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Steve and Sharon - First Meetings
Jul. 25th, 2013 10:33 pm"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.
