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Chapter Text

The buzz in the office is palpable. She keeps working though, used to the rise and fall of energy in the highly active workplace. Whatever it is will make its way to her office eventually if needed. 

—————————-

Two hours later, she hears a tap on her doorframe, “busy?” 

The voice makes her glance up in surprise, “Secretary Pierce.” 

He smiles his charming smile and gestures to the chair in front of her desk, “May I?” 

“Of course.” She stacks her paperwork and closes her laptop, giving the man her full attention. “How can I be of assistance?” 

He looks around her office before turning to her, expression full of chagrin. “It might be a bit impertinent.” 

“Oh?” She straightens, curiosity piqued. “About?” 

“Do you remember the assassination of President Friedman?” 

She scoffs, “of course I do.” 

“The files we found in the apartment of the killer pointed to many more deaths over the years and also to future possible targets.” 

“I wasn’t privy to those files. That was and potentially is still above my pay grade.” 

“Well, trust me. They weren’t fun to go through. But the most important part that was never released due to the worry it would cause widespread panic—“ he looks at her seriously, “the man had a partner.” 

“An accomplice?” 

“Perhaps. We don’t know if he was there on the assasination day. We simply know that he was working and planning with another individual. A man. And… well… we’ve found him.” 

“That’s good news,” she begins, “I suppose I’m confused—“ 

“No, no,” he cuts her off, “you misunderstand me. “We found him. We do not have him.” 

“Oh,” she responds, “I see. And you’re asking me to—?” 

“Well,” the secretary of Defense stretches and shifts in her small stuffed chair. “We’ve sent a few men,” his expression is neutral, “who have not returned.” 

“He’s killed some of your men?” 

“That’s what we assume. We’ve not found bodies of course. But we believe he’s dispatched of them.” 

“And why haven’t you sent in a brigade?” 

“The plans that we found in the assassinators apartment listed that one of their booby traps for avoiding getting caught is rigging explosives not only in a space but on their person.”

“You’ve found evidence that over a decade later he’s still using explosives?”

“It’s not a decade later. We believe he’s been pulling jobs, killing this whole time. Although he’s more proficient at hiding his tracks than his partner. And we don’t know if he is rigging but he could be. We try to nab him, and a whole team could die.”

“I see. And you’ve found him. You’ve monitored his behavior?”

“We’re trying. He’s very good at not sticking to a schedule. And the apartment building has six different exits. Not to mention, he must have some sort of tech blocker because all drones or wires or anything else go haywire within 100 feet of the building and inside it.”

“And if he has rigged his building or apartment--”

“—right, in mass casualties, or at the very least a gun fight with innocents around.” 

“I’m getting the picture. The impertinence?” 

“We’ve known each other for a decade, right?” 

“About.” 

“So know that when I ask, I ask out of respect.” 

“I’m getting nervous.” 

“I’ve read your files. I know how you got started.” 

Peggy’s face pinches before she sighs, “really? I’m 38. I don’t believe seducing this man is going to work.”

“He’s 40. And don’t belittle yourself. You’re older than any other female agent here by half a decade and no one holds a candle to you. But—“ he holds up his hands placatingly, “I’m not asking simply for your looks. You were the most successful hunter on payroll. You personally brought 112 men to justice by getting them to trust you and then laying them out flat. I think you’re the woman for this job.” 

“And if he kills me?” 

“Then you’re not as good a spy or an agent as I think you are.” 

“I haven’t been in the field in years.” 

“Is this you telling me you can’t do it? If so, I won’t press. You got a right to say no.” 

“I have a plane leaving for Nigeria in four days.” 

“Please, you always had the fastest numbers in the books. Men fall at your feet when you want ‘em too.” 

She frowns at him. “Flattery is not your strong suit.” 

He huffs out a chagrined laugh. “I’m just giving you the facts, Carter. Four men have tried to get the jump on him and lost. A big team that goes boom will cause more mess than our PR can handle.” 

“I don’t enjoy being manipulated.”

“If you say no, I’ll go ask Romanoff.” 

She is good. Romanoff. But Romanoff is young. Not necessarily impulsive, but volatile. Peggy has always run hot, which means she can manage it and make it feel like ice. Her age and her wisdom makes impulses bow to her will instead of being ruled by them. 

“Fine,” she answers, “I’ll do it.” 

He grins, “I’ll have the little information we have on him emailed to you immediately. Then you tell me when you’re ready.” 

She nods and he stands, shaking her hand before disappearing. 

———————

It, of course, had not been her plan to start her career with being a serial seductress, but life had a way of surprising her. 

The truth was that first mission had almost gone to pot and she’d turned on her charm and sex appeal as a last ditch effort. When questioned about it later, she’d pretended it had been a secondary plan if things had gone awry. And they’d believed her. 

Then, after it worked the second and third times, as men were wary of everything except a beautiful woman pawing at them, they’d begun to have her teach courses to other female agents. 

It became known as the White Widow program. An answer to the dangerous and much more horrific Black Widow program. 

The information she and the other women gathered saved tens of thousands of lives over the years. 

Eventually she put those types of missions in her rear view mirror and began working on the informational side of things. Being promoted through the ranks and ending up as Deputy Director of Shield.

But this mission is different. 

She isn’t flirting with a man to get him to trust her and divulge secret information. She is using her feminine wiles to get him to trust her so she could incapacitate him without him blowing them both up or the building. 

Bit more high stakes. 

While Pierce sends over file after file, very few have to do with the subject himself. Schematics for weapons or plans. Schematics for explosive after explosive. Building blueprints or layouts. Lots of pictures of violent crime scenes, but only a few pages on her soon to be focus. 

Steve Rogers. 

And most of what they have on him personally is files from 15 years ago. 

Ex-Special special Ops. 

A high enough kill count that makes her dizzy. And redacted missions that give her a headache. 

This man is no simpleton. No suit looking for a good time. 

If she doesn’t play this right he’ll see right through her and she’ll wind up adding to his kill count. 

The files are very lacking as of recently. After he and his partner assassinated the president and his accomplice was caught and sentenced to death for his crimes… he went inexplicably blank. Only details of crime scenes they assigned to him without proof. And, of her mission, they knew which apartment building he was in but not which apartment. They knew he worked at a diner but didn’t know his schedule and couldn’t get a monitor on him. He must work in the back or it’s a cover.

Pierce also sent over the files of the men who have disappeared after trying to monitor him. 

No bodies, no proof. Just Poof. 

Well. She always did love a challenge. 

———————-

The landlord happily hands the keys to her, for the hole that is her “new” apartment. It isn’t in Rogers’ building but it is only two blocks over. 

She thanks the man and quickly makes the place her own. If he decides to follow her home it has to look like she actually lives here. 

She waits no more than three hours to head to the diner. She has no idea how long this mission will take and she is not eager to prolong it. The email count she’ll have upon return will be astronomical.

“What can I get ya?” 

Peggy, now a mousy blonde with a slight west coast accent, smiles at the light brunette with the cheery smile. She reads the name tag, Angie. 

“What’s good here?” 

“Never been?” 

“‘Fraid not,” Peggy says with a humored grimace. “Didn’t even know this place existed. I work in the opposite direction and am too busy to get out much.” 

“Ah, a workaholic I see. Well, our breakfast is to die for. Like all of it. Sweet or savory, it's amazing. Our subs are good too. The rest is pretty typical.” Peggy makes a selection or two and orders a cup of coffee. “Comin’ right up,” the woman smiles before heading to the kitchen. 

Peggy keeps her eyes on alert and tries to scan the diner for exits, anomalies, or anything interesting. 

But it seems like a classic diner. 

At least on the facade. 

Whenever the chrome doors to the kitchen swing open, she flicks her eyes there, searching in the space beyond. They only had his old spec-ops photo and a grainy recent one from a street cam. He should be tall, some shade of blonde, and very muscled. 

But no luck. She never catches sight of someone who could be a match. Thankfully the food is good so it isn’t a complete waste of time. She pays and tips well and then heads back to her apartment to plan. There’s literally no time to waste. So she walks into a grocery store and buys ingredients to bake something. 

After procuring the items, she goes to her apartment and bakes the pan of brownies, adding a cream cheese glaze and wrapping them up nicely, and scribbling a note in a disguised handwriting, before heading to his apartment building. 

Since they don’t know his work schedule, she waits patiently in the main stairwell. Something tells her he’s a stairwell guy and not an elevator guy. 

Two hours she waits. Slowly shifting up and down as other residents pass her by with a nod or a smile or completely ignoring her. She makes sure to look fretful each time, but not enough for them to approach her. 

Then, 136 minutes later, she hears the stairwell door to the lobby open and she peers over to see a massive form stepping up onto the first landing. 

Something in her gut tells her this is him. Without hesitation she jabs at her eyes, reddening them immediately and causing them to water. She opens the nearest floor and then slams the door closed, making a large echo. Softly she begins to whimper as if trying not to cry and hurrying down the steps. She keeps her ears sharp, listening to his soft footfalls as they rise and hers fall. 

When she’s a floor and a half above him, only about 26 steps separating them, she makes a gasping squeak sound and “drops” her brownies down the steps. The clattering of the metal pan is loud and she lets out a pained sound as she clatters her shoes and then sits heavily halfway down the stairs. 

Now she doesn’t hold back, rubbing at her eyes furiously and bringing up tears, letting them well up and fall as she scrubs at her face furiously. 

Without waiting for him to find her there, (as she heard him pause below at her ruckus) she slowly shuffles down to the landing where her brownies are now lid-side down. 

She’s about to gather them up when she hears a “are you alright?” 

She flinches in surprise. She thought he was still a flight below her. Damn he can move quietly. 

“Oh--” she breathes out, quickly rubbing at her face and plastering on a fake smile. “Yeah, thanks.” 

She turns her face away, wiping at her face more, glad she chose non-waterproof mascara. Shakily she reaches down to grab the pan, but large hands appear and pick it up, then reach out a hand to her, “did you fall?” 

Sincere blue eyes meet hers. He is blonde, but it’s a dark, deep golden and it hangs over his forehead and to the back of his neck. A full beard covers the lower half of his face. 

“I plead the fifth,” she manages out with a watery smile. 

His smile sort of takes her breath away. He’s rather handsome. No, not rather. Incredibly handsome. 

Gently he flips over the pan to uncover the mess her brownies have become. Cream cheese glaze sticks to the lid and he winces, “sorry about this.” 

She laughs softly, shifting her weight and pretending to wince as she settles on the bottom step, “it doesn't matter anyways,” 

“Oh?” He asks, and he surprises her by moving from his crouch to sitting on the landing, legs hanging over the lower set of stairs, “why?” 

“I’d rather not say,” she whispers out, “it's embarrassing.” 

She can see that makes him curious but he doesn't press. Instead, his eyes flit around and catch on what she hopes they would. The note. 

He reaches over and snags it. “Oh don’t,” she snatches it out of his hands. “It’s no big deal. It’s just me being stupid.” She wipes at her face again and gives a brave smile, scooching to the side, “sorry, I’m blocking your path.” 

He’s still holding the brownies and he’s got a pensive look on his face, “and if I leave you, how long will it be before you can walk?” She waves him off and uses the handrail to pull herself up. She takes a valiant step and purposefully wobbles, letting out a squeak. In an instant he’s there steadying her and looking at her reproachfully, “you’ve sprained it.” 

“I doubt it,” she responds, internalizing all his details. He smells like pie and griddle grease. He’s 6’4, probably 230lbs. Mostly muscle. “It’s just tweaked from the fall.” 

“So you did fall,” he accuses.

“More of a stumble,” she steps out of his grasp and leans against the wall, keeping weight off her fake injured ankle. One of his large hands is holding the pan and she gasps in surprise. His other holds the note. “How--?” 

But he’s reading it and frowning. His eyes flick to her, “who wrote this?” 

She shrugs and reaches out, snatching it again and shoving it into her pocket. “It’s none of your business.” 

At that he nods, “you’re right. It’s not.” 

She reaches out for the pan and he deposits it in her hands. Neither move. 

“You can go,” she says stiffly. 

“I know. So can you.” He raises an eyebrow, “right?” 

Wearily she sinks back to the step and sighs, “in a few minutes.” 

“I have a first aid kit. I could wrap it, or give you some tylenol for swelling.” 

She scoffs, “trying to get me into your apartment, huh?” 

His eyes widen and he chokes out a “what? No! I--” She gives a watery laugh that turns into a sob and she’s shoving her head into her hands. She hears him settle beside her. “Who wrote that note, seriously?” 

“Why do you care,” she bites out. But she plays it well. The embarrassed woman lashing out. 

“Because I’m a human being,” he says firmly back, “and whoever wrote that isn’t your friend.” 

“Colleague.” 

“What?” 

“I’ve just started a new job,” she lifts her head to see him watching her. “I’ve just moved to New York. I’m new and green and apparently quite the fool.” 

She looks down on the fake note. She’d written the building’s address with a top floor that didn’t exist and included a “oh, and the elevator is broken so you’ll have to take the stairs.” 

“Does your colleague actually live here?” 

“I don’t know,” she answers, “I just followed the note.” 

“The elevator is not broken by the way.” 

She lets out a pathetic huff and shakes her head, “I’m such a fool.” 

“Why, for believing in people?” 

“For believing I, an old woman could make a new start in such a hectic city.” 

He frowns, “old? You’re like 28.” 

She turns to him and frowns, “don’t try to flatter me. I’m pouting.” 

He grins and his shoulders lift. “Okay, how about 32?” 

She lets a small smile creep on her lips, “I’m 38.” 

He raises his eyebrows and then frowns, “you think 38 is old? I’m offended. I’m 40.” That was good. He’s telling her the truth. 

She makes her lips go into an innocent ‘o’ shape before she smiles, wiping at her eyes again, “my apologies.”

“So you have asshole colleagues, what else is new?” 

She shifts and tries to find the balance between dejected and engaged, “your colleagues are pranksters too?” 

“First, this is not a prank, that’s bullying--” he waves the note, “and no, mine currently aren’t, but I’ve sure had my share of them. I hope you tell off however wrote this.” 

“Oh,” she shakes her head, trying to appear small, “no, I… No, it's fine. I’ll just learn my lesson and move on.” 

“And what lesson is that?” 

“That I can’t trust people,” she says with a rueful grin, “I’ve always been a fool. Maybe this time the lesson will stick.” 

“People can be awful,” he responds slowly, “but… you can’t stop believing in them. You have to trust, or you’ll end up alone.” 

She looks around, "I think I already have.” 

He looks offended, but there’s a tug of his lips, “then what am I?” 

Another small smile pulls from her lips, “a kind stranger I won’t see again.” 

That seems to stop him short. After a second of thoughtful silence he gestures to the pan, “I don’t have to be.” 

Her hair moves as she tilts her head, “oh?” 

“New York is a lot. And there are a lot of jerks. But I can be a friend whenever you need one.” He gestures west, “I work at a diner, just a few blocks over. L & L Automat--” 

She gasps, “I just ate there this morning!" 

His surprise mirrors her, “you did? 

“Yes! I ordered the hashbrown bowl with a side of--” 

“Cinnamon Roll pancakes,” he finishes. “I remember your order. Extra gravy on the side.” 

A strange sense of true humor fills her. Even meaning to run into him there it’s weird he cooked her order. 

“That was me,” she says with a shy grin, “it was delicious.” 

“I’m glad.” He’s nodding, “well, what a coincidence.” The words make her internally stiffen. Has he drawn the correct conclusion? But she studies his face and he seems unperplexed. Totally at ease, “how's the ankle feel?” 

“Fine,” she rolls it as proof, “think I just shocked it. But I don’t think it’s sprained or broken.” 

“That’s good. Are you going to be okay making it home? Is it far?” 

“Just two blocks actually,” she admits. 

“Okay, well then here--” he stands and offers his hand. 

She takes it and gets to her feet, “falling” against him just momentarily in the small space before smiling embarrassedly and stepping back, “thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” he responds honestly, “I meant what I said.” 

“About me looking 32?” She asks impishly. 

He laughs and shakes his head, “not a day over 28 actually. But no, I know we don’t know each other, and maybe we won’t end up being friends, but New York is a big place. Don’t let it get you down. There’s a true community out there for you if you are patient enough to find it.” 

The words sink into her chest. This is not how she expected this man to behave. But she doesn't let it throw her. She has a mission to accomplish as quickly as possible. “Do you,” she clears her throat and shifts the pan in her hands awkwardly, “work there tomorrow?” 

Without showing much of a reaction, he nods, “I do. 5a.m. to 3p.m.” 

“Maybe… I’ll see you there?” 

At this he allows a soft smile and a nod, “of course. Just ask your server for Steve.” 

“Steve--” she smiles, this time a bit more bravely, “I’m Ellie.” 

“Ellie,” he repeats, "Nice to meet you. And welcome to New York.” 

“Thank you, and--” she gestures to the space, “thanks for the pep talk.” 

He huffs a smile and nods, “anytime.” 

She walks down the next flight and just at the last second glances back up to see him still there, watching to make sure she makes it down the stairs okay. She ducks her head in embarrassment, “I promise I won’t fall again.” Then she walks further down and down until she’s pressing out into the lobby. 

--------------------------

She spends an unusual amount of time thinking about the meeting. It had gone perfectly, as she’d planned. Men fell into a few categories, but almost all of them liked to be seen as a “hero” or “savior” to a damsel in distress. 

But everything else struck her as strange. Perhaps it is foolish of her, but she’d expected some resistance or suspicion or at the very least wariness. But he’d had none. Seemed to melt right into her hands. 

It had been years since she’d been in the field. That doubt was getting to her. It had almost been too easy to make contact. Maybe he knew. Maybe he isn’t playing into her hands, maybe she’s playing into his. Maybe that’s how he got the other men and dispatched them. 

That’s too many maybes for a mission. 

________________________________

The diner is decently full when she arrives at 9 a.m. on the dot. She’s wearing a nice sweater that hugs her curves and jeans that flatter her shape. 

She’s decided to continue her ruse and push it to the extreme. He is special ops, or was, which means he knows patience well. So she will probably have to be the one pushing it forward. An older single woman looking for love seems like a reasonable and plausible thing. His suspicions shouldn’t be raised. He’d helped her, he was handsome, and he’d invited her to come. That could equal her getting mixed signals. 

“You’re back!” The same waitress, Angie, smiles at her. “That good huh?” 

Peggy nods, “It was delicious, but I confess I have a far more embarrassing reason.” 

The woman looks confused, “oh?” 

“I was making a fool of myself yesterday and I ran into a man who was kind and helpful and he told me he works here… a Steve?” 

The woman’s eyes go wide, dip down to Peggy’s outfit and clear signs of nervousness and then flick back up to Peggy’s face. The woman lights up like a lightbulb, “you’re kidding, Steve?! Flirted with you?!” 

Peggy pretends to be embarrassed, “You’re right. He wouldn’t. I know--” he lets her throat catch as if she might cry, “it was foolish of me to believe that he was! He probably was just taking pity on me--” 

The woman waves her hands and drops into a crouch, balancing herself with the edge of the chrome sided table, “no! That’s not what I meant! You’re fuckin gorgeous, don’t you know? I mean that Steve is hella shy around women! So the fact that he flirted with you is like earth shattering news!” 

Shy around women? An interesting factoid to learn. “Well,” Peggy starts slowly, “he didn't exactly flirt, he just offered friendship to this newbie--” she gestures to herself, “since I have no friends here in the city.” 

Angie smiles, “well now you have two, me and Steve. How about I put your order in and let him know you’re here? He can bring it out.” 

“Oh,” Peggy pretends to get cold feet, “I don’t know, maybe this is too humiliating.” 

“No,” Angie presses, “don’t chicken out. This is good. Steve’s literally a great guy. The best. Seriously, one of the best men in this city. That’s not an exaggeration." 

The woman is staring at Peggy with such earnestness that Peggy feels a sense of unease shift in her gut. If the murders and acts of horror in the files were this man, then he must be an immense actor, or perhaps suffer from mental delusion. Which is usually the case with most killers of his nature anyways.

Peggy pretends to agree and gives her the same order. It had been very good. 

Not 15 minutes later, she watches him walk out, plates in his hands. His white shirt is tight and a bit messy from the kitchen. The apron around his waist is pulled tightly, revealing a slim waist. He really is incredibly fit. Her first thought is: How could he not be confident around women? And her second is: he’s not wearing explosives on his chest. That is a good sign for her. 

He sets the plates down and seems to second guess something before he sits in the booth across from her, “you came.” 

She keeps her eyes moving, seeming embarrassed and shy, “of course I did.” 

“Did you make it home alright?” 

“I did. My ankle feels perfectly fine. It really was just the shock of the fall.” 

“Do you work today?”

“No, I'm on an alternating schedule.” 

“So no yelling at that coworker then.” 

She looks up and lets a soft smile grace her face, one that reads fondness, “no, not today. You’re a protective person of the people you care about, aren’t you?”

He seems surprised by her assessment, but then nods, "I suppose you could say that.” 

“That’s lovely,” she whispers, looking away, “your friends and family are very lucky.” 

“I’m sure your family is lucky to have you as well,” he offers genuinely, “only someone very kind would make delicious brownies and haul them up 10 floors.” 

She lets out a wobbly laugh and taps the table with her nails, painted a soft pink instead of their usual dark red, “oh no,” she responds, “my family and I never really got along. I was the black sheep of my family. But that’s alright. I don’t mind being on my own.” 

Steve frowns and pushes her plates closer, motioning for her to begin eating. She takes a small bite and it’s quiet for a moment. 

“I wish I could say something to make you feel better,” he finally says quietly, “but I do know the feeling of being on your own. So I’m afraid I’m not much help.” 

She takes another bite, “your family?” 

“None living.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright. I’ve lived twice as long without them as I did with them.” 

“Friends?” 

His eyes flick to Angie but then settle back on the table. “I do have a few good supportive friends in my life. But I lost my best friend a while back and that’s been a hole I haven’t been able to fill.”

Friend. She searches his face to see if he’s trying to threaten her, to tell her he knows who she is and what she’s searching for. But all his features telegraph is grief. 

“You’ve led a life of significant loss?” She finally asks. 

“You could describe it that way.” 

“So we’re both alone in this world?” 

He smiles a bit sadly and then shakes his head, “no one is truly alone. Not forever.” 

A sweet and gentle sentiment she can’t seem to rectify with the killer he is.

She needs to get a move on. 

“Is it too impulsive of me to ask you on a date?” His eyes widen and she ducks her head in “shyness”. 

“You’re asking me?” He asks incredulously. 

She laughs softly, “of course I am! The sweet kind gentleman who metaphorically and literally helped me yesterday and picked me up when I had fallen? Who is rather handsome and a good cook?” She’s teasing him now, and it’s weirdly easy. Usually she has to swallow down bile as she seduces her victims. But instead of being a government sleaze or some random man with important information, this is a cold blooded killer who somehow has the presence of a reassuring service animal. 

“I’m just surprised I--” he starts to look bashful, “haven’t really participated in social niceties in a long while.” 

“Oh,” her hopeful smile slides to brittle and embarrassed, “I’ll take that as a no.” 

She starts to eat quietly and while she doesn’t look up, she can see him wringing his hands nervously. How often do killers get nervous? 

Something zings off his head and a grape rolls into her vision. 

She looks up to see Angie glaring at the man and Steve glaring back. 

She looks down again, pretending not to have noticed. 

“It’s not a no,” she hears him say after a tense moment, “sorry, I’m just caught off guard.” 

“I don’t want to pressure you—“ she reaches for the grape and places it before him, “or perhaps others pressure you.” 

His face reddens and he glares back at Angie before taking a deep breath and shifting his expression to calm, “no, it’s not that.” 

“So,” she starts to smile again, “what is it?” 

“He’d love to go on a date with you,” Angie says appearing at his elbow, “he’s just shy as a street cat. So yes, he will happily go. tonight.” The waitress shoves her elbow into his shoulder. “Right, Steve?” 

Peggy laughs and shoos the woman off, “please, he has to say yes of his own accord, not yours!” 

Angie laughs in return and pats Steve on the head, “he says yes.” 

Then she leaves to service another table and Peggy eyes Steve with a raised brow, “she has to be your sister.” 

He chuckles, “she’s not but she acts like it. And she’s usually not so pushy—“ he frowns, “actually that’s a lie but not this obvious.” 

“I suppose I’m still waiting for your answer.” 

He looks at her wryly and then nods, “I would. I would like to take you out. If we haven’t scared you away.” 

Peggy allows mirth to cover her expression, “truthfully I’m more intrigued. How can a man as handsome as you not participate in social niceties?” 

“Just busy,” he lies. “What time?” 

“I’m amenable?” 

“I’ll pick you up at 6?” He offers, “in the lobby of your apartment?” 

She grins, “perfect, here—“ she pulls out a napkin from the dispenser and writes her address on it, along with her cell number. “I’ll see you then.” 

He nods, still looking off kilter and stands, “I’ll see you then.” 

As he heads back to the kitchen she has to mentally reassign the excitement she feels to anticipation. She might finish this mission tonight. She is not sure excited to go on a date with this blood thirsty killer. 

————————-

He’s perfectly punctual, and sinfully handsome when he shows up. A white button up, with a wide old school tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and high waisted slacks that make him look like he could be heading to work at a newspaper company in the forties. His hair is neatly arranged and beard groomed and neat. 

“My,” she breathes out, “you look lovely.” 

“So do you,” he responds, offering his arm. She is in a rather form fitting deep purple velvet dress with black heels. She does look fabulous if she says so herself. 

“I know I asked you on this date,” she starts, “but since I’m new to this city, I don’t have much knowledge of fun things, do you have any ideas?” 

He turns to her and seems to light up, “actually, there’s this gallery at the Moma that’s just opened and I really wanted to go see it, but I haven’t found the time. But only if you’re interested?” 

“The art museum?” She asks, caught off guard. 

“Yeah,” he wrinkles his nose, “I’ve always loved art and museums. Is that lame?” 

“No,” she is quick to respond, still internally surprised, “no I think that’s rather a green flag.” 

She pulls him out the door and into the evening, “was the way.” 

———————-

At the end of the next three hours, she’s had to remind herself two dozen times how many people this man has killed. How many lives are at stake if she gets this wrong. 

But it’s difficult when everything about him screams something else. He’s polite. Gentlemanly. He listens and talks and knows about art and life and he seems wise. He doesn’t spiral off into unhinged opinions about the state of the world. 

He’s perfect. 

Which makes her suspicious. Maybe her original thought, that he knows what she is, is correct. What could be the other explanation for his behavior? It doesn’t match who he’s supposed to be, although they don’t have much on him other that his past records. 

Speaking of the past, he doesn’t. She asks a few questions, normal date questions but he either sidesteps them or gives generic answers and then immediately changes the subject. It’s how she knows there’s more to the man than just his stellar date behavior. 

But he is unsettling to her. She doesn’t like how intense this mission is, how quickly it’s becoming easy to forget who he is. She needs to speed things up to ensure the right outcome. And then no more White Widow missions for her. She’s clearly losing her edge if she can’t keep her head on straight with a ruthless killer just because he’s handsome and nice to her. 

“I’m boring you,” he grimaces, “sorry. I tend to ramble about art.” 

She’s pulled from her thoughts to see him looking genuinely apologetic. 

“No,” she reassures, “no it wasn’t that at all. I—“ think quick. “I’ll be honest,” she dips her head to seem embarrassed, “I’m rather preoccupied with my dishonorable thoughts.” 

He furrows his brow, “what?” 

“Your standing here—“ alright, this will accomplish two goals, save this conversation and end this mission as quickly as possible, “handsome as sin, and I’m just a human, you know. I’m susceptible to urges.” 

His expression grows more confused, not less. 

She laughs softly and steps in a soft circle around him, her hand trailing along his shirt over his taught stomach, then ribs, then back and spine before stopping in front of him again, “are you… up for a longer first date?” 

That’s when it clicks for him. His eyes widen and he gets very nervous. People bustle around them during the evening hours of the museum but he’s acting like she’s undressing him right there. He steps back and his shoulders are high by his ears. “Oh, uh--” He’s swallowing thickly and scrubbing the back of his neck, “I don’t know, I--” 

She steps closer, making her movements slow and sure, “What don’t you know?” 

“That would be moving pretty fast,” he gets out, “I don’t want to rush into anything.” 

Shit. Really? Ugh, why is the most dangerous man the most cautious? Actually the two were probably related. Not rushing into things headless but careful, planning, tactical. But if she delays now, it may take awhile to get to this place again. So she needs to not relent.

“You’re 40,” she starts, “I’m 38. I don’t think anyone could accuse us of rushing,” She smiles, “don’t you know when it’s right?” 

The words should feel repulsive and vomitous. Instead they’re easy to say and he must sense that as he relaxes a bit, “how about we take tonight slow. Not force anything.” 

“How about I invite you up for a drink and we see where it goes from there?” She teases, grabbing his hand and pulling him through the doors to the city streets. 

_______________________

The whole way he tries to speak in slow cautious tones, warning of acting too rashly or diving headfirst, but she just laughs and teases and continuously pulls him along. He could resist. He is clearly strong enough, but he doesn’t. And that tells her that he is interested and that she can finish this tonight. She just needs to keep pushing the right buttons. 

When they get to her apartment building, he makes one last push for resisting, but she yanks him into the elevator and begins to kiss him. “Be quiet,” she whispers against his lips. He obeys, kissing her back and pressing her against the mirrored panel on the wall. 

It's disconcerting how lovely his lips feel when he moves them from her lips to her jaw and then neck. 

The ding of the elevator makes her giggle stupidly and she once again yanks him out of the car and into the hallway, managing to get her door open and him through it in less than 20 seconds. She presses his back against it and resumes kissing him. He’s done protesting now, equally as engaged in the activity and he grips her waist and pulls her against him. 

She pulls away, staring at him and slipping off her heels. 

Their heights change drastically and his smile as his eyes trail down to her new height makes a shiver go through her. On the stairs she’d been higher, at the diner, they’d been sitting. But here… here she stood all of 5’4’’ and he was an entire 12 inches taller. It should scare her, his massive height and weight. She should be terrified that he could easily choke the life out of her. But… she doesn’t. He doesn’t know she’s here to capture him. He wants her. It’s a heady, powerful feeling. 

She motions him forward with her finger and he steps closer. Eyes never leaving her face. “Help,” she spins, gesturing to her zipper. His hands find her back and she hears the soft ‘zip’ as it slides down her back. “Sit,” she commands. 

He sits on her small couch and she shimmies the dress over and off of her hips, revealing her matching lacy underthings. Deep black against her pale skin. His eyes survey her body and his hands grip his knees, presumably to keep from grabbing her. 

“Your turn,” she teases. 

BUt this was her plan. She needed to know he was completely unarmed, in a place he couldn’t control and then subdue him and make the call to HQ. 

Slowly he began to unbutton his shirt and he threw it and his tie on the seat next to him. “More,” she commands. 

But she sees him hesitate and she can’t have that, so she climbs onto his lap, settling her hips against his and leaning forward, kissing him thoroughly again. She drags his hands up to her waist and leaves them there before she starts running her hands through his soft hair. Thankfully he responds and soon she’s tilting her head back and he’s making it hard to think with his lips and his hands. 

It should not be this difficult to focus when the man is a killer. She’s never actually derived pleasure from any of these missions. Another loop that makes her internally chastise herself. She needs to focus. Pulling back a little and settling on his lap, she holds his face in both her hands. He doesn't look hungry for more physicality or annoyed that the progress is halted. 

Without intending to, her fingers move of their own accord, scraping softly through his beard and over his lips. His eyes softly close and he pushes against her palm, kissing it softly. Something hums in her chest. He’s clearly touch starved. Which for a reclusive killer makes sense. 

More soft kisses that tingle through her veins and make her fingers grip him tighter. 

Alright. Time to move on. She’s letting this last too long. He has some strange hold over her. 

“Come on,” she whispers, standing up and pulling him to her bedroom. She does not turn the lights on as her plan needs darkness to work. “Get on the bed,” she teases, “I’ll be right there.” 

She disappears into her bathroom and applies her special lipstick quicker than she ever has. This is it, she’s almost got him. 

When she exits, the room is still dark but in the dim light from the living room she can see that he’s got his shirt in his hands. 

Panic races through her, “what are you doing?” 

He looks embarrassed. “I’m not thinking straight,” he says with an apologetic gesture, “I’m letting this get out of hand. We just met.” 

Shit. He was going to bail and she was going to lose her chance. “Oh,” she whispers out, “you’re going to abandon me, just like this?” She gestures to her mostly naked form and looks pouty, “let me guess. I’m not your type?” 

His eyes go wide, “no! No. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just… It’s been a long time since I’ve dated and I’m kind of old school and I’ve let my heart get ahead of my head.” 

Heart? She feels strange. But she needs to keep her head. “So your way of going slow is to… just leave?” 

He grimaces, “I’m sorry. I told you I was bad at this type of stuff.” 

She steps closer, getting in his space, “I don’t want this night to end.” 

He wrinkles his nose and sighs, “truthfully, neither do I. But I know it needs to. It's for the best of both of us.” 

Shit. Shit. Shit. She was going to lose her chance. Now if she forced herself it would be awkward. No wait-- She can manage this. 

“Alright,” she concedes, "I don't want to push you further than you want to go.” She snags a shirt out of the dresser and slips it over herself. “Perhaps we could just sit and talk before you go?” 

“I appreciate it,” he smiles softly, “but I think I’m weaker than you think. I think it’s best if I go.” 

“Oh--” he slips on his shirt and buttons it faster than she can blink. 

“I really did have a great time,” he admits, “I’d love to take you on another date sometime soon?” 

“Is that one you’ll ditch as well?” 

True frustration shows in her tone and he grimaces, “I’m sorry. Really. I enjoyed our one date,” his smile is growing wane, “I hope everything works out for you in the city.” 

He’s walking to her door. She’s mucked this up so badly that she’s going to fry this mission in less than 48 hours. 

“No,” she calls, catching him at the door. “No, I’m sorry. That’s my--” she thinks quickly, “I don’t react well when I’m rejected.” 

He turns, frowning, “rejected?” 

“I was offering you a good time. You turned me down, what else would you call that?” 

His expression is somber, “delayed gratification. I’m 40 and single. Do I seem like the type of guy who rushes things?” 

Yikes. She is reading this guy all wrong. He’s not like the other men who have melted in her hands. 

“You’re right,” she pastes on a smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll see you around.” 

He’s leaving. He’s leaving.

“Wait,” she catches his arm, “please. I don’t want our night to end on a sour note. I apologize for lashing out when my pride was hurt. I’d like us to make amends and try a different day?”

He doesn’t nod, but his face softens a bit, “yeah, maybe.” 

Shit. Maybe. “Goodnight.” 

Without waiting she pulls him down, as if to kiss him on the cheek, but hits the corner of his mouth on purpose. She lingers, hoping it will work. But all he does is pull his brows down as if he’s slightly confused. Well. In for a penny. 

She grips his chin and pulls it fully towards her, kissing him squarely on the lips. Firmly. 

She feels his weight start to drop and she catches it, settling him on his knees. He looks up at her, but instead of passing out which is what should be happening, his face looks mournful, betrayed. 

She kisses him once more, fiercely. And he sinks to the ground with a sad look on his face before his eyes flutter closed and he’s out. 

Without missing a beat she grabs her handcuffs form the drawer and secures him to the radiator right by the door. Then she grabs her cell and calls Pierce. 

“Hello?” 

“I have him,” she huffs, running to her room and changing into normal clothes, “he’s unconscious at my apartment.” 

“You’re kidding? So fast?” 

“You wanted the best,” she snaps, agitated for some reason, “you got her.” 

“We’re on our way.” 

After tossing her phone, she yanks pants on and grabs her gun. She’ll stand guard until they get there. 

——————

Not three minutes later she hears a clank. She turns to see him awake and looking at the handcuffs. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” she begins, “anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” 

“Who do you work for,” he asks, voice tired. 

“Shield. You have the right to an attorney—“ 

“You’re a white Widow?” He cuts her off, “I thought they aged out at 29.” 

She glares at him but he isn’t insulting her. He looks… downtrodden. 

“Yes, well, they sent me. Seems like it was a good plan.” 

“Yeah,” he whispers, “seems that way.” 

He falls silent and she reads him the rest of his rights. But he doesn’t respond, just looking at the handcuffs. 

“Is your apartment rigged to blow?” She asks, not liking the silence. 

“How long have you been at Shield?” He asks back, ignoring her question. 

“A decade.” 

“And before that?” 

“MI6,” she lets her voice fall to its normal accent, “is your apartment rigged to blow?” 

“Peggy Carter,” he finally says, startling her. “Shit I knew you looked familiar. The hair threw me off. And the color palette.” 

He is taking this too well. 

“Is your apartment rigged to blow, or the building in anyway?” 

His eyes flick to hers and he narrows them, but he doesn’t answer. 

She steps over and presses the heel of her boot against his neck, “tell me the truth.” 

Steve doesn’t seem to care about the pressure on his neck, he looks at her flatly, “the truth? You actually want the truth? Or are you so buried deep in Alexander Pierce’s lies you wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped you in the face.” 

She scoffs and shakes her head, “typical behavior. You’re incapacitated. You’re not in control so your only option is to spew lies in a feeble and might I say, pathetic attempt to rattle me.” 

“Fine,” he whispers, “you want to be rattled? I’ll prove to you I’m telling the truth. In 6 hours they’ll deem me unsafe for normal holding. So they’ll move me to solitary. But only three people will have access to speak to me. Pierce, the head of homeland security, who is under his thumb, and Brock Rumlow, Pierce’s right hand lackey. At least I assume he still is. Then, they’ll say I made an attempt on someone’s life like a guard or something equally as stupid and they’ll have to kill me to protect him.” 

Peggy’s frowning, “I don’t know where you’re getting your information from—“ 

“It’s already happened!” He snaps, “they did it to my best friend! They blamed him for an assassination that Pierce orchestrated and then killed Jim to keep him silent! I’ve been gathering evidence for almost 13 years to try to prove it.” 

“Be quiet.” 

“In my apartment,” he starts, “in my apartment, under the third floorboard from the left under the bookshelf with the sand timer is everything I have. If they get to my apartment first—“ he closes his eyes and leans back against her own wooden floors, “they’ll burn that place to hide what I know.” 

Peggy stays silent, unwilling to comment on his lies. 

“Let me guess—“ Steve continues, “Pierce told you I killed the men he sent to get me, or that I’ve done heinous things since the assassination of the president.” 

“Because you have.” 

“No.” The man is shaking his head, “both wrong. Those men tried and I told them the truth. But I knew Pierce would kill them if he caught wind that they knew the truth, so I snuck them out of the city.” 

“Liar.” 

“It’s all documented and hidden under the floorboard,” he repeats, “as are the real files of most of the things I’m accused of. It’s all orchestrated by that underground Neo Nazi corporation. They’re trying to dismantle our national security. And Pierce is aiding them! Please, you have to believe me.” 

“I don’t, and I won’t.” 

“I remember your name,” he says finally, “Erskine mentioned you—“ 

Her heart jolts. “How do you know that name?” 

“He said you were the best,” the man continues, “that you really believed in doing the best you could for those around you. To make this world a better place. If you let Pierce erase the truth then he was wrong about you.” 

“How do you know that name?” She asks again, “how! He wasn’t even ever officially shield!” 

Loud footsteps interrupt them and Steve looks at her, “one day… one day you’ll know i was right. Probably not before I’m dead, but one day. And when you figure it out, I hope you’re luckier than I was at trying to fix it.” 

Before she can answer a loud knock summons her to the door and she opens it. 

Director Pierce is there along with 10 armed guards. 

she looks down to see Steve with his eyes closed, and still. 

“So he’s still unconscious?” Pierce asks, “that’s good. Then we don’t have to worry about him fighting this—“ the man kneels down and injects something into Steve’s neck. 

She wants to argue. The flash of protectiveness is strange and she silences it. Not speaking to moving as they collect Steve from the ground and carry him away. 

“Did you find out what apartment he is in?” Pierce asks her, “and if it’s rigged?” 

Thankfully she doesn’t have to lie, “no. But I’m going to go to his building and try to figure it out. I’ll call the minute I know.” 

Pierce nods and eyes her with pride, “you did excellent work Agent Carter. You should be proud. You took a dangerous killer off the streets. You’ve made this country a better, safer place.” 

“Thank you,” she responds hoarsely as the man exits her fake apartment and leaves her standing there feeling like the world has gone sideways. 

——————————

Chapter Text

The dog, brought to sniff out Steve’s apartment, alerts on nothing in the whole building. Hallway after hallway, doorway after doorway, nothing. Only a brief pause in front of one door that turns out to be a man barbecuing steaks and smoking cigarettes while also having incense lit. 

No one blames the dog for being confused. 

When they leave and return to HQ, she’s stopped by an man on Strike Team. 

“You’re one lucky duck.” 

She frowns, “oh?” 

“When he went through processing and scanning, something popped up on his scalp. We shave his head--” her throat tightens at the thought. “And we found a barcode and a serial number.” 

Her mouth gapes, “a what?” Then she splutters, “No, for what?” 

“We took a fucking barcode scanner to his head and it pulled up files over 2 decades old. Turns out he was one of the trial runs for that old Sep program.” 

The name rings some bell, “Sep?” 

“S-E-P. The Soldier Enhancement Program. That scientist that was jointly working with Shield back in the old days before it transitioned a full separation from the SSR?  Turns out he was one of those that got experimented on. Those handcuffs you had him would have been like tissue paper to him. Hell, the stuff they injected in his neck would have been like Saline.” 

He’s saying something else. He’s still talking, but she can only picture his sad blue eyes as he looked at her and then pretended to be unconscious in front of Pierce. Her blood is throbbing through her veins painfully. The lipstick had worked, briefly. Maybe not even two minutes. 

He’d let them take him. 

Shit. Erskine. Erskine had chosen him? A jackhammer might have been in her ear for all she could think. 

“Crazy right?” The man says, “like I said, you’re lucky that lipstick worked.” 

Lucky. 

No. Luck isn’t a part of it.

“Where is he now?” She asks. “Which cell?” 

“Oh,” the man frowns, “he tried to swing on Pierce so they’re moving him to solitary. Especially since he’s enhanced.” 

The man leaves and she is frozen to the ground. 

She can’t keep her head on straight. What is real, what’s not? Is he… is he telling the truth? 

A phone rings in the distance and she jolts. Her nerves are on razor wire and she knows she won’t be able to rest until she gets to the bottom of this. 

/—————-

After a quick conversation with Pierce where he explains how dangerous Steve is and how he’s being moved to solitary, the weight in Peggy’s stomach gets heavier. Everything’s twisted up and she needs it straightened out. 

Which leads her to the diner. 

“You’re back!” 

She smiles weakly at Angie, “yes, for information actually.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes, do you know Steve’s apartment number? Somehow we forgot to trade numbers and I’m trying to get ahold of him.” 

“Oh, I have his number—“ 

“I’d like to speak to him in person. I was going to call him to meet up. Do you know it?” 

Angie considers her for a moment. “A long time ago he asked me to never give it out.” 

Peggy sigh, “I understand. Could you at least tell me his floor? I’ll knock on every door until he answers.” 

“Did something happen?” Angie asks, “is that why he didn’t call in and missed work?” 

Sickness rises in her throat, “yes. Please,” she grasps the woman’s hand. “Please tell me. It’s for his own good and safety.” 

Angie’s expression changes as her accent, her real accent pops out. “Who the hell are you?” 

“I’m not sure of that yet,” Peggy responds, “please. I promise that I mean Steve no harm.” 

The woman must believe her because she whispers “apartment 22B. Floor 15.” 

Peggy hugs the woman briskly, “thank you. Thank you,” she calls as she runs out the door. 

————————-

She waits till the hallway is clear and then picks the lock. A sensor starts to quietly beep and she only worries about explosives for a millisecond until she sees a flashing light in a hallway. This sensor is not to blow the place to pieces but to alert him that someone has entered. 

How many people have broken into his apartment? 

She doesn’t linger on the thought. She knows her time is waning faster than she can keep up. 

She follows his instructions exactly and finds the floorboard. After some wiggling it comes up and two expanding file folders are wedge there. 

Her heart begins to pound harder as she opens them up, pulling out classified files and skimming through them. 

He’s either telling the truth, or these are excellent copies. 

She’s pretty sure… she’s pretty sure she knows which. 

Is her whole life a lie? 

She replaces the floorboard, steals out of his apartment and races to a place she trusts. 

————————

“You want me to what?” 

“Scan each and every one of these. Then upload them to the internet.” 

“Carter, these are clearly marked classified.” 

“And the files we have have been manipulated. Natasha, trust me, something much bigger and much worse is afoot than a court martial for leaking documents. I need this to be your first priority.” 

“Peggy—“ 

“Please.” She says with a firm palm to the woman’s desk. “Read them as you scan them. You’ll understand.” 

The red head studies her and then nods, “okay. I trust you.” 

“Thank you.” 

————————-

“He’s what?” 

Rumlow frowns at her, “in solitary.” 

“No, I know that. I want to see him.” 

“That’s not what solitary means Agent Carter.” 

Peggy glares at the man, “step aside. Or I will call Pierce.” 

“Feel free.” 

She whips out her phone. 

“Carter?” 

“Why am I being barred from seeing Rogers?” 

“He’s not safe—“ 

“I don’t care. I have questions and it’s strange that he’s being controlled so tightly when I brought him in.” 

The drop of suspicion works like a charm. Pierce gives a disarming laugh and says “put me on speaker.” She does. “Rumlow? Let her pass. She wants to put her life at risk. Let her.” 

Soon she’s being led to a cell that’s clearly reinforced and lined with electricity. She gasps. He’s been beaten, clearly, and his shaved head is a stark difference from the long hair he had yesterday. He’s in a reinforced straight jacket and chained to the wall. 

“Why?” She asks quietly, hoping he’ll understand her question since there’s most likely ears listening. Why did you let yourself get taken? 

His eyes raise to meet hers and he looks sad. 

“Tired.” 

“Of hiding?” 

“Yeah.”

“And this was worth it?” 

“Depends,” his eyes sharpen, “did you ignore?” 

“Two expanding.” 

His head sags, “then it was worth it.” 

“Maybe not for you.” 

“I don’t care,” he says softly, “the big picture matters.” 

A sound makes her turn around and Rumow is at the door pretending not to be listening. 

“You’re a fool,” she says in a tight firm voice, but her eyes are telegraphing her true feelings, “this is not a self fulfilling prophecy.” 

His eyes grow tired, “we’ll see.” 

She leaves, rolling her eyes at Rumlow and heading back to the main floors. 

Everything goes into double speed after that. She’s sending emails to agents she trusts, she’s reaching out to other organizations that she knows don’t have any actual ties to Shield. She’s lost in a haze of crushing urgency and the spinning realization that her professional life has been being dictated by a secret nazi. 

It’s not a great day.

But she doesn't stop. It’s within her power to figure this out and fix it. And she will. 

_______________________________

18 hours later and it’s all set to explode. Metaphorically of course. She’s running on three hours of sleep, six coffees, and determination. 

Strike team has already been arrested, Rumlow getting off three shots before she took him down herself. 

Pierce is still in the dark, but they’re headed up to his office right now. 

When they step through his door and he sees her, flanked by Captain Dugan and Nick Fury, he raises a brow, “is there a party invitation I missed?”

_____________________

“Where is he?” 

Pierce, bleeding from the gun shot wound to his chest, eyes her with a weakening glare. “Date went that good?” 

“You bastard. You knew he was part of SEP. If he’d been evil like you said he could have killed me!” 

“It was an option I was hoping for.” 

Anger rips through her and she points the gun at him again, “where is he?” 

He laughs, blood dribbling from his lips. She’s pierced a lung. Good. “You don’t think I disposed of that bastard right away? He’s dead. Watch the camera footage.” 

Panic jolts through her, “you’re lying!” 

“Why would I lie? And why would I want the man who knows the truth alive? Didn’t save me in the end but--” he begins to cough, choking on his own blood and she just watches. 

_____________________________

“It’s not pretty.” 

“Press play.” 

The man grimaces and does as she orders. The cell footage is brutal as Steve is shocked and then dosed with something into his neck. He goes limp and they load him up onto a gurney and wheel him out of the room and down the hallway. 

His body passes under the camera and she feels a lump in her throat. She is too late. 

Guilt rises and threatens to overwhelm her as he watches the far double doors open and the gurney being pushed through it. “Pause--!” She shouts at the man who jumps in surprise and slams his hand down on the space bar, stopping it. 

“What?” 

“The gurney--” she breathes out, “look, there, you can see it’s the one with the straps.” 

“Okay..?”

“Doesn’t Shield have ones with and ones without?” 

“Yes.” 

“If he was dead, why use one with straps?” 

He looks at her, and then shrugs, “maybe it was the most convenient one?” 

“Or,” she leans forward, staring at the still image, “he’s not dead.” 

____________________________

It takes three weeks. 

Three long, blood boiling weeks for Pierce’s structures to break down, for all the rats to be caught and for all the files to be fully deconstructed before she’s able to get a lead. 

Then three more days until they’re able to actually locate a facility, buried beneath a bank in DC. 

She’s with the newly formed Strike team that’s not full of Nazi bastards. She walks softly in her boots as they approach a massive vault door. 

The one guard is caught and forced to open the door. 

Inside is a myriad of rooms. Tech is all collected and anyone who is inside is carted away. But still no Steve. 

It isn’t until they reach a room filled with medical equipment does she start to get a sick knot in her stomach. Another vault door is at the far end and she doesn’t hesitate to shoot the man who refuses to open it in the leg. He groans, and she points at his shoulder, “shall we try that again?” 

He opens the door. 

The lights make her grimace and block her eyes. Stark medical lights illuminate a circular space where-- she gasps. 

Steve is strapped down, needles in his arms and larger attachments at his neck and along his spine. His eyes are closed but there are marks around them as if he’d had goggles on too tight. 

Large screens are pushed to the side and metal bands hold down all his limbs. 

“Get him out!” She snarls, pointing her gun at the man who opened the door, “now!” 

The man shakily explains how to release the metal restraints before he’s carted away to a hospital to be cared for before being sent to prison. 

Once Steve is free, she gently holds his hand as he’s placed on another gurney, this one free of straps. 

“What were they doing to him?” Dugan asks, not mentioning the hand holding.

“Probably experimenting on him to replicate the SEP program. He allegedly has the original formula from Erskine.” 

“Oh damn. Really?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hey,” a member of Strike Team calls to them both, “were we looking for two guys? I thought it was just the one?” 

She turns to see him staring into a cylindrical pipe or container of some sort. It’s set into the ground and has frost on the outside. “I beg your pardon?” 

“There’s another guy in here, but this one is on ice.” 

She walks over and looks in, seeing a man’s face that makes her gasp. “It’s him.” 

______________________________

“Pretty sucky date, hmm?” 

She looks up from her laptop to see him watching her dazedly. She dumps all her belongings onto the chair as she steps over to his bedside, “you’re awake.” 

He nods, “think so.” 

“How do you feel?” 

“Like they found drugs almost strong enough for me.” 

She laughs weakly, “we’ve been trying. They’ve been mixing and matching. Thankfully you’ve not reacted badly to any of them. You just seemed to burn right through them.” 

“Part of the gig. Pierce?” 

“Dead.” 

He makes a sound in his throat that she almost takes for disappointment. 

“Not a satisfactory end?” 

“Prefer him rotting in jail to pay for his crimes, but yeah, I guess dead works too.” 

“Unfortunately it was kill or be killed. I chose kill.” 

‘Good for you.” 

“You chose to be taken. Even knowing this was a possible outcome.” 

“I did not see the torture and attempted brainwashing coming. That was a surprise.” 

“So you remember?” 

“Unfortunately I do.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, thanks. But also thanks to you, it stopped.” 

She needs to bring up Barnes, but she has a personal question first.

“Why me?” 

He frowns, “you what?” 

“You trusted me, told me the truth. Believed I would believe you.” 

His face shifts to amused, “I mean, I hoped. But I wasn’t sure. Remember I’d tried with everyone before, and they’d all chosen to run.” 

“But you told me the location of the evidence.” 

“You’re right,” he nods, “I did. But that’s because I realized that Pierce was getting smarter. I didn't see you coming.” 

“That’s more of a commendation of me than it is of Pierce.” 

“He didn’t hand pick you for the assignment?” 

“He--” she pauses. Then wrinkles her nose, “alright. Fair point.” 

“Not that a scheme like yours could have worked twice. In fact it barely worked the first time.” She didn’t argue. He had almost left that night. “But I suddenly realized how tired I was of hiding and hoping. I put all my eggs in your basket--” he grimaced, “metaphorically speaking.” 

Her laugh is soft and she nods, “well I appreciate you giving me the chance to see the truth. Itw as quite an awakening to know how long I’d been manipulated.” 

“I know the feeling.” 

“Speaking of being manipulated,” she whisper, “i have sme rather intense news?” 

He tilts his head, “oh? Sounds ominous.” 

“It rather is. You remember… we spoke about your friend… Barnes?” 

His eyes get sad, “yes.” 

“Well, Pierce lied and told us he killed you. But we didn’t believe him and luckily we were able to track you down and find you in that awful chair.” His eyes are starting to narrow as she continues, “and he lied about killing someone else.” 

He gets it immediately, sitting forward, “what!” 

“He’s not dead. But he’s been rather scrambled in the mental department. And I don’t say that in jest. He’s had more than a decade of their treatment. But he’s getting care.” 

The man starts to try to pry at the IV lines in his arm but she reaches out to stop him, “no, don’t.” 

“I gotta--” 

“You’re in no state.” And she knows that’s true when she’s able to pry his fingers off his own arm. If he was at normal strength she wouldn’t have stood a chance. “He isn’t awake right now. They’re doing somnia-therapy. Trying to see the extent of the influence in his brain. Lots of science things I don’t understand. So let them work while you also get better.” And without too much hesitation she reaches out and gently strokes the bit of hair that’s grown back in. Still short, but soft and blonde. “I’m sorry about your hair.” her nails graze gently over the barcode and he grimaces. 

“I didn’t know they were going to do that.” 

“They didn’t ask permission?” 

“More like my bad eyesight couldn’t read the small print. Bucky just skimmed and signed. Neither of our finest moments. And thankfully my hair grows fast.” She doesn’t move her hand and he looks at her with a softening gaze, “I don’t know if I said it. But thank you.” 

She smiles back and remembers how he treated her when she was just a fragile stranger on teh stairs, “you’re very welcome.” 

He swallows heavily and then hesitates before shifting his expression to serious, “maybe it’s the drugs talking but… if you wanted… we could actually go on that second date?” 

She grins, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

“No drugging me with lipstick this time though, deal?” 

Her grin turns mischievous, “not unless you want me to.” His neck starts to turn red and she laughs, “you’re 40 years old and you’re embarrassed?” 

“It’s the drugs,” he lies, then he laughs, “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d been out of society for a while.” 

“Out of practice, right? That’s what you mean?” 

He sighs, “you don’t mince words.” 

“Never have.” 

“Yes, that’s what I mean.” 

“Well, I’ve been looking for a teachable practice partner anyways. Up for the challenge?” 

The red has creeped up but he’s chuckling and eyes her warily, “am I hallucinating this conversation?” 

She leans over and places a soft kiss on his cheek. “Lucky for the both of us, it’s very real.” 

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