In this world, the Accords are signed without a hitch. There's no explosion, no assassination, no incriminating video to drive a wedge between the Avengers (there is a video, but she's not the one in it). The results, though less immediately violent, are similar; half the Avengers are outlaws, forced to hide from most of the world's governments.
And yet, even on the run, Steve Rogers still pursues her with a dogged determination that she knows will never end. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to; she sealed her fate when she hauled him out of the Potomac. Even so, she can't bring herself to regret doing it. She'd do it again if she had to. Through all the torture, all the brainwashing, everything that HYDRA did to her, Steve was the only fragment of memory she held onto, the only thing she had to call her own. She doesn't remember much about him, but she remembers the feeling of loving him, of being loved. She remembers the purity of his heart, his emotional strength, his goodness.
(It hurts to remember too much about him, or anything else about her past, like shards of broken glass slicing through her brain. For years, it was more convenient to forget nearly everything, but one glimpse of those blue eyes flooded her brain with memories.)
She's tired of running, but she isn't sure she knows what the alternative is, if there is an alternative. She can never be what he wants, she knows that. That woman is dead.
There's no reasonable explanation for why she's sitting cross-legged on the bed of his motel room one day when he returns. She's wearing a white t-shirt and black leggings, drying her hair with a towel and acting like everything is perfectly normal. But her gaze is flat and hard, and there are multiple weapons surrounding her on the bed. A pack next to the bed contains the rest of her worldly belongings - mostly more weapons, a couple changes of clothes. It's apparent that she's here to stay.
"You're bad at hiding," she tells him. Her accent is flat and American, no trace of the crisp RP she'd had during the war. Everything about her is carefully curated to appear perfectly generic, the kind of woman who wouldn't stand out in a crowd.
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And yet, even on the run, Steve Rogers still pursues her with a dogged determination that she knows will never end. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to; she sealed her fate when she hauled him out of the Potomac. Even so, she can't bring herself to regret doing it. She'd do it again if she had to. Through all the torture, all the brainwashing, everything that HYDRA did to her, Steve was the only fragment of memory she held onto, the only thing she had to call her own. She doesn't remember much about him, but she remembers the feeling of loving him, of being loved. She remembers the purity of his heart, his emotional strength, his goodness.
(It hurts to remember too much about him, or anything else about her past, like shards of broken glass slicing through her brain. For years, it was more convenient to forget nearly everything, but one glimpse of those blue eyes flooded her brain with memories.)
She's tired of running, but she isn't sure she knows what the alternative is, if there is an alternative. She can never be what he wants, she knows that. That woman is dead.
There's no reasonable explanation for why she's sitting cross-legged on the bed of his motel room one day when he returns. She's wearing a white t-shirt and black leggings, drying her hair with a towel and acting like everything is perfectly normal. But her gaze is flat and hard, and there are multiple weapons surrounding her on the bed. A pack next to the bed contains the rest of her worldly belongings - mostly more weapons, a couple changes of clothes. It's apparent that she's here to stay.
"You're bad at hiding," she tells him. Her accent is flat and American, no trace of the crisp RP she'd had during the war. Everything about her is carefully curated to appear perfectly generic, the kind of woman who wouldn't stand out in a crowd.