Chapter Text
An agent whose name he did not know, turned to him and asked the one question Steve had come to hate: what was most different about this century. Nine times out of ten people just wanted to tell him things to “check out”, be it music, food or television. And usually they were right. But it had started to feel a bit patronizing. He fumbled for a response and noticed Agent Barton grinning.
Yet, the spy didn’t add to the conversation. Judging by his expression, the man knew how tired he was of these questions. But, of course he would, Barton was trained to notice such things. Still, Steve appreciated the gesture.
Then the conversation turned, several other agents joining in, over what music he should listen to first. Steve didn’t understand most of what was being said, but at least he didn’t have to participate.
He watched as Barton meticulously cleaned and inspected his arrows. For the last two missions, he had been the leader of Strike Team Alpha. The man known as Hawkeye had lead the team with a confidence that only came from years of experience.
Steve now understood the meaning behind his codename. The man did not miss a shot. The man had a true gift with the bow. And, as Steve had learned tonight, was equally talented with a sniper rifle. There had been some whispering about Fury’s decision, putting him back in the field so soon after New York. The man had disappeared for a month, but Fury and Romanoff had not seemed concerned, so Steve ignored the talk. And the man he sat across from now seemed completely at ease.
Steve could see why he and Romanoff were Fury’s top spies. Barton was a clever tactician, no doubt from being a sharpshooter, and, Steve suspected, from military training. He had not once made a poor call.
The man was also a talented fighter in hand to hand, far more limber than Steve would have guessed. Barton looked older, late thirties, but moved as quickly and easily as Romanoff.
“Come on, Cap’, what’s something you really don’t get? You know, something that still weirds you out?”
Steve ignored the odd terminology, “uh, I guess the food.”
“The food?” agent Rumlow looked surprised.
Agent Michel’s laughed, “but didn’t you grow up in the Depression? What’s wrong with the food?”
He shrugged, “I think that’s part of it. There is so much food -- everywhere. And yet there are people who are still starving. And so much of it isn’t real food. Which, is something I will never understand. I mean, we had sweets when I was a kid -- but how is there food that’s not...real food?”
Barton snickered, and everyone turned in surprise.
“You sound just like Nat.”
Steve paused, “Agent Romanoff?”
Barton nodded, “she said the same thing when she first arrived. Had a hard time adjusting to having so much after growing up under Soviet rule. Throwing out food is something that still bothers her.”
“Soviet Russia?”
Agent Michels answered, “yeah, Soviet -- Communist Russia. It was a regime that --”
Steve cut him off, “I know about Stalin. Nearly met him in the War. Not on purpose though.”
A few of the agents grinned.
Steve was confused -- he would have sworn that the Black Widow was a born and bred american. Sure, Romanoff was a russian surname, but the spy had no hint of an accent. And what did Barton mean about Soviet conditions? Steve had been trying to catch up on the last seventy years, clearly he wasn’t even close. He could have sworn the news had recently mentioned a Russian President.
“Russia is still under Soviet rule?”
Michels laughed, “technically? No. But Russian politics have never been that... straightforward. They have a president. Putin. Officially, communism ended there in what -- ‘91?”
“Very good, Michel’s. Glad to see you didn’t sleep your way through high school.”
Michel’s clutched at his chest, faking a wound.
“Funny, Barton. I was seven in ‘91. You were what, like thirty?”
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, agent?”
Steve grinned.
Barton paused, and then fell back into the role of leader, “alright people, you know the drill. Store your gear and final weapons check.”
As he spoke Steve felt the quinjet begin to drop and Barton fell back into command mode, getting up to go speak with the pilot. How had Barton known they were close?
The serum meant he was more affected by altitude change, but he was sure he hadn’t felt anything. He must be more tired than he thought. Taking his shield from the hook behind him, Steve slung it onto his back. The other agents pulled open various racks for their weapons and tactical gear. He and Barton were the only ones who kept both their gear and uniform. And even though it hadn’t been an Avengers mission, the shield was his weapon of choice.
The quinjet shook, and a second later he felt it touch ground, running smoothly along the runway. This part of the future he liked quite a bit. The Quinjet was a much nicer aircraft than even Howard’s best military planes. The advances in technology were constantly amazing him.
The loading bay door opened and Steve welcomed the cool night air on his face. The other agents ran out of the craft, but Steve took a moment to center himself. His body ached pleasantly and his mind was calm. Maybe tonight he could get a few hours of decent sleep.
A hand clapped him on the back, and then Barton was beside him, “good mission, Cap. You definitely know how to pull your weight out there.”
Steve shrugged, “it was nice not being in charge. And I miss working as a team.”
The man grinned, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you do end up leading a team soon enough. I’m sure it’s why Fury has you doing these smaller missions. Getting to know the other agents and all.”
“But aren’t you and agent Romanoff leaders of Strike Team?”
Barton shook his head, “no, we fill in when needed. Fury just wanted to ease me in, after what happened. Me and Nat usually work solo.”
Barton was casual in his mention of New York, obviously having moved past what had happened. Steve was glad. But that also gave him more to think about. Did he want to lead a Strike Team?
The two men strolled across the landing field. It was a nice night.
“What do you think of soda?”
Steve glanced over in surprise, “Soda? Pop?”
“Yeah,” Barton looked curious, “Nat thinks it’s too sweet.”
Steve thought about it, “Everything nowadays is sweeter, I think. But that’s not always a bad thing. But I don’t think I’ve had any pop -- soda, yet. Not that I had it much as a kid.”
Barton hummed, “She’d never had it til she defected.”
Steve tripped; “defected?”
Barton slowed, looking surprised.
“Haven’t you read her file? Thought Fury gave you everyone’s file for the Avengers.”
Steve nodded.
“He did, but I didn’t look at them besides Dr. Banner and Stark.”
But even then those had been more of a personal quest. The man who had tried and failed to remake the serum. And of course, Howard’s only son.
Punching in the outer door code, Barton waved him in first.
“Well, she’s had a similar experience to you. ‘Bout as close as anyone can, really. You should read her file.”
Steve stepped inside, blinking in the artificial light, “isn’t that a little rude?”
Barton laughed, “trust me, there isn’t anything in there she doesn’t want you to know.”
Coming to a split in the hall, the men paused. Offering his hand, Steve was glad when Barton took it.
“Have a good night, Agent Barton.”
The man rolled his eyes, “call me Clint. I’ll see ya’ around Cap.”
And then Clint Barton strolled down the hallway, his quiver of arrows dragging on the floor like a kid's bookbag.
Steve was glad to head towards his private quarters. There was no way he would make it back to Brooklyn tonight. Typing in the code, Steve waited for the door to lock behind him before the shield hit the floor. Then came the consuming task of unbuttoning -- no, unzipping -- his tactical uniform. Modern fabrics made it lighter and more flexible, but after several hours of constant running and fighting it had become stiff as carpet.
Pulling off one boot, then the other, his thoughts drifted back to what Clint had said. He hadn’t really spoken to Natasha Romanoff since the battle. Steve knew little about his fellow Avengers, and practically nothing about her.
Stark obviously had some sort of issue with her, but that wasn’t too surprising. Genius the man may be, Steve didn’t think this judgement was right. He clearly liked being the smartest one in any room. And he enjoyed provoking people. But Stark probably met his match with the red head.
Romanoff had been gone the past two weeks on a solo mission, and had since been the topic of conversation by younger agents. And with his advanced hearing, Steve could not help but overhear things. But he hadn’t overheard anything negative -- they seemed starstruck by the redhead spy.
But there were some rumors that even Steve had noticed for himself.
Her and Clint.
The roles of men and women had evolved so much since the 40’s, as had the way men and women interacted. It was something Steve was still trying to figure out. But even he could tell the two agents were close. Closer perhaps, than strictly professional.
And there had been that moment after the helicarrier attack when Steve was afraid he had intruded on a private moment. But both agents had been remained cool and focused for the entirety of the battle. And he supposed, that was all that really mattered. Hell, Romanoff had done her job even with Barton compromised.
Kicking off his left pant leg, Steve blearily stared at the bathroom door. He should really wash up. His mother had taught him better than to go to sleep covered in dirt and sweat.
Offering a silent apology to his mother, Steve collapsed on the bed wearing only his shorts. His last thought was how much Peggy would have loved this era. Maybe they could have been partners like Clint and Romanoff.
His clock read 6:47 am when Steve finally turned to look at it. Almost five hours, a new record. He blinked at the ceiling, stretching out his legs. But the desire to lay in bed was squashed by the rumble of his stomach.
Stumbling into the bathroom, Steve stripped off his shorts and stared at himself in the mirror. As usual all of his cuts and bruises had disappeared.
Flushing the toilet, he stuck his arm through the glass door and switched on the shower. He had adjusted to using it, but after a hard mission he still craved a bath.
Not that he would be able to fit. His Brooklyn apartment had some sort of shower-bathtub combination, but only his pre-serum self would have fit inside. Everything was larger in this century -- except for the bathtubs, apparently. Stepping into the hot stream, Steve was grateful at least for hot water. It was definetly an acceptable trade-off.
Eyes closed from the stream, he reached for the bar of soap.
The serum had heightened his sense of smell, and it had been surprisingly difficult to find a soap that was unscented. Smelling good was a prerequisite for today’s world, but as with everything else, it was done ad nauseum. He didn’t mind that things were cleaner, but why put scents on everything? Couldn’t things just be clean? Why did his clothes need to smell like lavender bliss or the air smell like sunshine orange? It was overwhelming.
He had come from a war where he and his men hadn’t seen a change of clothes in months -- let alone any sort of bath. He could recall Peggy wrinkling her nose a few times, but that was reality. Sweat wasn’t some horrible thing, it was natural. Even now he could tell you what his mother smelled like when she’d come home after a long day of work. Perfume was a luxury she had only worn on sundays. It had always made him sneeze, and the serum had only made it worse. It also reminded him of the cat houses in Paris, and the poor women who worked in them. But now everyone wore some type of perfume, even men. Stark, for example.
Turning the knob, Steve stepped out of the glass door, snatching the towel from the hook. It only took a moment to dry off, and he tossed it into the bedroom. Hair and beard he left alone. Sighing, he took the stick of deodorant and put it on.
Clothes were easy, the two drawers full of basic SHIELD t-shirts and something called ‘sweatpants’. T-shirts were a novelty. He had worn them in the military, but they had still been considered underwear, worn under your uniform. Not on their own.
But now they were acceptable as casual wear for both men and women. He still felt underdressed, but the benefits were quickly winning him over, after all, it wasn’t like he ever felt the cold.
Gathering his uniform and wet towel from the floor, he stuffed them down the laundry shoot. Slipping on trainers, Steve’s stomach rumbled again. Grabbing his watch, he slipped out the door.
The walk to the cafeteria was quick, and thankfully he only passed by two people. Even Captain America needed coffee before he could fully function. But that was something that had not changed -- American’s still loved their coffee. The cafeteria was quiet when he stepped in, only a few cleaning crew taking a break at a far table.
Maybe it was the bright lights on the linoleum floor, but Steve was suddenly brought back to his dream. He had dreamt of the train last night. Bucky.
Barton had been there as well, the two men switching back and forth, yelling at him to move, firing their gun past his head. Someone had been yelling into his earpiece. And no matter what, Steve had not been able to respond. All he could do was try and fend off the overwhelming amount of chitari.
Lost in thought, he could only nod at the kitchen staff as they handed his normal breakfast of eggs and sausage, double portions. They had finally stopped offering him the array of pancakes, waffles, crepes, french toast and who knows what else. Steve was a simple man when it came to food. Especially breakfast. He wasn’t sure how french toast differed from normal toast, but today was not going to be the day he found out.
One large black coffee in hand and the tray in the other, Steve settled down at an empty table. He ate slowly, mind drifting back to the dream. This was probably something he should share with Dr. Patel, his psychologist. But maybe you didn’t talk about dreams anymore. Freud’s theories had apparently been disproved. But there was something called PTSD, and that could cause nightmares.
He grimaced, still uncomfortable spilling his thoughts and fears to another man. Even in church as a sickly child, Steve had rarely told God his frustrations.
Glancing up, Steve nearly dropped his coffee. Sitting across from him, sipping from her own mug, was Natasha Romanoff. She cocked her head, smiling.
“You were somewhere else.”
Swallowing, Steve shrugged.
“Dream.”
The spy nodded, but didn’t probe any further.
She was sweaty, he realized faintly, her SHIELD t-shirt clinging to her in dark splotches. It was so unapologetic, so casual. Steve couldn’t help himself. Feeling like a complete pervert, he casually breathed in through his nose, letting her waft over him. A woman who smelled like a real woman.
“Why you up so early, Rogers?”
He shrugged, “it’s not that early.”
Taking a sip of coffee to hide his actions, he berated himself. What would his mother think?
The spy raised an eyebrow, “it’s Sunday morning. No one gets up before noon on a Sunday.”
“You’re up,” he countered, breathing through his mouth. And people thought he was so pure.
Romanoff shrugged, “internal clock. Never can get more than a few hours at a time. Even after a mission.”
Immediately, Steve relaxed. Of course she understood.
“So, when did you get back?”
“Not long after you, I suppose. Found Barton asleep, half-undressed.”
Steve hoped he wasn’t blushing. That was an incredibly private thing to share, yet she had said it so freely.
“You coming to Stark’s party?”
Steve swallowed a bite of eggs, “his what?”
The spy paused, then pulled out her phone -- a contraption everyone seemed to have on them at all times.
“It’s his birthday on Tuesday. We are all invited -- a mini Avengers get-together,” she tapped away at the phone, “you don’t know?”
Steve shook his head, the eggs turning sour in his stomach. The awful truth hung over him. He hadn’t been invited. Why would he? Stark and him had gotten off to a very rough start. But damn, if he didn’t feel small again. Would he ever not be --
“What’s your passcode?”
Surprised, Steve told her the 6 digit code, watching her tap away at the phone. Then she rolled her eyes.
“hmmpf” she held out her phone, and he took it cautiously, “Stark sent you an email, the dummkopf .”
Reading the text, Steve felt a flutter in his stomach. He had been invited.
“I will print it out for you.”
Nodding mutely, he handed back the phone. He hoped that meant a paper copy.
“ Dummkopf ? I thought you were Russian?”
Romanoff nodded, still looking at her phone, “I am Russian. But I was in Germany last night, guess it hasn’t left my system.”
“Oh,” he replied, feeling like an idiot again. Of course she would speak several languages.
Sliding her phone out of sight, she dropped both elbows on the table, grasping her mug with both hands. Steve picked up his coffee as well, feeling his shoulders release. He should probably say something.
“I’ve heard rumors about his parties. Not sure I’m going to like it.”
She smirked, as if she knew exactly what kind of parties he threw. She probably did.
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Stark’s taking it easy this year. And Pepper planned it, so I imagine it will be casual.”
“Pepper?”
“His girlfriend.”
Whatever his expression was, it made her laugh.
“Surprised he has a girlfriend?”
Steve shrugged, “if he’s anything like Howard, I’m sure he’s never without one for long.”
Mug empty, she set it on the table, fingernails tapping the side.
“Then you are in for a surprise. Pepper is head of Stark Industries. Virginia Potts,” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “not sure where she got the nickname from. I’d put my money on Stark, though.”
Steve tried to process this information with the man he knew. Stark was going steady? With a girl who wasn’t just arm candy? He would believe it when he saw it.
Quick fingers snatched the fork from his hand. Hiding his surprise, Steve watched as Natasha Romanoff picked at the food on his plate. There wasn’t much left, and it had certainly gone cold, but she ate it nonetheless.
“You think too much, Rogers.”
Steve was definitely blushing. Mom had always called him an open book.
He watched her stab at a sausage, Barton’s words coming back to him. Romanoff had grown up in Soviet conditions. She was as sensitive about food as he was. But was that something you talked about? Would that embarrass her?
Steve was distracted by the whisper of his name, and he turned to see several young agents standing not too far away. They were talking about him. He sighed, not in the mood to deal with fans. One day he would meet every single agent in this place, and would never again have to autograph some horrid USO memorabilia.
But then the whispers stopped and their footsteps faded. Glancing up, he noticed Romanoff starring in the same direction, watching them leave.
“What did you do?”
Green eyes found his, “told them to leave you alone.”
He glanced back to where they had been standing, “what? How?”
Smirking, she pushed herself up from the table, “I have a reputation.”
Standing as well, Steve was momentarily entranced by her gaze. Oh, that was how.
Breaking the spell, Natasha Romanoff picked up her empty coffee mug, flashing a smile.
“See ya, Tuesday, Rogers.”
And then she left.
Falling back into his chair, Steve couldn’t help but grin. Boy, that had been a whirlwind. And he wasn’t sure but it seemed like Natasha Romanoff wanted to be friends. Hell, even Tony was reaching out. Steve felt less alone, and that had not happened for a long time.