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It was too easy.
When the DEO called, Steve knew that it had to be serious. After all, they had Supergirl on their roster, and Superman on speed dial. From the beginning, Steve had felt uneasy about the realization that he was apparently third in line when things went south over at the DEO. But that was nothing compared to how uneasy he feels now, ushering Kara into the spartan hotel suite that the DEO rented out for their agents to run some last minute reconnaissance before he arrived on the scene. It was because of their surveillance that Steve was able to track her down so quickly, but that still doesn't explain why it was so easy for him to apprehend her. He was expecting more of a fight from her, and a dirty one at that, but in the end he was left with the nagging feeling that she had pulled her punches.
As suspicious as it was, Steve decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth right then. When he found her, Kara was in a crowded public park, the potential for civilian injuries perilously high; keeping people out of harm’s way had to be his first priority. What’s more, Steve knew that Kara would never forgive him if he had a chance to limit how much damage she could do and he chose not to take it.
So he did. It was too easy and he knew it, but Steve took the first opening he saw and didn’t press the issue when Supergirl all but let herself get captured. It’s not until they’re alone in the suite, waiting on a DEO caravan to escort them back to headquarters, that he finally calls her on it.
She’s cuffed, but he’s not under the impression it makes him any safer. Still, he stares her down as if she couldn’t disintegrate him with a glare. "Look, I’m not kidding myself here. I know the only reason I was able to bring you in is because you let me. But I won’t drag any more agents into this until I can be sure you won’t lash out, so get comfortable."
When the DEO called, Steve knew that it had to be serious. After all, they had Supergirl on their roster, and Superman on speed dial. From the beginning, Steve had felt uneasy about the realization that he was apparently third in line when things went south over at the DEO. But that was nothing compared to how uneasy he feels now, ushering Kara into the spartan hotel suite that the DEO rented out for their agents to run some last minute reconnaissance before he arrived on the scene. It was because of their surveillance that Steve was able to track her down so quickly, but that still doesn't explain why it was so easy for him to apprehend her. He was expecting more of a fight from her, and a dirty one at that, but in the end he was left with the nagging feeling that she had pulled her punches.
As suspicious as it was, Steve decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth right then. When he found her, Kara was in a crowded public park, the potential for civilian injuries perilously high; keeping people out of harm’s way had to be his first priority. What’s more, Steve knew that Kara would never forgive him if he had a chance to limit how much damage she could do and he chose not to take it.
So he did. It was too easy and he knew it, but Steve took the first opening he saw and didn’t press the issue when Supergirl all but let herself get captured. It’s not until they’re alone in the suite, waiting on a DEO caravan to escort them back to headquarters, that he finally calls her on it.
She’s cuffed, but he’s not under the impression it makes him any safer. Still, he stares her down as if she couldn’t disintegrate him with a glare. "Look, I’m not kidding myself here. I know the only reason I was able to bring you in is because you let me. But I won’t drag any more agents into this until I can be sure you won’t lash out, so get comfortable."
Lash out? ( it's almost laughable, how sure he sounds of himself, like his shield and slung punches could disarm her. the cuffs that dangle around her wrist are only steel, as easy as a twig to snap if she felt inclined. a fool's attempt at restraining something they couldn't possibly understand. ) I'm not the one lashing out, Captain.
( she knew why he was there. national city was three thousand miles from the avengers' ivory tower, but he was closer. he was the golden boy, the parallel to that two-dimensional too-good-to-be-true golden girl cat had tried to paint her as on tv. little miss do-good, little miss sunshine, always giving, giving, giving, never getting what she wanted. what she needed. not anymore, though. kara wasn't going to settle for second-best, or for what she was allowed. she was going to take it, by force if necessary, and to hell with anybody else.
she had hoped that her little stunt in the park might have netted her a showdown with kal-el, a real fight, something that would flex her muscles just itching for an opportunity, but they'd sent him instead, a patriotic present served up in a bulletproof van. not that bulletproof meant anything to real power. and now, thanks to his sweet, sweet naivety, they were alone, his only backup held aside by his own bravado. )
I don't want anybody to get hurt, ( she drawls, mockingly sincere; in the moments that follow, there's the quiet echo of metal clinking together behind her back, though her hands stay where he'd placed them for now. ) So why don't you come make me comfortable, boy scout?
( she knew why he was there. national city was three thousand miles from the avengers' ivory tower, but he was closer. he was the golden boy, the parallel to that two-dimensional too-good-to-be-true golden girl cat had tried to paint her as on tv. little miss do-good, little miss sunshine, always giving, giving, giving, never getting what she wanted. what she needed. not anymore, though. kara wasn't going to settle for second-best, or for what she was allowed. she was going to take it, by force if necessary, and to hell with anybody else.
she had hoped that her little stunt in the park might have netted her a showdown with kal-el, a real fight, something that would flex her muscles just itching for an opportunity, but they'd sent him instead, a patriotic present served up in a bulletproof van. not that bulletproof meant anything to real power. and now, thanks to his sweet, sweet naivety, they were alone, his only backup held aside by his own bravado. )
I don't want anybody to get hurt, ( she drawls, mockingly sincere; in the moments that follow, there's the quiet echo of metal clinking together behind her back, though her hands stay where he'd placed them for now. ) So why don't you come make me comfortable, boy scout?
( being a superhero comes fairly easy to kara. well, the hero part comes easily to her, at least — the billowing cape, the selfless application of skill and strength for the betterment of her city (and country, and even her planet, lately), and the courage to do the right thing even when it hurts. it's the super part that trips her up. being a public figure, one with no privacy, no right to have a bad day or a mess-up, has always been the challenge for kara.
she's been lucky enough to have cat grant in her corner. catco has always protected supergirl in the media, dissuaded the lowbrow paparazzi-fueled stories that would paint her as anything less than the good girl they've cast her to be. supergirl is the bronzed heroine of their digital age, practically the stuff of legends. her place is in national city, defending the helpless and protecting the weak.
so it comes as a bit of a surprise to kara to find herself summoned to new york city out of the blue one summer afternoon, the address in her dossier leading her to the gleaming glass front of avenger tower. supergirl isn't exactly inconspicious, but at least arriving from the air brings her to the flight deck rather than the ground-floor level; as much as she doesn't mind taking pictures or signing autographs in her cape and skirt, sometimes it's nice to have a quiet entrance for a change.
not that the quiet lasts very long, because it never really does for her. no, the quiet lasts only for a moment, because as soon as she pushes open the doors, there's a high-strung woman in a suit greeting her, talking a mile a minute and guiding her with a tentative hand to her arm into a small conference room where, judging by the sudden hush that falls over the room, it's clear she's the last to arrive.
the meeting itself is brief, almost clinically straightforward; kara can only listen with increasing flustered expressions as the public relations representative explains exactly why the avengers — technically, s.h.i.e.l.d., but "the semantics aren't important here" — have requested supergirl via interagency loan. the public's perception of "superheroes" has reached a critical low. they need a public relations boost, and after intense research and investigation, they've found the simplest option will be the best: love. not real love, though. fake love. pretend love. it works for celebrities. the public eats it up. they don't care if it's real or not, they just want to believe it.
and with that, kara's left alone (or rather, they're left alone) to resign herself to the reality of her situation, to review the copy of the dossier she hadn't bothered to read yet. she'd assumed there would be time to read and voice her objections upon arrival; if she'd taken the time to read before flying, she might have had a chance to protest to j'onn. now, though, it was too late — his signature as her supervising officer was already there, black and white on the faxed copy, and with it, her fate was sealed.
whether kara liked it or not, she was going to date steve rogers. or, rather, supergirl was going to date captain america. starting that day, because time was apparently of the essence, and they had a photo op in a park to create. )
I know you said 'don't be a stranger', but I didn't think this is what you meant.
she's been lucky enough to have cat grant in her corner. catco has always protected supergirl in the media, dissuaded the lowbrow paparazzi-fueled stories that would paint her as anything less than the good girl they've cast her to be. supergirl is the bronzed heroine of their digital age, practically the stuff of legends. her place is in national city, defending the helpless and protecting the weak.
so it comes as a bit of a surprise to kara to find herself summoned to new york city out of the blue one summer afternoon, the address in her dossier leading her to the gleaming glass front of avenger tower. supergirl isn't exactly inconspicious, but at least arriving from the air brings her to the flight deck rather than the ground-floor level; as much as she doesn't mind taking pictures or signing autographs in her cape and skirt, sometimes it's nice to have a quiet entrance for a change.
not that the quiet lasts very long, because it never really does for her. no, the quiet lasts only for a moment, because as soon as she pushes open the doors, there's a high-strung woman in a suit greeting her, talking a mile a minute and guiding her with a tentative hand to her arm into a small conference room where, judging by the sudden hush that falls over the room, it's clear she's the last to arrive.
the meeting itself is brief, almost clinically straightforward; kara can only listen with increasing flustered expressions as the public relations representative explains exactly why the avengers — technically, s.h.i.e.l.d., but "the semantics aren't important here" — have requested supergirl via interagency loan. the public's perception of "superheroes" has reached a critical low. they need a public relations boost, and after intense research and investigation, they've found the simplest option will be the best: love. not real love, though. fake love. pretend love. it works for celebrities. the public eats it up. they don't care if it's real or not, they just want to believe it.
and with that, kara's left alone (or rather, they're left alone) to resign herself to the reality of her situation, to review the copy of the dossier she hadn't bothered to read yet. she'd assumed there would be time to read and voice her objections upon arrival; if she'd taken the time to read before flying, she might have had a chance to protest to j'onn. now, though, it was too late — his signature as her supervising officer was already there, black and white on the faxed copy, and with it, her fate was sealed.
whether kara liked it or not, she was going to date steve rogers. or, rather, supergirl was going to date captain america. starting that day, because time was apparently of the essence, and they had a photo op in a park to create. )
I know you said 'don't be a stranger', but I didn't think this is what you meant.
To say that the mood in the conference room is tense would be an understatement. To the casual observer, it would appear that Captain America has been doing his level best to maintain that tension since the moment he arrived. And the truth is, that casual observer would be right. Steve understands that The Avengers need this, that it's even bigger than his team; he's seen the statistics, the polling data, the cable news punditry all pointing to an all-time low in public opinion on superheroes. He still disagrees fundamentally with what S.H.I.E.L.D. and the D.E.O. have proposed as a solution. But Fury knows just how to work him, because his briefing packet contained irrefutable evidence of the correlation between superheroes' abysmal approval ratings and rising hate crimes against enhanced individuals.
Few of the incidents have been widely publicized, as is so often the case with crimes against a politically vulnerable population, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has collected enough data to convince Steve of the urgency of the situation. Hostility against the enhanced will continue to rise until the public mood on superheroes shifts, and the people who will be most affected don't have time to wait for Steve to come up with a better solution. It's his discomfort versus the safety of hundreds, if not thousands, of civilians. So he agrees. But he makes sure that every S.H.I.E.L.D. and D.E.O. agent in this conference room is well aware of his disapproval. He can only hope it motivates them to come up with something better the next time they face a public perception problem.
Fury knew better than to show his face today, so he's glaring daggers at Maria Hill when Supergirl is escorted into the room. His heart sinks when he realizes she has no idea why they've called her in. He had the benefit of a heads up from Natasha, but not everyone has a Black Widow in their circle. He doesn't know how he would have reacted without advance warning, he just knows he couldn't have maintained his composure half as well as Supergirl ultimately does.
When the agents leave, Steve remains in his seat at the opposite end of the conference table, staring down at the folder in his hands and listening to the soft rustling of pages as she flips through her own packet. Suddenly, it occurs to Steve that she might think that he was in on all of this from the start, and he needs her to know that he would never have approve this plan, nor is he a fan of the execution, but before he opens his mouth to speak, she's diffusing the tension with a joke. His shoulders sag in relief; he couldn't express how grateful he feels to her in that moment if he tried.
"It really wasn't," he promises. "Fury's always had a unique way of bringing people together. I can't even say for sure that this is a first for S.H.I.E.L.D." He tries to tone down the bitterness in his voice before adding, "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."
Few of the incidents have been widely publicized, as is so often the case with crimes against a politically vulnerable population, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has collected enough data to convince Steve of the urgency of the situation. Hostility against the enhanced will continue to rise until the public mood on superheroes shifts, and the people who will be most affected don't have time to wait for Steve to come up with a better solution. It's his discomfort versus the safety of hundreds, if not thousands, of civilians. So he agrees. But he makes sure that every S.H.I.E.L.D. and D.E.O. agent in this conference room is well aware of his disapproval. He can only hope it motivates them to come up with something better the next time they face a public perception problem.
Fury knew better than to show his face today, so he's glaring daggers at Maria Hill when Supergirl is escorted into the room. His heart sinks when he realizes she has no idea why they've called her in. He had the benefit of a heads up from Natasha, but not everyone has a Black Widow in their circle. He doesn't know how he would have reacted without advance warning, he just knows he couldn't have maintained his composure half as well as Supergirl ultimately does.
When the agents leave, Steve remains in his seat at the opposite end of the conference table, staring down at the folder in his hands and listening to the soft rustling of pages as she flips through her own packet. Suddenly, it occurs to Steve that she might think that he was in on all of this from the start, and he needs her to know that he would never have approve this plan, nor is he a fan of the execution, but before he opens his mouth to speak, she's diffusing the tension with a joke. His shoulders sag in relief; he couldn't express how grateful he feels to her in that moment if he tried.
"It really wasn't," he promises. "Fury's always had a unique way of bringing people together. I can't even say for sure that this is a first for S.H.I.E.L.D." He tries to tone down the bitterness in his voice before adding, "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."
"You know, if you wanted a different partner, I'm sure my cousin's available."
But she's teasing, the slightest hint of a smile curving up the corners of her mouth as she pushes back her own chair. The call to tidy up after everyone is irresistable; among the scattered chairs and abandoned coffee cups, there's the inevitable mess of papers and folders left behind by uninterested parties only present for logistical reasons, so Kara has plenty to do while Steve fidgets with his own dossier. She feels more capable this way, with something to do — it reminds her of days that feel like a lifetime ago, when she was just Cat Grant's assistant, always rushing to clean up some mess while preventing the next.
Eventually, though, he rises from his own seat and joins her, and she lets him guide her out of the conference room down the hall to where the elevator awaits. She doesn't have clearance yet — her own SHIELD badge will come later, after a meeting with one of the Koenig brothers, so Steve's will have to do for now. The hallway is, at least, blissfully empty. There may be microphones in the tiles, but they're alone. That's something.
"Steve." Her voice drops, now, barely above a whisper as she steps a little closer. "This isn't the mission I would have signed up for, but... it could be worse, right? We can do this."
They'll have to, in any case. But they should try. They should at least try to sell this to the public. A hand, held out in his direction, is a good first step.
But she's teasing, the slightest hint of a smile curving up the corners of her mouth as she pushes back her own chair. The call to tidy up after everyone is irresistable; among the scattered chairs and abandoned coffee cups, there's the inevitable mess of papers and folders left behind by uninterested parties only present for logistical reasons, so Kara has plenty to do while Steve fidgets with his own dossier. She feels more capable this way, with something to do — it reminds her of days that feel like a lifetime ago, when she was just Cat Grant's assistant, always rushing to clean up some mess while preventing the next.
Eventually, though, he rises from his own seat and joins her, and she lets him guide her out of the conference room down the hall to where the elevator awaits. She doesn't have clearance yet — her own SHIELD badge will come later, after a meeting with one of the Koenig brothers, so Steve's will have to do for now. The hallway is, at least, blissfully empty. There may be microphones in the tiles, but they're alone. That's something.
"Steve." Her voice drops, now, barely above a whisper as she steps a little closer. "This isn't the mission I would have signed up for, but... it could be worse, right? We can do this."
They'll have to, in any case. But they should try. They should at least try to sell this to the public. A hand, held out in his direction, is a good first step.
Steve can only hope that his nervous laughter comes off as good-natured, because otherwise it'll seem like he's uncomfortable with the very suggestion that he would fake date Superman, and the reality is more complicated than he cares to explain. He doesn't mind the joke at all, he's just overthinking every potential response that comes to him. This sort of light banter is dangerously close to flirting, which has never been Steve's strong suit. And if he's honest with himself, he needs to start compartmentalizing right now, because the last thing this mission needs is for him to lose the ability to differentiate between fake feelings and real ones.
"I had a lot of objections today, but none of them had to do with who my partner is." He says this with as much sincerity as he can muster, because he really doesn't want Kara to get the impression that spending time with her is his problem with all of this. If anything, he's more outraged on her behalf than on his: unlike him, she has a full life of her own, with more than enough on her plate already.
He recognizes the impulse to busy oneself with whatever is on hand, so he doesn't bother telling her that someone on Stark Industries' payroll is undoubtedly standing by to clear the conference room once they've left. When she's done, he leads the way to the elevators, trying his very hardest not to worry about his ability to pull this off. He'll have to ask Natasha to coach him, lest he look unconvincing for the paparazzi. He may hate this idea, but he believes in the cause, so failure isn't an option.
Super soldier that he is, Steve hears her whisper clear as day. The elevator chimes its arrival and, without thinking, he takes Kara's outstretched hand in his and steps on. "We can do this," he agrees with a decisive nod. Instead of releasing her hand, he laces their fingers together, hoping it will feel more natural by the time they get to the park. "I don't love the idea that lying to the public is the best plan that two intelligence agencies could come up with, but that doesn't mean that I want this mission to fail. And I have no intention of letting Supergirl come out of this looking bad."
"I had a lot of objections today, but none of them had to do with who my partner is." He says this with as much sincerity as he can muster, because he really doesn't want Kara to get the impression that spending time with her is his problem with all of this. If anything, he's more outraged on her behalf than on his: unlike him, she has a full life of her own, with more than enough on her plate already.
He recognizes the impulse to busy oneself with whatever is on hand, so he doesn't bother telling her that someone on Stark Industries' payroll is undoubtedly standing by to clear the conference room once they've left. When she's done, he leads the way to the elevators, trying his very hardest not to worry about his ability to pull this off. He'll have to ask Natasha to coach him, lest he look unconvincing for the paparazzi. He may hate this idea, but he believes in the cause, so failure isn't an option.
Super soldier that he is, Steve hears her whisper clear as day. The elevator chimes its arrival and, without thinking, he takes Kara's outstretched hand in his and steps on. "We can do this," he agrees with a decisive nod. Instead of releasing her hand, he laces their fingers together, hoping it will feel more natural by the time they get to the park. "I don't love the idea that lying to the public is the best plan that two intelligence agencies could come up with, but that doesn't mean that I want this mission to fail. And I have no intention of letting Supergirl come out of this looking bad."
[ Steve Rogers may not know Daisy Johnson personally, but he has certainly heard of her. Her name is a recurring element in any conversation to do with enhanced individuals and the regulation thereof. Secretary Ross uttered it in the same stiff tone of voice he used for Wanda Maximoff, equal parts fear and resentment that one individual should possess such incredible power. Men like Ross are only ever fond of great power when they stand a chance of controlling it, and people like Wanda and Daisy Johnson are not inclined to let others wield them like human weapons. (He can only guess about Johnson, but her S.H.I.E.L.D. file certainly hinted at a rebellious streak.)
He doesn't know Daisy Johnson yet, but he feels as if he has a responsibility to her. It's all wrapped up in the sense of debt he feels toward everyone who now lives with a target on their back for being Inhuman or otherwise enhanced. Not that Steve believes that a better outcome was ever possible; the Sokovia Accords were fundamentally about restricting the rights and liberties of enhanced individuals, and no amount of negotiation was ever going to change that. But it's hard to not look at the aftermath and wonder if he could have somehow played it smarter.
Just because there was no other way doesn't mean that Steve has to sit back and watch a bad situation roll further downhill. Whether or not he could have prevented all of this is irrelevant; it went down the way that it did and now here they are. He knows only too well that no amount of hoping or wishing can turn back time. The only option is to move forward, and his way forward is making sure that the people he helped put in harm's way have the tools to defend themselves.
One of the perks of being an international fugitive is that the stakes can only get so high; he doesn't worry about ending up on a watchlist because he's already on all of them. As are several people far less deserving of the distinction, which is where Steve comes in. He's spent the past several weeks finding new and creative ways of crippling registration enforcement efforts, usually by targeting surveillance operations. He has kept his distance, working under cover of dark and taking great care to avoid notice. But when the new director of S.H.I.E.L.D. parades Daisy Johnson out on the national stage, Steve instantly recognizes the discomfort in her body language. It reminds him of how he felt before his first USO shows, only he had more or less known what he was getting himself into. He didn't get the sense that Agent Johnson had signed up to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s poster child, a dangerously public position for any Inhuman to hold in the current political climate. If she is being thrust into the spotlight against her will, he needs to help.
He doubts that Johnson will appreciate coming home to find him hiding in the shadows of her living room, but he can't exactly approach her in line at Starbucks. So he is waiting for her when she finally gets home that night, passing the time by brainstorming the least startling way to announce his presence. He sits up straighter when he hears her footsteps rounding the hall. It occurs to him that he's been in her exact position before, only when he opened his door, it was Nick Fury making himself at home in Steve's apartment. Steve isn't thrilled to find himself in Fury's shoes, but it's too late to second guess himself. He can already hear the key turning in the lock, and any second now he'll be introducing himself to the woman whose apartment he broke into. Here goes nothing.
As the door swings open, Steve steps forward into the faint yellow haze from the streetlights, flooding in through the cracks between the window blinds. ]
Agent Johnson. I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I was hoping we could talk.
He doesn't know Daisy Johnson yet, but he feels as if he has a responsibility to her. It's all wrapped up in the sense of debt he feels toward everyone who now lives with a target on their back for being Inhuman or otherwise enhanced. Not that Steve believes that a better outcome was ever possible; the Sokovia Accords were fundamentally about restricting the rights and liberties of enhanced individuals, and no amount of negotiation was ever going to change that. But it's hard to not look at the aftermath and wonder if he could have somehow played it smarter.
Just because there was no other way doesn't mean that Steve has to sit back and watch a bad situation roll further downhill. Whether or not he could have prevented all of this is irrelevant; it went down the way that it did and now here they are. He knows only too well that no amount of hoping or wishing can turn back time. The only option is to move forward, and his way forward is making sure that the people he helped put in harm's way have the tools to defend themselves.
One of the perks of being an international fugitive is that the stakes can only get so high; he doesn't worry about ending up on a watchlist because he's already on all of them. As are several people far less deserving of the distinction, which is where Steve comes in. He's spent the past several weeks finding new and creative ways of crippling registration enforcement efforts, usually by targeting surveillance operations. He has kept his distance, working under cover of dark and taking great care to avoid notice. But when the new director of S.H.I.E.L.D. parades Daisy Johnson out on the national stage, Steve instantly recognizes the discomfort in her body language. It reminds him of how he felt before his first USO shows, only he had more or less known what he was getting himself into. He didn't get the sense that Agent Johnson had signed up to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s poster child, a dangerously public position for any Inhuman to hold in the current political climate. If she is being thrust into the spotlight against her will, he needs to help.
He doubts that Johnson will appreciate coming home to find him hiding in the shadows of her living room, but he can't exactly approach her in line at Starbucks. So he is waiting for her when she finally gets home that night, passing the time by brainstorming the least startling way to announce his presence. He sits up straighter when he hears her footsteps rounding the hall. It occurs to him that he's been in her exact position before, only when he opened his door, it was Nick Fury making himself at home in Steve's apartment. Steve isn't thrilled to find himself in Fury's shoes, but it's too late to second guess himself. He can already hear the key turning in the lock, and any second now he'll be introducing himself to the woman whose apartment he broke into. Here goes nothing.
As the door swings open, Steve steps forward into the faint yellow haze from the streetlights, flooding in through the cracks between the window blinds. ]
Agent Johnson. I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I was hoping we could talk.
Edited 2019-04-24 04:59 (UTC)
[ she doesn't need an apartment. the fourth floor walk-up isn't the height of luxury, but a thousand square feet is ten times the floor space of her van — though if daisy's honest, she could probably do with half of it. she doesn't cook, barely remembers she has a couch at all; when she's home (if she's home at all), it's to crash on a bed she didn't even pick out, to crawl in between sheets stiff from disuse, and to sleep for as many uninterrupted hours as her schedule will allow.
maybe it's the fact that she's almost never here that lets her discount home security. she could have rigged up intrusion alarms, hidden cameras, trip wires — the dark web was filled with options, but so was the local home improvement store, and if she'd really been set on it, she's sure fitz could have helped her rig something up. but, honestly? she's never home, and she doesn't own anything that she'd mind losing that she leaves at home, so fuck it. security cameras and deadbolts were for boomer yuppies that had actual home furnishings. daisy's still counting herself lucky to sleep on an actual mattress.
tonight, she comes home distracted. key in the lock, hand on the doorbell, but her mind's elsewhere; it's arguing with mace over some stupid policy presentation, about dressing her up in yet another pseudo-patriotic pantsuit to sweet talk people who would rather see her dead or behind bars, mumbling irritated catchphrases under her breath as her bag drops to the empty box she keeps by the door for just this purpose. sure, it's tacky, but it works.
she's fully planning on riding this irritation train straight to bed. it would be nice. but that's not going to happen, because she's greeted with the absolutely terrifying surprise of some deep voice and the face behind it coming out of fucking nowhere with 'agent johnson' like that's normal. ]
What the fuck! [ thank god for training, honestly, because it's literally only muscle memory that prompts daisy to pull the smith and wesson from her belt. it's certainly not her logical, fully aware of her surroundings brain.
and then, after a beat, in which recognition dawns and daisy simultaneously clutches the gun a little tighter and hopes to god this isn't a test: ] You better have a damn good reason to break into my apartment, Captain.
maybe it's the fact that she's almost never here that lets her discount home security. she could have rigged up intrusion alarms, hidden cameras, trip wires — the dark web was filled with options, but so was the local home improvement store, and if she'd really been set on it, she's sure fitz could have helped her rig something up. but, honestly? she's never home, and she doesn't own anything that she'd mind losing that she leaves at home, so fuck it. security cameras and deadbolts were for boomer yuppies that had actual home furnishings. daisy's still counting herself lucky to sleep on an actual mattress.
tonight, she comes home distracted. key in the lock, hand on the doorbell, but her mind's elsewhere; it's arguing with mace over some stupid policy presentation, about dressing her up in yet another pseudo-patriotic pantsuit to sweet talk people who would rather see her dead or behind bars, mumbling irritated catchphrases under her breath as her bag drops to the empty box she keeps by the door for just this purpose. sure, it's tacky, but it works.
she's fully planning on riding this irritation train straight to bed. it would be nice. but that's not going to happen, because she's greeted with the absolutely terrifying surprise of some deep voice and the face behind it coming out of fucking nowhere with 'agent johnson' like that's normal. ]
What the fuck! [ thank god for training, honestly, because it's literally only muscle memory that prompts daisy to pull the smith and wesson from her belt. it's certainly not her logical, fully aware of her surroundings brain.
and then, after a beat, in which recognition dawns and daisy simultaneously clutches the gun a little tighter and hopes to god this isn't a test: ] You better have a damn good reason to break into my apartment, Captain.
"If I die," he'd told Rhodey, "make sure to bring me back to the lab. Don't let them do anything stupid, okay?"
Rhodey had given him a "what kind of stupid stunt do you have planned, Stark?" look, but had agreed in the end. And maybe that's what gives him the strength to look Thanos in the eye and snap his fingers, because he has a backup plan - it might not work, it's not like he can test it, but at least it's there.
(Maybe, in the end, he wants to prove to Steve that he can be the one to make the sacrifice play. That even if he hadn't worked it out, he'd still do this to save the world. And, really, he would; there's no denying that.)
Afterwards, he's tired - an exhaustion that seems to cut through his very soul. The kid's there, crying, and he tries to tell him it'll be all right, that he did a good job, but Tony can't manage to say anything, not even a croak. Everything hurts, and he's tired, and-
To him, it's little more than a blip. (Isn't that just the way things are going lately?) Realistically, Tony knows that it's been at least three days, that the cradle's rebuilt his body from scratch and uploaded a backup of his brain seconds before...seconds before, well, everything. Reducing it to scientific terms makes it easier to grasp; brains are just very complicated computers, and Tony's a fucking genius at code, and-
Okay, it's not so easy to grasp, and a moment of sheer existential terror rolls over him. Nearby, monitors blip alarmingly as his heart rate increases, and Tony's fingernails dig into the soft skin of his palms. (What's real anymore? Is he still real? Is he human? Fuck, why did he think this was a good idea?)
"Boss?" FRIDAY's voice sounds worried. "Boss, your vital signs are spiking. Is there an error in the programming? Should I initiate the Old Yeller protocol?"
God, there are moments when Tony regrets his sense of humor. (Not many, but they exist.) "No," he grits out. "No, Fri, it's fine. I'm fine." What's the keyword again? Shit. "Rosebud," he tries, but that's definitely not it. "Lassie, Flipper, Rin-Tin-Tin, Scooby-Doo-" Everything's slipping through his fingers as he panics. "Gandalf." Not an animal at all, as it turns out, and his heart rate slows a little. At least he's not in any danger of being destroyed.
He still hasn't made it out of the regeneration cradle, though. Tony stays there, staring up at the ceiling. "Is Steve around?" he asks finally. "Get him for me, FRIDAY. Unlock the damn door and let him in."
This is a great idea that cannot possibly go wrong in any way, shape, or form. Tony doesn't care; right now, he just wants to see Steve.
--
Wherever Steve is in the compound, FRIDAY suddenly speaks up, without warning. "Captain Rogers, your presence is required. Please proceed to Tony's workshop." When he gets there, he'll see that one of the panels of the wall has slid back, revealing a secret door and a palm reader, which responds to his palm and unlocks the door.
Rhodey had given him a "what kind of stupid stunt do you have planned, Stark?" look, but had agreed in the end. And maybe that's what gives him the strength to look Thanos in the eye and snap his fingers, because he has a backup plan - it might not work, it's not like he can test it, but at least it's there.
(Maybe, in the end, he wants to prove to Steve that he can be the one to make the sacrifice play. That even if he hadn't worked it out, he'd still do this to save the world. And, really, he would; there's no denying that.)
Afterwards, he's tired - an exhaustion that seems to cut through his very soul. The kid's there, crying, and he tries to tell him it'll be all right, that he did a good job, but Tony can't manage to say anything, not even a croak. Everything hurts, and he's tired, and-
To him, it's little more than a blip. (Isn't that just the way things are going lately?) Realistically, Tony knows that it's been at least three days, that the cradle's rebuilt his body from scratch and uploaded a backup of his brain seconds before...seconds before, well, everything. Reducing it to scientific terms makes it easier to grasp; brains are just very complicated computers, and Tony's a fucking genius at code, and-
Okay, it's not so easy to grasp, and a moment of sheer existential terror rolls over him. Nearby, monitors blip alarmingly as his heart rate increases, and Tony's fingernails dig into the soft skin of his palms. (What's real anymore? Is he still real? Is he human? Fuck, why did he think this was a good idea?)
"Boss?" FRIDAY's voice sounds worried. "Boss, your vital signs are spiking. Is there an error in the programming? Should I initiate the Old Yeller protocol?"
God, there are moments when Tony regrets his sense of humor. (Not many, but they exist.) "No," he grits out. "No, Fri, it's fine. I'm fine." What's the keyword again? Shit. "Rosebud," he tries, but that's definitely not it. "Lassie, Flipper, Rin-Tin-Tin, Scooby-Doo-" Everything's slipping through his fingers as he panics. "Gandalf." Not an animal at all, as it turns out, and his heart rate slows a little. At least he's not in any danger of being destroyed.
He still hasn't made it out of the regeneration cradle, though. Tony stays there, staring up at the ceiling. "Is Steve around?" he asks finally. "Get him for me, FRIDAY. Unlock the damn door and let him in."
This is a great idea that cannot possibly go wrong in any way, shape, or form. Tony doesn't care; right now, he just wants to see Steve.
--
Wherever Steve is in the compound, FRIDAY suddenly speaks up, without warning. "Captain Rogers, your presence is required. Please proceed to Tony's workshop." When he gets there, he'll see that one of the panels of the wall has slid back, revealing a secret door and a palm reader, which responds to his palm and unlocks the door.
Since Germany, Sam's been holding it together for Steve's sake. Steve needs someone to be strong right now, after everything that's happened to all of them, even if he won't admit it. But the problem is that Sam isn't doing so hot himself; between what happened to Rhodey and his time on the Raft, he's more of a mess than he's willing to let on. He hasn't been this bad since he came back to the States after his deployment, but at least he'd been with his family then, and he'd been able to hole up in his room on the worst days. Right now, he has no choice but to push through.
Even on the run, Steve's determined to help people any way he can, and that means that they regularly find themselves in the thick of a fight. It's not one of Sam's good days, and his reflexes are slower than they should be. A guy with a knife catches a glancing slash along his ribs before Sam punches him out. He barely notices it in the adrenaline surge of the fight; it's only afterwards when he realizes his shirt's wet that he looks down at the spreading dark stain, the ripped cloth.
"Fuck," Sam says, and then he faints.
When he comes to, he's back in their motel room, laid out in bed. "I've had worse shaving," he croaks weakly, on general principle. And it's really not a bad wound, all things considered - it could be a lot worse. The blade could've gone through his ribs and punctured a lung, and then he'd be eight kinds of fucked (and possibly dead) right now. But he knows Steve's gonna fuss over him like a mother hen nonetheless, and he feels goddamn stupid for getting hurt in the first place. "You know how to stitch a wound, or am I gonna have to talk you through it?" Most other places on his body, he could probably stitch himself up, but the cut is too awkwardly positioned for that to be feasible. At least they've got a better than average first aid kit, including suture tools.
Sighing, Sam lets his head fall back against the pillow, trying to ignore the surge of guilt that rises in his chest. He should've stayed in Wakanda, he thinks - but with Nat off doing her own information-gathering and Wanda, well, being Wanda, Steve's on his own, and he needs someone with him, if only to keep him from running headlong into every goddamn stupid fight he finds. (Because Sam's clearly doing a great job of that right now.)
Even on the run, Steve's determined to help people any way he can, and that means that they regularly find themselves in the thick of a fight. It's not one of Sam's good days, and his reflexes are slower than they should be. A guy with a knife catches a glancing slash along his ribs before Sam punches him out. He barely notices it in the adrenaline surge of the fight; it's only afterwards when he realizes his shirt's wet that he looks down at the spreading dark stain, the ripped cloth.
"Fuck," Sam says, and then he faints.
When he comes to, he's back in their motel room, laid out in bed. "I've had worse shaving," he croaks weakly, on general principle. And it's really not a bad wound, all things considered - it could be a lot worse. The blade could've gone through his ribs and punctured a lung, and then he'd be eight kinds of fucked (and possibly dead) right now. But he knows Steve's gonna fuss over him like a mother hen nonetheless, and he feels goddamn stupid for getting hurt in the first place. "You know how to stitch a wound, or am I gonna have to talk you through it?" Most other places on his body, he could probably stitch himself up, but the cut is too awkwardly positioned for that to be feasible. At least they've got a better than average first aid kit, including suture tools.
Sighing, Sam lets his head fall back against the pillow, trying to ignore the surge of guilt that rises in his chest. He should've stayed in Wakanda, he thinks - but with Nat off doing her own information-gathering and Wanda, well, being Wanda, Steve's on his own, and he needs someone with him, if only to keep him from running headlong into every goddamn stupid fight he finds. (Because Sam's clearly doing a great job of that right now.)
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.
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.
Edited (super minor wording edit) 2020-07-05 18:33 (UTC)
It doesn't take long for the USO girls to drag Steve into their beds. Sam watches as it happens, her gaze dark and unreadable. Some of the girls whisper that she's a Sapphist - not entirely wrong - but if any of them feel the same, they don't feel the need to proposition her. But, then, she's quiet, always holding back a bit. Steve's the one on stage, awkward as he is, and she's the one flying stunts wherever they can get a plane up in the air. (She fucking hates going back to this; she'd thought she'd gotten away from it when she joined Project Rebirth.) She's not part of the show, not part of the group - and, yeah, she hasn't missed that all the girls are lily-white. They're nice to her, as civil as a bunch of white girls can be, but there's still a line between them. They envelop Steve with chatter and easy camaraderie, and Sam's left to navigate things on her own.
She's just as eager to see action as Steve is, and she jumps at the chance in Azzano. (It's galling to let Stark fly the plane - she's better, goddamnit - but someone has to watch Steve's back, and she can't do both.)
Afterwards, when they stumble back into camp at the head of a column of exhausted soldiers, the girls come back for Steve. Sam just rolls her eyes and slips off in the middle of the cheering. He deserves all the limelight, and she's glad to let him bask in it. She's more interested in a shower and a hot meal.
By the time she staggers back to her tent, all she wants to do is curl up in her cot. Problem is, there's someone else in it already.
She's just as eager to see action as Steve is, and she jumps at the chance in Azzano. (It's galling to let Stark fly the plane - she's better, goddamnit - but someone has to watch Steve's back, and she can't do both.)
Afterwards, when they stumble back into camp at the head of a column of exhausted soldiers, the girls come back for Steve. Sam just rolls her eyes and slips off in the middle of the cheering. He deserves all the limelight, and she's glad to let him bask in it. She's more interested in a shower and a hot meal.
By the time she staggers back to her tent, all she wants to do is curl up in her cot. Problem is, there's someone else in it already.
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