it that far at all. Honestly, she's a step closer than she was a minute ago.

Until ...

His eyes dart to the drawing, something primeval, protective, stirring within him. "What are you saying?"

The way he looks to the drawing, protective, makes something twist unexpectedly in her chest. All this time later...

Except it hasn't been all this time. Not for him. It's been, what. Months? At most?

Steve Rogers isn't a man who would want her pity, but she feels sympathy welling up from that pinprick, just above her stomach, and it might paint across her face as she waits for him to look back up at her.

They say she looks like her. Her mother, father, grandparents say so. It's been a family joke for years. One Halloween, she'd worn a brunette wig and brown contact lenses and everyone had just about died laughing at the tiny Peggy prancing around.

It can only help, now, if Steve sees it. "I'm saying that's Peggy Carter. You knew her close to sixty years ago, by our reckoning." She's leaning closer again, now, and there's no more sly amusement in her face, eyes, tone, or posture. "My name is Sharon Carter. That woman in the picture -- Peggy Carter, your Peggy Carter? Is my aunt."

There's a swell of blood to his head, carrying the flotsam and jetsam of a million thoughts, old and new, all at once (that's Peggy Carter I may even dance Go get him Sharon Carter How do you feel Taller has her eyes my aunt You can't give me orders I'll teach you You're late my aunt My name is Sharon Carter Peggy Carter your Peggy Carter your Peggy Carter is my aunt), and then, all at once, it stops.

He looks at her.

Wrought iron cries harshly against the sidewalk when he jerks to his feet, adrenaline lifting him to his full height. He leaves her no time to appreciate the imposing sight, anger propelling him away from the table, away from the cafe, away from Sharon Carter ...

He hesitates long enough to dig out his wallet and drop a wad of bills on the table, grabbing the sketchpad and abandoning everything else. There's a subway station four blocks from here. Right now, it's as good a place as any.

Well, at least he paid for the coffee.

She watches with studied indifference as he rises, hands crossed in her lap, one leg sluing over the other, leaning back in her chair as if she were only watching him get up to go to the bathroom or seek out a menu, but there's a thrill of readiness flooding her muscles, knotting her stomach in anticipation. A wash of cool adrenaline leaves her feeling shaky and sick, but she doesn't move as his chair scrapes back, as he pushes away.

So, it could have gone better.

But it could have gone worse, too, and she picks up her cup to drain the last too-cool mouthful of coffee and cream, reaches down for the yoga mat and slings it over her shoulder as she gets up to follow.

Maybe she won't tail him the rest of the day. She could just show up at his apartment later, a reminder that not only is SHIELD everywhere, but she's just as stubborn as Fury and has the benefit of having two working eyes and far less red tape.

Still, she hesitates, mat strap looped over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed into her hair, and watches him walk away with the stiff-shouldered, rapid pace of anger.

Aunt Peggy would probably scold him silly for walking off in a huff like that, but Aunt Peggy's not here, and Sharon's pretty damn sure she wouldn't exactly be high on the list of "well-mannered individuals" right now, either.

Scold him? Come on, Peggy would have him at attention and filled with shame faster than he could march. Since becoming a human tank there's not a lot Steve's afraid of, but he's afraid of Peggy.

Always has been, always will be. It's like the fear of God.

But since Peggy isn't here, there's nobody to keep his ego in check, nobody to tell him he's acting out of line, nobody to anchor him back to the ground. Nobody, nobody, nobody. That's what Steve's got when he gets to that damn SHIELD-sanctioned apartment. Nobody. That's the sum total of everybody he's got left in the world. Nobody. And this "Sharon", spy and SHIELD agent, breezes in laying claim to his Peggy Carter, as it was oh so delicately put. It's a barb that chaffs just under his collar, like even his memories aren't allowed to be his anymore. He's SHIELD property now, bought and paid for.

He knows she's following him and he doesn't care, not at first. He takes the first block at an angry pace, stewing in all of his pent up rage and despair, funneling it all into a fine-tipped torch he uses to burn the last image of Sharon from his memory. Soon, he's taut with fury and alarmingly calm, and that's when he stops. "You know what the problem is with you people?"

She follows at a distance that would be laughable if she were trying to stay hidden; almost near enough to catch the breeze of his huffy exit as he marches along, wrapped in an offended blanket while she glances up at the sun and wishes she'd taken the day off. Gone to the Hamptons. This weather's not gonna last forever.

How many vacation days does she have at this point, anyway? It's got to be coming up on a year's worth, altogether.

She's still idling turning over the idea of a normal job, with normal hours, and normal tasks, like anything but babysitting Captain America, when he stops in front of her, ice-cold and stuffy as she comes to a halt, lifting her eyebrows at him in blasé unconcern.

"We have a crippling fondness for acronyms?"

Despite her better judgment, it actually almost stings a little. SHIELD is the reason Steve Rogers is even standing in front of her right now. If it weren't for them, he'd still be on ice, slowly sinking beneath the surface somewhere in northern Canada.

If it weren't for SHIELD, the Avengers wouldn't exist. SHIELD isn't Fury, and it's not the enemy, and, quite frankly, she's getting pretty damn sick of Steve Rogers and his holier-than-thou attitude and the chip on his shoulder that obviously hasn't melted off yet.

Her voice is flat as she continues. "Why don't you tell me, Captain Rogers, since you seem so bent on placing the blame for whatever it is you've decided is so terrible about your situation on us."

If her reaction melts some of his ire, it doesn't show.

"It's that you think you can control everything," he says, jabbing a finger. The Tesseract, Dr. Banner, the Avengers, gods, men, where Steve goes, who Steve goes with, and Captain America whole cloth. "Director Fury wants me to sign up and be this country's hero, that's one thing. Sending babysitters after me is another thing. But you, Agent Carter? Agent Sharon Carter, Peggy Carter's niece? You have been lying to me since the minute you spilled my coffee, and don't even pretend otherwise."

She's right that Peggy would have her ass for lying to him. Peggy never messed around, never saw the use in subterfuge if a perfectly good direct approach was present, and Peggy ... Peggy would call him a child for acting the way he is right now. That dampens his vitriol somewhat, but it's beside the point completely.

"It's no coincidence that you're the one they sent."

Her tone is as even-keeled as the helicarrier cruising above a choppy sea. "SHIELD doesn't do trade in coincidences, Captain."

She weathers his petulant comments with a blank expression, waiting them out until the last, when her eyebrows lift higher, before pulling together into a frown. "Are you done bitching, now? Got that out of your system? Because I'm pretty sure that without SHIELD, you wouldn't even be standing here. Without Director Fury, the Avengers wouldn't exist, and this beloved home town of yours, that you love to remind people you're from? Would be nothing but rubble. People like us are the reason you exist in your current incarnation at all."

There's a tight leash of control on her voice as she goes on, but it's snapping like leather in a stiff wind, and her posture has turned from relaxed to fight-ready, shoulders taut and weight shifting slightly to her back heel. "So, please, tell me more about how badly SHIELD is treating you. Putting you up in an apartment, leaving you mostly alone when there are no immediate crises, aside from wanting to have someone around who know what life in the twenty-first century is actually like! Wow, what abuse! We are such assholes."

There's a step forward, and even if she doesn't lift a hand to jab a finger into his chest, the way her eyes narrow and her hand fists implies she's definitely thinking about it. "Grow up, Steve. This isn't about SHIELD. It's about your pride."

Edited 2013-10-02 01:03 (UTC)

He's not used to a woman talking to him like that. He'd be more shocked by her vernacular if he wasn't busy fighting off respect, and that small pearl of doubt he gets at the base of his neck every time somebody raises a valid point.

But she doesn't seem to be understanding him.

Not going to be cowed, he too takes a step forward. The loom is unintentional, but the glare is not. "I bet you have teammates you're close to. Agents you respect. Imagine you wake up one day to find out every person you've fought beside, lived and died with are gone. Your friends, your superiors, the people you trust, every person you've ever shared a special relationship with. All you've got are the memories, and somebody takes those and uses them to get in your good graces. Are you even a real agent, Sharon, or do you just ride on the coattails of your aunt's legacy?"

She thinks he's mad at SHIELD? No, he's angry at her and Fury for using Peggy, and knowing full well they were doing it.

She knows better than to let her temper get the better of her.

Knows.

Better.

Can't let it slip when she's being taunted by the bad guy, and she can't let it slip here, either, except that she's kind of seeing red right now and it's pretty damn hard to remind herself of protocol and the importance of maintaining her composure, because he Did Not Just Say That.

Except he totally did. And therefore it would totally be within her rights to deck him, right in the jaw.

"None of us can understand that," she says, after a long second of struggling with the impulse to clock him one, weighing out the pros and cons of satisfaction versus a seriously uncomfortable performance review with Fury after the fact.

Job review wins. But only barely. "Not a single person alive today could understand the things you're going through. And I'm sure that you need to mourn those people, those things, that life. If you want to talk about them, I'd like to listen. I grew up on stories of you and the Howling Commandos. You and Aunt Peggy are why I joined SHIELD to begin with. But don't ever."

He's stepped closer, and now she does, too, chin jutting and lifted, anything but cowed by the height and weight difference between them, eyes snapping with barely-held temper. "Think that I got this job based on anything but my own skills. You don't know me, and don't think I flatter myself that you want to try, but that just means you don't get to question my credentials or my job. Are we clear?"

Edited 2013-10-02 16:13 (UTC)

He would have been disappointed if her reaction had been any different. He wouldn't fool anybody if he said he taunted her on purpose just to see the way she'd react -- no, he was angry, plain and simple, and meant to offend -- but it's noted, dogeared, and filed away all the same.

"Then you'll have to excuse me if I don't thank you for being the reason I exist in my current incarnation at all," he grunts. The "you" in this case means SHIELD, but if she wants to take it personally she can be his guest. She made it pretty obvious she thinks he should be grateful for SHIELD's presence in his life, right down to excusing all the monkey business he's witnessed so far, but he isn't about to acquiesce to that or dignify her demand with an answer. Whether or not they're "clear" is completely in Sharon's court, so she better impress him. "I'm sorry if I'm not what you thought I would be, but you want me to grow up? Admit to all of this being my pride? A word of advice, Agent Carter. If you're going to ask someone not to question you, you might not want to lead with doing the same to them. Whether or not I want to get to know you is moot, because you've already got me figured out."

That's sarcasm, ladies and gentleman. When there's less blood pumping through his brain, he might look back on this conversation and recognize how similarly they've both reacted. The adrenaline pushes him back into an angry march, only vaguely sure he's heading in the right direction. He's too ruffled to really care.

"One more thing," he says, voice raised. "Your aunt was the best damn agent I've ever known. Not the best female agent, not the best agent under thirty, the best. I don't have to know you to know you could do a lot worse than stand in her shadow."

"You're right. You're not what I thought you would be." A muscle in her jaw aches, distant and pounding, from the way she's holding it so stiff and tight, but there's not a chance she's going to let him see her as anything less than a brick, immovable wall. "You're a hero. You think there's even the slightest chance someone my age didn't grow up watching old newsreels of you, playing with your action figures and trading cards? You think America let go of their golden boy that easily? All that stuff might be stupid, and, fine, no one wants to be the statue with feet made of clay. But I did think I knew you."

There's going to be a crick in her neck soon, if she keeps standing here looking up at him like this, and it might have been smarter to stay further away, not give him the power of knowing she's got to tip her head back to see his face, but it's too late now. She's not backing down for anything -- which is when he turns his back on her and starts heading away, through a sudden veil of blurry red that makes it impossible to focus on anything except the back of his infuriating head, let alone the pale half-circles her short nails are digging into her palm.

"I got the real stories," she calls after him, too loudly. People are stopping to notice. Some are whispering, others rolling their eyes. Fine; make it look messy. A public break-up. Serves him right for bringing this out into the streets. The man behind the myth, who was, it turns out, just a regular guy. Maybe nicer than most. Kind of sweet. Couldn't run a mile or do a push-up to save his life. I didn't realize he was also such a fan of throwing pity parti -- hey, watch it!"

The last part isn't to Steve; it's directed to the person who just shoved her out of their way. Whoever it is -- she catches a glimpse of dark hair and wide eyes -- doesn't stop to apologize, just flips her the bird and sprints past Steve, towards a corner ahead, shouldering past the people in his way as he goes.

To be frank? No, he never thought about it. Newsreels, action figures, comic books ... he remembers the feel of Agent Coulson's trading cards in his head more than he remembers what they felt like in his hand. It's enough to slow him down, a pace that will eventually stop altogether. Sure, he knew all those things existed, but Steve still thinks of himself as some kid from Brooklyn rather than anybody's golden boy. Two decades of fighting invisibility only to stick out like a sore goddamn thumb everywhere he goes now.

He turns his head over his shoulder, but not enough to see her.

Until he hears her shout.

He steps out of the way long before the runner's shoulder can make contact, causing him to stumble and almost fall. He barely slows down. One of those i-devices is in his hand, but Steve can make out the steel ring of a pocket pad in his jacket, and there's something about the way he's wearing dress shoes -- soles pocked with chewed gum -- with jeans that hits a chord. 1940 or 2010, some guys never change.

Steve's spine goes ramrod straight. He takes a step forward before turning again, holding an arm out at Agent Carter. "You OK?"

His brow is still rucked with anger, but his tone is genuine. He'll wait for her answer, but his feet are already shuffling in the direction of the newspaperman, unwilling to let him have too much of a head start.

"I'm fine."

That's snapped, too, and it pisses her off a little that she's getting combative even when he's checking to make sure she's okay, but that just grates salt into her raw temper and makes her more annoyed than ever.

If she couldn't handle getting shoved by random strangers on a busy sidewalk, she wouldn't live in New York.

Besides, the guy's still running, and that's always a sign of something interesting ahead. People are generally too apathetic to move that fast unless its for exercise or an emergency, and from the way the crowd is starting to coalesce into a slow, interested current towards that corner makes her think he might be on to something.

Steve Rogers does, too. He's shifting his weight, ready to take off, and she's on the balls of her feet in less than a second, because he's moving, going, going, gone, and she's breaking into a solid sprint to stay hard on his heels.

It's all he needs to hear, doesn't matter that it's whipped at him like a bean ball. His inner commentary clucks and gripes about her manners, but the important thing is not losing the reporter. After taking the block, it's apparent that's not as big a concern as he thought.

Sure enough, the crowd is growing thick. Across the street is a Wells Fargo. Steve can't see much over the heads of the bystanders gathering around. The reporter disappears into the throng, likely attempting to get closer to the front line. Steve won't be far behind. He rarely is.

"You sure you don't want to stay back?" he grumbles over his shoulder. "You might set off all these cell phones in the crowd with the thunderbolts you're shooting out of your eyes."

He pretends not to clear a path wide enough for her to get through. It just so happens that there are less people hugging the brickface on the inside, and using his bulk along with a firm, polite tone, he's able to push his way to the front.

"A fundamental misunderstanding of basic cell phone technology is just another reason why a liaison might not be such a bad idea."

They're forced to slow down by the crowd, but Rogers is as good as a snowplow when it comes to clearing a path. It just means she needs to stay almost directly behind him, damn near pressed up against his back, as she tries to look over his shoulder, fingers tightening on the strap of her yoga mat.

She might not need what's packed away in there, but, on the other hand, it's always good to be prepared.

For now, though, she's stuck in a pocket behind him, as curious onlookers press in from the side not protected by a building, and she's grousing as she tries to squeeze up and to his side, foiled by a few uninterested teamsters who don't seem to care that she's stuck behind the human equivalent of a brick wall. "God, it's like trying to look over the Chrysler Building. What's going on up there?"

"Should I get you a box?" he replies in the flattest tone he has. He'd have her know he can work a cell phone just fine, but he tucks that tidbit away for later. He can see over the crowd now, and the sight isn't pretty.

Three police cars, one overturned with a charred hole in its undercarriage, stand off against what looks like three masked men gathered around an unmarked van. The alarms are going off in the bank, from which two more criminals are running with a single sack of stolen goods. Steve frowns, but it's what he sees next that makes him clear a path for Sharon.

"Everybody back up!" he shouts, waving an arm. Most of the crowd obliges, though a few stragglers taking video stay toe to the street. They're much too close to what's going on across six lanes of abandoned vehicles, in Steve's opinion. He looks at Sharon, and jabs a finger at one of the masked men. "Do you know what that is?"

He already has a good idea. The criminal aims the object at one of the other cop cars, and it lets out a blue blast of searing light. The side of the car collapses in on itself, sending up sparks and flames, causing the police officers to run for cover. It looks like the sort of weapon the Chitauri use.

"A gentleman would give me a boost," she retorts, but her heart's not in it, and it lacks the cutting edge she'd have cultivated earlier, were she not so distracted by the parting crowd jostling past, and the sharp blaze of blue light that crumples the car like it's made of tissue. "Yeah. Looks like the scavengers beat us to the clean-up."

One hand's busy undoing her yoga mat as she unslings it from her shoulder; the other is already slipping inside to haul out the sidearm she'd kept tucked in there. Both mat and strap drop to the ground, forgotten, and she thumbs off the safety, eyes darting from each of the masked men to the others, and checking the street.

"There's no getting close to that van as long as he's got that weapon." She cuts a glance at him. "We need to neutralize him, and take out the driver or the van, keep them from rabbiting."

There's a faint wry touch to the corner of her mouth as she heads for cover behind one of the abandoned cars, making her way towards the van. "And 'cause I've got manners, I'll let you call dibs first."

"Ma'am, I don't believe there's anything about you that calls for being gentle," he gripes, frowning at the sidearm she had hidden away. "How did that factor in to becoming my liaison?"

The crowd screams, and Steve turns his head in time to see an officer pinned down by large debris. Without consciously switching gears, he drops all pride and snark and goes full soldier mode. "Try to get around them on the south side. I'll take care of the van. It looks like some of them have body armor, so shoot low and try to immobilize them. I'll distract them until you get around the crowds."

He trusts her training to take care of the rest without compromising precious time detailing the best plan of attack. They have backup in the form of local law enforcement; if she can work her way through their ranks she can utilize their fire power as well. Whatever objections he has, he knows SHIELD trains their operatives well.

She only gives him a wildcat grin and a wink in response.

And he hasn't even seen the ankle holster, hidden away where her yoga pants bag against her sneakers.

Retorts can wait; he shifts gears and she does, too, sauciness blinking away into a firm nod as she glances around the abandoned cars, gauging the distance she'll be traveling.

Well, mostly, anyway. There might be just the slightest tuck at the corner of her lips as she taps the side of her finger against her temple, at odds with the dry but actual respect in her tone. "Hooah, Cap."

Either way, she slinks from one car to the next, keeping low, heading for the group of NYPD officers who aren't either clearing the street or helping their colleague. "You," she says, as she gets close enough, pointing to first one, and then another. "And you, with me."

The two men glance at each other, and back at her, and she twists her mouth, wishing she had a badge to show. "Just to clarify? We're with him."

That goes along with a tip of her head towards where Steve is starting his run, and he might not be in his red white and blue, but he's still pretty damn recognizable.

She reminds herself to point that out to him later, as the two cops fall in behind her and they all three begin making their way around the rest of the crowd to get a clear shot.

The wildcat grin is startling.

(And familiar.)

He tosses both sketchpad and leather jacket against the brickface before jogging out in front of her, loosening the collar of his oxford. There's no suit underneath, no Clark Kent rip-away of red, white, and blue. If he wasn't such a big man, he would look completely innocuous among the throngs of graphic tees and neon sneakers, tattoos and piercings.

"Hey, you!" one of the criminals shout, followed by what Steve thinks is don't be a hero, but the rapid gunfire muffles it to unintelligible background noise. He picks up the pace, weaving through traffic, dodging parked cars. Later, the muffled words might give him a laugh.

He presses his back to the grill of a Ford F150, still warm, and sneaks a look. He's about fifteen feet in front of the van. Someone hops into the passenger seat, and he can see the back doors swinging as they all pile in, shouting to the one to forget the asshole in the street and get in. Steve has no ankle holster, no tools hidden away, and about five seconds to form a plan before they get away.

She parks the cops as close to the van as she dares put them without better cover than an Oldsmobile and a yellow cab, tells them to aim for the tires and make Steve's life a little easier and leaves them to make their shots and get out of there as soon as the tires are gone.

Hanging around will only make them sitting ducks for that Chitauri weapon, and she's got no desire to see some of New York's finest lose their lives today.

That thing's the problem; it's too good a ranged weapon. There's no getting close while it's still in play.

Gunfire ripples out across the street, but not towards her; true to his word, Steve's taking the brunt of their attention, and she can sneak a look up over the hood of a parked car and lift far enough to squeeze off her first shot, through the back doors as they start swinging closed. A yell tells her she got a hit, but it's impossible to say who, or where, or how good of one it might be.

At least they're pushing the door back open to fire back. Talk about gentlemen, holding a door for a lady.

He can hear the gear shaft thunk into drive and the tires squealing, and that's all the time he needs to gather a plan of attack. He leaps out in front of the van just as the cops are shooting for the tires, watching one, then two go down as the van fishtails and grinds diagonally on their wheel rims. OK, new plan.

He shifts right, estimating how and where the van will stop. They'll need to switch cars, and they have plenty to choose from. He estimates about three seconds before they spill out of the van and gunfire resumes, which means he needs to get to the driver before he grabs a new vehicle or someone shoots him first.

Leaping up onto the hood of a parked sedan, he just misses the front bumper of the van as it swings into his path. What happens next takes a few seconds in all.

The van rocks to a complete stop. Steve climbs up and over the sedan, landing and taking a hard left. The goons in the back start firing on Sharon. The driver's door swings open. Steve's hand comes ramrod strong to knock the door closed again, right on the driver's head. He yanks it open and swings around to grab the half-conscious man by the collar, pulling him to the ground, but the guy in the passenger seat is still there. He opens fire, and Steve ducks.

Steve and Sharon - First Meetings

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