[oom] there are so many contradictions in all these messages we send

[from_the_outside]

Two weeks after leaving Thessaloniki, she steps off a plane at JFK and heads straight to the line of cabs waiting at arrivals. She doesn't have any luggage to wait for; everything she needs is in the tote bag she keeps slung over her shoulder.

"Downtown," she tells the driver, after sliding into the backseat. "Stark Industries offices, please."

He nods and pulls out of the line, glancing at her in the rearview. "Hey, you work for Stark? What's he like?"

She shakes her head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Just meeting an old friend."

Bless New York City cab drivers; he doesn't ask her a damn thing after that and she can look out the window in silence to watch as the city rolls by and turn her thoughts to her next steps.

Or try to, anyway: what really happens is that she's wryly unsurprised when they only return, as they have almost every time she's had a few moments to herself to think, to the subject of Bucky Barnes. She's stopped fighting it: it's been two weeks since he vanished through the door and he's still living rent-free in her head. She knows when she's beaten.

(At this point the theme of those thoughts is a dead heat between running over and over all their conversations, the way he fights like he's a one-man wrecking ball, and how it felt when his hands landed gently on her hips, how warm he was against her.)

She hasn't tried texting the burner phone – he's almost certainly ditched it – but if she's successful in her mission, she might give it a shot anyway. She's got no other way of contacting him, and she hasn't heard from him.

The thing is, she has to be successful first, so she muses on the problem at hand and lets her thoughts move lightly and constantly, like a river. The danger is when they try to swirl in one spot for too long; that she actively stops whenever it begins. Preoccupation is one thing. Distraction is another, and she can't afford it.

The cab drops her within a block of Avengers Tower and she tightens her grip on her tote to shoulder her way through the crowd of tourists and cosplayers and off-brand street performers. Maria Hill is expecting her. Steve isn't.

Hill's office is bright and airy and very obviously civilian, but the woman behind the desk hasn't changed an iota. Sharon taps on the glass door, smiling warmly without letting it reach her eyes. "Ready to grab some lunch?"

"Absolutely." Hill pushes herself back from her work and stands, mirroring Sharon's smile right down to the sharp study in her eyes. "Let's go. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

---

Lunch goes about as Sharon expected it would. Hill has questions, but she's willing to let Sharon dissemble or outright refuse to give a straight answer in exchange for a drive full of what she knows is invaluable intelligence.

Neither of them says the name "Fury," but they don't need to. And when they're done, Sharon walks Hill back to the offices and they actually do get a little catching up done. They've never been close, but they're too similar not to respect each other. If pressed, Sharon might even say she likes Hill.

She still doesn't tell her where she got the intel, though. And Hill knows just why Sharon's accompanying her back: she's the one who contacts Steve and tells him to come to her office. And she's the one who glances politely away when Steve arrives and he and Sharon both spend a long second just staring at each other before he squares his shoulders like he's heading into a fight.

"I hear it's actually Sharon," he says, in a way that means I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed, and her stomach, which hasn't stopped flipping since he walked in, clenches.

"Yeah." She tightens her grip on the tote handle and offers him a winning smile that feels like a Hail Mary throw across three separate football fields. "I was thinking...how about getting that cup of coffee?"

---

Steve isn't anything like Hill. He's nothing like anyone she's ever known. He has a million questions, and once he's glanced at the drive and read through the note she hands him five times or more, his jaw clenching, he starts launching them at her like a pitching machine that's bound and determined to get through her swing and punch her straight in the gut.

"I don't know where he is," she says, for what feels like the hundredth time. "I don't know why he contacted me."

That's almost a lie, but not quite. But worst by far is when, after an hour or so, he finally stops asking and just slumps back into his chair, staring at the few words on the piece of paper and not even trying to hide the pain and fear and worry and loss that break across his face and don't stop. 

She can't stop herself. Just like in Thessaloniki, she gets the impulse and follows it; leans across the table to take his hand and squeeze it, totally unprepared for how it feels like running face first into a wall when his blue eyes flick up to meet hers and his hand – warm, strong, capable – squeezes hers back without hesitation.

And then he says, simply and with absolute sincerity: "Thank you, Sharon." And something tight in her chest just ruptures.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. 

Damn Bucky Barnes for putting her in this position. Damn him and his secrets and his determination to be alone. Damn Steve Rogers and all his optimism and goodness and warmth. Damn his pretty blue eyes and strong shoulders and gentle hands.

And damn herself, most of all, for getting mixed up in any of this to begin with. And especially for when Steve asks, all uncertain awkward charm, if, if she's staying long enough, she'd like to take a walk in Central Park with him before she heads back out again.

He never needs to know that she changes her flight to be able to say: yes.

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

It's a month after Thessaloniki when the postcard shows up in the mail at Sharon Carter's apartment.

The image is a scenic view from the Spinnerei art galleries in Leipzig, promoting an event that weekend, Friday through Sunday, just over an hour by train from Berlin. There's no message, no postmark; it just looks like an advertisement that got added to her mailbox somehow.

* * * * * * *

It had taken him the entire month to decide to reach out. He'd spent most of the time burying himself in his self-imposed work and not allowing himself to think about anything other than the mission.

Eventually, he'd realized that was just as much of a mistake as -- well, as other things would be. Once he'd figured that out, the next step had been easy to take.

[from_the_outside]

Two weeks after her trip home to Virginia by way of New York City, she's sitting in her pjs with a cup of coffee and flipping through her mail, and when she comes across a postcard without a message or address, she tosses it into the recycling bin along with some old take-out menus.

It's not until her second cup of coffee that she pauses, thinks, and fishes it back out again.

A month. A month! This fucking guy. Not a word for a month, and now this blank postcard, because why communicate like a human being when you can act like a character from an Agatha Christie novel?

You know who has talked to her in the last two weeks? Steve Rogers. Never for long, and never about anything important, but every now and again her phone buzzes with a text from him and it had been really super nice to spend her mental real estate on someone who doesn't spend 99% of his time lurking in shadows and on rooftops.

(She might be a little annoyed. Maybe projecting a bit. Whatever.)

And yet, a few days later, on Friday evening after work, here she is, boarding the train to Leipzig instead of going out for a drink with her colleagues, or doing her laundry, or doing literally anything else that would be a better choice.

It better at least be a good event.

[nerves_of_ice]

There are fourteen galleries and exhibition spaces at the old cotton mill that comprises the Spinnerei, it turns out. On this Friday evening, they are all filled with music and light and people on a walking tour from exhibit to exhibit, show to show. Street vendors have set up on the sidewalks with drinks and food and souvenirs, and the general attitude is one of celebration and fun.

At one end of the walk is a pop-up wine bar. At the other is an outdoor coffee and pastry stand, less formal than a cafe.

[from_the_outside]

Her mood improves steadily once she's off the train and made her way to the Spinnerei. It's actually exactly the kind of event she loves going to, the sort of thing she tries to take advantage of while she's posted here in Europe, and it helps that everyone around her is having a marvelous time.

It also helps that there's a wine bar. She makes a beeline for it and doesn't bother to spend too much energy on looking around to see if she can spot a tall, familiar figure. She already knows that if he doesn't want her to see him, she won't.

The wine, though – it's really good.

[nerves_of_ice]

About the time she makes it halfway through her (first) glass, there's a low, familiar voice that comes from behind a swirl of people that are passing behind her, blocking her view.

"Buy a lady a drink?"

He's speaking English, with an American accent.

[from_the_outside]

This fucking guy.

She turns, eyes narrowing as she tries to see through the group of people. Her own voice is light and curious. "Depends on who's asking."

[nerves_of_ice]

He steps out into the open, slipping through the crowd with ease until he's standing only a meter away.

"Me."

[from_the_outside]

In retrospect, maybe a month wasn't long enough at all. Something complicated tumbles through her eyes, the only visible indication of what's happening in her head, but she doesn't let it do more than flicker across her expression.

"Sure."

She sips at the glass she has already and doesn't take her eyes off him. "But fair warning – I have expensive tastes."

[nerves_of_ice]

The corner of his mouth twitches up in a real smile, not an assumed one.

"I'll risk it if you will."

[from_the_outside]

Damn. It's such a nice smile. She can't help it, mirrors it with one of her own that crinkles up her eyes and everything.

She tips her head and slides a glance to the open spot next to her and back to him again. "Well, come on, then."

[nerves_of_ice]

It appears he was only waiting for the invitation, because he doesn't hesitate before taking the place beside her and signaling the somewhat-harried bartender, who jerks his head in a nod to acknowledge that they'll be served in a moment.

"I thought you might like this better than another museum."

[from_the_outside]

"I happen to like museums," she informs him, arch, but her pertly raised eyebrows mellow into a real smile as she looks around at the lights, the people, the art, the whole joyful chaos of it.

"But you were right. I love this."

And it's...nice. To think that maybe he picked this at least partially because she'd enjoy it for real.

(It's also a good meeting place. They can easily get lost in this many people.)

[nerves_of_ice]

"I'm glad."

He watches her watch the crowd for a moment before he glances around as well himself, casually checking security camera angles to ensure they're still not in the sight lines.

"A couple of the exhibitors are pretty impressive."

[from_the_outside]

"Oh yeah?"

She lifts her wine for another sip, but just studies him over the brim of the plastic glass for a moment. "Any favorites?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"A couple," he says again. Before he can explain further, the bartender reaches them.

Bucky gestures to Sharon, inviting her to order.

[from_the_outside]

"The pinot gris, for me," she requests, and looks to Bucky for his order, if he has one, as she sips at the remainder of her first glass.

[nerves_of_ice]

"The same," he says, easily, and passes over enough for both glasses and an appropriate tip.

He claims his glass from the two the bartender puts down and looks at her, something wry flickering in his glance.

"Figured I'd do better trusting your taste in wine than mine."

[from_the_outside]

"Oh? You've decided to trust my judgment now?"

...Okay. Maybe she's still a little annoyed. And maybe she's thought a little too much about how often he pushed back against her risk assessment.

She takes a breath, hesitates, and swallows the last bit of her first wine, then puts the cup down for the bartender to take it away. "I only know this is popular here," she admits, watching her own fingers turn the glass on the bartop. "My knowledge of German wines begins and ends with knowing I don't like reisling."

[nerves_of_ice]

His expression changes, becoming a little wary.

"German riesling is a lot different from what they have back in the States," he offers, cautiously, watching her. "Not as sweet."

[from_the_outside]

"See? You do know something about wine."

It sounds a little cool even to her, and she takes another breath before pushing...whatever this is back somewhere she doesn't need to think about it and finally looking back up at him.

"What were you saying about the exhibitors?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"That there are a lot of good exhibits," he responds, although there's still something searching about his glance.

"A couple in particular are pretty spectacular. One's blown glass, another's photography."

[from_the_outside]

She meets that searching gaze levelly. He can look all he wants; now's hardly the time to get into it.

Unlike, say...any time in the previous month.

She picks up her glass and tips her head at the crowd. "Show me?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"It's this way. Other end of the walk," he says, claiming his own glass in his right hand.

He's careful not to touch her as they start through the crowd.

Very quietly:

"Should I ask?"

[from_the_outside]

"I'm mad at you," she says, admitting it freely. "But don't worry. It'll pass."

She sips at her wine, casts a sidelong glance at him with the beginnings of a smile, and lets her shoulder nudge his.

"Probably."

That is just straight up teasing.

[nerves_of_ice]

"Uh-huh. Well, you've probably got good reason to be."

He casually blocks an enthusiastic, overly exuberant knot of people from bumping into them with a twist of his body, and nods toward an exhibit several further down.

"Do I get to know what it is?"