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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.
"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.
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 02:10 am (UTC)"A couple in particular are pretty spectacular. One's blown glass, another's photography."
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:14 am (UTC)Unlike, say...any time in the previous month.
She picks up her glass and tips her head at the crowd. "Show me?"
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:18 am (UTC)He's careful not to touch her as they start through the crowd.
Very quietly:
"Should I ask?"
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:25 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 02:33 am (UTC)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?"
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:35 am (UTC)"I'll tell you in a month."
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:49 am (UTC)For fifteen steps.
"Did something happen?"
This time, he sounds worried - tautly controlled, but clear all the same.
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:57 am (UTC)She can't look at him too closely while they're moving, so she snatches glances here and there, brow beginning to furrow. "Nothing happened."
After a second, she offers an olive branch. "I passed your message along."
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 03:06 am (UTC)"Thanks."
He doesn't ask. He can't. He has no right to.
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 03:13 am (UTC)Not for their protection. For his.
And she doesn't lift her hand as she looks up into his face. "Hey. You okay?"
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Date: 2021-02-22 03:17 am (UTC)"Did he -- say anything? No," he corrects, immediately. "Tell me later. If then. Just ... is he okay?"
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 03:26 am (UTC)She watches him for a moment, then drops her hand only to dig into her purse and pull out her phone. "Look –"
As she thumbs the phone online and brings up her text messages, she turns so her back is to him and he can look over her shoulder and so no one else can see the photo she pulls up from her texts. "See?"
It's from a few days ago, and it's a selfie: Steve with some take-out pad thai, looking pleased with himself.
(The accompanying message had said: Another one crossed off the list. What else you got?)
She grins at the photo. It's just...really cute.
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 03:35 am (UTC)Good for you, Steve. Good for you.
"I see." A beat of silence. "Thanks."
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 03:51 am (UTC)And expression.
And then she realizes that was probably a bad move, because he's been trying so hard to keep away from Steve, and it was more than a little thoughtless of her to surprise him like that.
Damn. "I'll tell you about it later," she promises, again. "But for now, you want to...check out those exhibits?"
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 03:59 am (UTC)He's quiet, but no longer tense, and nods to the third exhibit down from where they stand, where black and white photographs in the style of Ansel Adams can be clearly seen.
"Want to start with that one?"
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 04:05 am (UTC)"Great. Let's go."
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 04:16 am (UTC)"Good thing you've already been to Podgorica," he quips, pointing out one image.
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 04:25 am (UTC)It was a lovely city. Too bad she really didn't get to see it.
She walks slowly around the exhibit, sipping at her wine. "Where are these others, do you know?"
He may have partially chosen this setting because he knew she'd like it...but she's willing to bet there's a particular photo in here he wanted her to see, too.
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 04:35 am (UTC)"And here--"
He taps the base of a set of images that show a large mountain serving as the backdrop to the city below, and slants a look at her.
"Ever been to Tirana?"
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 04:39 am (UTC)A shake of her head, and she slides a sidelong glance back at him, eyes bright and expectant. "Not yet."
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Date: 2021-02-22 04:44 am (UTC)His glance goes back to the image, his gaze narrow.
"Well worth a visit."
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Date: 2021-02-22 04:50 am (UTC)She swirls the wine in her glass and takes another sip, eyebrows arching at him in a pleased, here we go again kind of way.
"I guess we should check it out."
no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 05:00 am (UTC)He drifts a casual step to the side, looking at the other photographs on display. None of the rest of them draw the same kind of commentary, or the suggestion that they'd be nice to visit.
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Date: 2021-02-22 12:35 pm (UTC)She's just happy to see him. And she's starting to get sick of telling herself otherwise.
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Date: 2021-02-22 02:48 pm (UTC)He finds her watching him as he turns, and raises his eyebrows at her.
"I think we've seen everything here," he observes. "Want to check out the rest of the exhibits?"
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