[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]

"Healed," he says, succinctly, as he sets his left hand very lightly at the small of her back to help steer her to the side and around a small group of art students who are getting too ebullient with their very active critique of one poor exhibitor.

"Yours?"

[from_the_outside]

Her lips twitch, amused. "Improving all the time."

She doesn't pull away. If anything, she shifts a little closer, guided by the faint pressure on her back. "Another couple of weeks and I'll be fit as a fiddle again."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Good."

As soon as they're around the knot of people and approaching the nutcracker display, he politely removes his hand once more.

[from_the_outside]

She sips at her wine and adds, blithely: "And the arnica cream really helped."

But then they're at the display, and she busies herself with looking through the various dolls and ornaments on offer even as her mind buzzes.

[nerves_of_ice]

"See? I do know what I'm talking about," he replies, dryly.

He makes sure to keep himself half a step behind her, giving her room to sort through the display without being jostled.

[from_the_outside]

She glances a half-smile at him from over her shoulder.

"I wouldn't go that far."

She chooses two small Nutcracker ornaments, just the right size to hang on a Christmas tree, and pays, speaking back towards him as she does so. "So, Tirana. When were you thinking?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He just shakes his head, declining to argue the point, and takes another sip of wine.

"Depends on when you can get the time off work. Although sooner's better," he adds. "I hear that some of the most interesting sights tend to be ... traveling displays."

[from_the_outside]

"Thanks," she tells the artisan as he hands her back the wrapped package, and turns to face Bucky as she's putting both presents and wallet back in her purse. "Two weeks too long? I'll be all healed up by then and I can take a long weekend. Anything before that will be a little dicey, since I just took some time off to go home."

Everything squared away again, she tips the last swallow of wine into her mouth and puts the empty glass on a tray covered with others just like it nearby. "Your turn to pick. But if you get weird about it again, I'm ditching you for those Swedish tourists."

She grins in the direction of a large, polite mass of rumpled blonde hair and blue eyes. "They look like fun."

[nerves_of_ice]

He offers her his glass, which is still half full, as he says,

"Two weeks should be fine. Why don't we check out that one?"

He nods toward a display of woven crafts, with no sign of either hesitation or weirdness.

[from_the_outside]

She takes the glass and gives him an arch look.

"Okay, but we should probably get some food after that unless you want to carry me home. Alcohol works just the way it's supposed to on some of us."

It already is working, as evidenced by her slightly fuzzy thoughts, flushed cheeks, and dilated eyes.

(It's probably the alcohol, anyway.)

[nerves_of_ice]

"I'm not trying to get you drunk," he protests, moving to take the glass back. "But I'll take you to dinner either way."

[from_the_outside]

"Um!" she says, going for affronted but grinning hugely as she pulls the glass back to her own shoulder and away from him.

Primly: "Excuse me, this is mine now."

Oh, yeah. It's definitely working. Why else would she feel a little warm and light-headed and in such a good mood?

[nerves_of_ice]

He huffs out a small breath of laughter and raises both hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay. Don't know what I was thinking."

Making a mental promise to Steve that he'll look after her until she's unaffected, he gestures politely for her to proceed him to the next exhibit.

[from_the_outside]

She's just starting to edge over into "tipsy" from "faintly buzzed," but she's not drunk. Yet, anyhow.

And that's good because she'd rather not trip all over herself or say something she really shouldn't and will regret in the morning. She's not weaving or stumbling, she's just...having a nice time. Kind of like she had a nice time with him the last time they went out and got dinner, which is something for her to chew on.

In the meantime, the wine is just giving a warm glow to everything and everyone around her, including herself. It's just enough to soften some of her edges, allow her to let her guard down a little. Be just Sharon, instead of Sharon Carter, or Agent 13.

Which she can do, because if she's not safe walking around with the Winter Soldier, she's not safe anywhere. Plus, the artisans appreciate it, because she enthuses over their work, like this newest exhibit full of exquisite woven goods. "Nice choice," she compliments Bucky, who is standing just behind her like a bodyguard.

She almost lets herself lean back towards him. But shakes the impulse from her head just in time.

[nerves_of_ice]

"Thanks."

She's relaxed, and happy, and smiling and entertained, and it's just her and not a role, he's pretty sure.

He doesn't know what to think about that, and consciously decides not to think about it at all.

"I like that one," he adds, picking almost at random - and then realizing he does, actually, appreciate the wool throw in question. It's maroon and purple and smoke-colors, all the way from palest gray to deepest charcoal.

[from_the_outside]

"It's beautiful," she agrees, reaching out to run her fingers over it. It's very soft. She can't imagine being able to create anything that lovely and practical at the same time.

His glass of wine is still mostly untouched in her hand. "I like that green one over there, too."

[nerves_of_ice]

"One for each of you," the artist says, helpfully. "I'll make you a deal if you take both."

"We're just looking," Bucky tells her, before realizing that he hasn't actually asked. He looks at Sharon, a question in his eyes.

[from_the_outside]

"Hey," she laughs, holding up her free hand. "I'm here to enjoy myself and spend my money. And this one is nice for you. My treat, if you want it."

She tugs lightly at the purple-and-smoke throw and gives him an assessing look. "The gray is nice with your eyes."

And depending on where he's sleeping these days, he might be able to make use of a nice wool blanket. She turns back to the artist. "How much for both?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Now hold on a minute, I can't possibly accept--"

The artist cuts in with a finely-honed sense for making a sale and quotes Sharon a price that's close to a sixty-percent discount for both together, versus one alone.

[from_the_outside]

"You certainly can accept."

To the artist, she says: "That's a very generous offer. I'll take it."

Turning to Bucky as the woman runs her card and starts packing up the throws, she looks up at him with that probably-now-all-too familiar expression of: I dare you to argue with me. "It would be very rude of you not to accept a gift," she says, all sugar over an underlying core of stubbornness.

Besides, now she has an idea of what to do for dinner, and these two throws definitely factor into it.

[nerves_of_ice]

Strangely, he's silent for several seconds, studying her expression almost as though he's never seen her before.

"How can I possibly be rude to you," he says, at last. It doesn't sound like a question.

[from_the_outside]

"Pretty easily, probably – I've been pretty rude to you."

It's soft and lacks conviction, though; she's too busy studying the way he's studying her to really put her heart into it, and in fact she's so focused on him that she almost jumps when the artist returns, offering out a paper bag holding the blankets and her receipt.

"Thanks," she says, and accepts both, then glances at Bucky and appears to come to a decision. She swallows about half of the wine that's left and hands him the glass, then grabs his free hand with hers to pull him back into the milling crowd. "Finish that. Come on, I have an idea."

[nerves_of_ice]

Obediently, he tosses back the last of the wine, and deposits the glass on a nearby tray as she draws him after her into the swirl of people.

She took his left hand. His left hand, like it was nothing, and she hasn't let go yet.

Silent, enthralled in the truest sense of the word, he lets himself be pulled along in her wake, toward whatever she has in mind.

[from_the_outside]

Her eyes flick back and forth, searching – there. She comes to a stop and faces him, her hand still tucked into his like she's just forgotten about it. "Time to divide and conquer," she says, grinning much the way she had in Greece.

("Let's go take down some bad guys.")

"Go grab us some food; whatever's easy to carry. And then meet me..."

She glances around, eyes narrowing as she looks from booth to booth. "Over there, by the woodblock prints."

Finally letting go of his hand, she steps back into the swell of people, raising her hand with fingers splayed. "Five minutes. Go."

[nerves_of_ice]

He's hesitant, but she's clear-eyed and steady on her feet and very obviously planning something, and they've seen no sign of threat all night.

It's safe enough.

"Five minutes," he repeats, and disappears into the throng.

The good thing about a street festival of any sort is that it's usually easy to find food that's highly portable. He collects a bottle of water and two freshly-melted raclette sandwiches on warm bread with a crunchy crust and is back at the appointed spot on time.