There's nothing strange about Yvette Rheaume or the credentials she provides to Monsieur Lavigne when she arrives to replace Amelie. "Her mother is ill," Lavigne explains to the girl. "You will fill in for her duties until she returns, yes?"

Yes, of course. And it's a relief when the girl proves both capable and well-mannered; he simply cannot afford to force Herr Schneider to wait. If the facility were to cancel their monthly orders, he'd lose hundreds, thousands of francs in profit, money which assuages his guilt at assisting the enemy. He explains the process to the girl as they ride in a jeep towards the facility, and impresses on her the need for perfect discretion. "I will expect you to take clear and comprehensive notes," he reminds her. "We cannot miss any opportunity to re-supply."

"Yes, sir," she promises, and dutifully notes his instructions.

His ears are ringing by the time they reach the facility and Herr Schneider steps outside to greet them, his sharp eyes resting for a moment on Yvette. "Who is this lovely creature?" he asks, and Lavigne hastens to assure him of her loyalty and credentials. The German nods and politely ushers them inside. Lavigne is too relieved and too focused on the robust order to come to pay much mind to the way the man keeps half an eye on Yvette.

But she doesn't miss it. Not a single glance.

"I know what you're doing, you know," Sharon says, as she and Nat stroll over a bridge, making their way toward the Landungsbrücken. Evening is settling, cool and blue, over Hamburg, and they'd spent the day shopping and gossiping, then decided on a walk by the piers before finding a spot for dinner.

It's a blatant attempt by Nat to cheer her up, and it had worked a treat. She'd needed to get out of her apartment, out of the Center, out of Berlin for a little while; to stop stewing over being barred from Wakanda and trying to manage Ross's annoyance with Steve and Stark. 

She feels better than she has since before they first got the news about Lagos, and, judging by Nat's smiles and the mischievous sparkle in her eyes, she thinks her friend is feeling the same way. Which is why Sharon nudges her leg with a shopping bag and grins. "And I love you for it. This was a great idea."

She sleeps better than she'd thought she could and wakes up on instinct at her usual time, even without setting an alarm – but there's no work to get ready for, nowhere for her to go. Sharon sits for a long while with her coffee, sketching out plans for her day, the news a constant companion as she moves about the apartment.

Bucky will be back later, she knows. And she's sure he or Steve will let her know if they find anything, or if this Zemo makes a move.

But she can't sit and sulk in her apartment all day, and it's not as though she's confined, so she decides to take the day and run some errands she'd otherwise have put off until the weekend: go buy some fresh groceries, head to the stores for a few things she needs around the apartment.

It's not work. It's not what she wants to do. 

But at least it's something.

Things are... Sharon doesn't want to say better, but she thinks they're better. She'd had a long chat with Steve about the way Bucky was feeling, how he needed something to do with himself, some way to be helpful, and Steve had listened carefully, absorbing every word.

She suspects they'd talked some after that, too. 

Staying with him and Steve hasn't proved to be quite as awkward as she'd feared, but today she'd needed some space, and since Bucky was with Vision, she'd gone to do her work in the old apartment rather than Steve's small office. She's still mulling over her chat with Ross when she walks into the library, looking for Bucky, and finds only Vision.

A few minutes later, after Vision has explained their experiment, she heads through the corridors to the garage. "Bucky?"

It takes her a second to spot him, and when she does, she can't help the smile that plays across her lips. She looks up at where he's hanging from a beam, new phone in hand, his hair sticking straight up – or straight down, more accurately. "Baby, what are you up to?"

For such a busy morning, the afternoon and evening prove remarkably quiet. Sharon's tired to her core, but she finds it just as difficult to rest as Bucky does, when she tries to cajole him into a nap. He only shakes his head at her, acquiescing to rest on the couch without actually sleeping.

She doesn't ask why. She's listening for the sound of Iron Man's repulsers just like he is.

But nothing comes, even after she's called Ross to update him and learn that the JTTF translators and analysts had come to the same conclusion she and Bucky had: that Zemo planned to impersonate him and set a bomb to spark a manhunt for the Winter Soldier.

Ross sounds grim as he tells her they'll need to find some more permanent solution to the power outage problem, then hangs up after he's extracted a promise from her to check in as soon as she learns anything.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Jet lag has her by the throat, but she can't sleep until she hears back from Steve and knows for certain that Tony won't be crashing down on them again.

If he does, she needs to be ready.

"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.