Steve and Sharon - First Meetings
Jul. 25th, 2013 10:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
from_the_outside"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.
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.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-23 07:07 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-23 07:29 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-23 07:55 pm (UTC)(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.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-23 08:05 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-23 08:43 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 04:50 pm (UTC)The van goes slewing wildly from side to side, sending their shots wild and slowing down the escape, and in the reprieve, Sharon sprints forward. There's a goon trying to close the van's flapping back door so he won't go spilling out; she grabs his wrist and yanks him towards the pavement, slamming her forearm into the door as she does and whacking it solidly into his head.
A sharp tug hauls the limp body past her, and she's got a toe on the bumper and a hand on the door to pull herself up onto the roof just as she hears the first gunshot.
New priority: neutralize the threat to her ally. It'll be easier cleaning up the ones left in the van if neither of them has bullet holes or are bleeding out.
"Nope," she says, to no one in particular, as she swings herself up onto one knee, then drops to the pavement next to the passenger seat. "Fury would kill me."
No one's shooting Rogers today, and definitely not this guy, when she pulls the door open and reaches in to grab him unceremoniously by the back of the head, and slam his face into the dash as he's trying to come around to defend himself.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-18 06:29 am (UTC)The guy at his feet is unarmed, and won't be getting up anytime soon. Carter's got the passenger well in hand, which leaves the three guys in the back, and one of them is wounded. Steve's on his way when he sees the two cops Sharon pulled aside bolting in opposite directions, hears the whine of something charging, and feels the pavement ripple under his feet when it discharges. Metal groans, and one of the van's back doors flies off its hinges heading straight for him.
He's ready.
His hands keep the bulky scrap from taking off his head. He catches it, stumbling a few steps backward, but now he has a shield -- and just in time. The guy with the Chitauri device spills out the back and faces him, while the other two scramble out behind him.
no subject
Date: 2014-02-03 04:27 pm (UTC)"Rogers!"
The van rocks as she jumps away from it, and the blacktop under her feet feels suddenly unstable, rolling in smooth waves beneath her sneakers. Chitauri tech: it's scattered around the city, scrounged up by scavengers who think they can use it to boost their small-time crimes into big ones like this. The problem is, a lot of them are right. Regular cops don't have the equipment to face it, and SHIELD can't be everywhere.
Like right now, when the van and three bad guys with some seriously bad news are between her and Steve Rogers.
Her mag only has a few shots left, but she readies the sidearm, uses the side of the van for cover, edging to the rear until she can glance around the door that's left, check the situation, make eye contact with Rogers, if she can.
If what everyone says about him is right, he can take these jokers down all by himself and barely break a sweat while doing it, but it's not like that job wouldn't be made easier if she got a shot off and kneecapped at least one beforehand.
no subject
Date: 2014-02-07 06:32 am (UTC)There's a hum.
Steve glances up. It needs time to recharge after each shot, then. He quickly calculates how long he's got, and barrels forward — but not before catching Carter out of the corner of his eye.
It has nothing to do with her being a woman and everything to do with her being a frustrating human being he's never seen in battle, has no idea what she can and can't handle, or what her strengths and weaknesses are (beyond an obvious temper), but his gut reaction is to draw fire. One thing he knows is she can handle herself, but he's not about to leave anything to chance, and she's right: he doesn't need her help.
He runs at the first goon, sparks shooting off the car door as the other two shower him in bullets. He takes him out at the knees with an impressive sweep, and the guy hits his back as the weapon discharges, sending blue fire into the heavens. Steve rolls, coming up at Sharon's twelve o'clock, and the other two turn their backs to her in order to face him. Without waiting to see what she does, he plows forward again. Despite the head-to-toe body armor, the thugs look scared.