After The Winning...
Summer in Odessa was, as always, stiflingly warm, yet Sharon didn't think a trip to the spa was worth potentially being caught by the government. If she used the credit card in her pocket, she would run the risk of its owner tracking its movements, and she'd have to pick-pocket yet another hard-working American expat on the streets, and she really wasn't about that if she could help it. She knew herself what it was like to scrape for everything. Although she had always been well off financially, considering her family background, she knew what it was like to work for hours at a time and receive nothing but a curt nod for her efforts. Though the cool baths of a spa reserved for the rich and retired were appealing given the fact that even white clothes could not keep her shirt from sticking to her back, Sharon, despite rumours to the contrary, was not an inherently reckless person. If she could help it at all, she preferred to stay low-key, and Odessa on that July morning was exactly the place in which to do that.
Agent Romanoff appeared in a black maxi dress, with a slit that Sharon knew was for drawing attention to the milky paleness of her thigh so you not notice the bulk of a thigh-holster around her other leg. Nevertheless, Sharon's gaze still drifted towards the exposed skin, and she gave a little sigh before making eye contact.
"Do you have hrivnas?" Sharon said, in place of a greeting. The corner of Natasha's lips curled upwards in the seductive way she had long since mastered, and which still made the majority of S.H.I.E.L.D (or had, before the fall) squirm in their shoes.
"What do you think I am?" Natasha replied, pulling a wallet out of her low-slung backpack. "A tourist?"
Sharon opened her mouth in shock. "Never!" she protested. Natasha smiled once more and, pleased that she had prompted her favour, Sharon called the waitress over.
"Kofe, pozhaluysta," Natasha said. Coffee, please. The waitress smiled. She was blonde and kind of sickly, with an anaemic face. Her hands, which were grasping a small notebook with considerable force, trembled slightly.
"Chernyy?" she asked. Black?
Natasha looked down at the table with a small smile. "Am I that transparent," she replied back in Russian.
"Same for me, please," Sharon said. The waitress ducked her head and went off to fetch their order, leaving them to their affairs.
"Did you read In Times of Fading Light after all?" Sharon asked. Natasha shrugged. There was no breeze, and so the small lock of red hair that stood out of place against her forehead remained unmoving. There was a frown-line developing between her perfectly maintained eyebrows. She had a lot on her mind nowadays; they all did.
"The German brought me back to 1999," Natasha muttered. "So."
"I didn't know you spoke German."
"I haven't since 1999." Natasha set one hand on top of the table, and the other remained clasped onto the fabric of her dress. Her fingers traced the outline of her Glock 26, and her nail polish (black, of course) was chipped at the edges. "Do you?"
Sharon scraped her hair back and then, upon realising she had no hair tie around her wrist, let it fall loosely onto her shoulders.
"I learnt Irish growing up," she said. "Mom's Catholic guilt. French, Spanish and German came in high school. It took me until college to get Russian - it's a hard language."
"English is harder."
"Touché."
The waitress - her name-tag read Ivanna - returned with their order, and sat it down very carefully in front of them. Sharon opened her mouth in impatience, but there was a hardness in Natasha's eyes, and so she remained silent.
"Is he safe?" the waitress asked, having gained the proximity required to keep this question discreet. The buzzing of the cafe behind her would've muted the loudest of inquiries, yet she was very careful to keep her mouth from enunciating the words.
She was one of them, whoever they were now. Natasha, Sharon, Ivanna; they were all the same. Agents without a cause.
"Nothing could hurt the Captain for long," Sharon answered. A dimple appeared in Ivanna's cheek as she bit at the inside of it.
"Not the Captain," she said. "His friend."
Natasha made a face, but whether it was at Ivanna's words or at the bitterness of the coffee Sharon could not be certain.
"Barnes?" Sharon said. "You knew him?"
"Oh yes." Ivanna nodded, her lips pursed. She had straightened so as to maintain a degree of normalcy for onlookers, but her voice remained so thin that if there had been a breeze at all on that hot day, it would've carried her words to Russia. "He came here every morning for coffee for six months straight."
Natasha's lip, which she had been pulling at, began to spurt blood. Sharon passed her a napkin under the table.
"He said the states had nothing like it," Ivanna continued, which was true. Sharon didn't think she'd ever tasted such bitter coffee. The aftertaste would stay with her for days, especially if she couldn't find a toothbrush. Her life had became so erratic that even hygiene was uncertain. "He had a stray cat up in his apartment. He gave her to me to look after before he left. He called her Stella."
Agent Romanoff remained silent. Processing the information, Sharon assumed, or else just irritated that a waitress in a Ukrainian coffee shop had located the Winter Soldier before she had.
"Did he say where he was going?" Sharon asked.
"To where the coffee is from," Ivanna replied.
Sharon glanced down at the cup. It was white, and there was no identifiable writing on it. She narrowed her eyes at the waitress.
"Romania," Ivanna hurriedly clarified.
"Romania," Sharon repeated, because of course. She leaned back on her seat. "You knew who he was?"
"Of course. My uncle was with Hydra. He was one of the Soldier's handlers." Natasha's grip tightened on her coffee cup. "We all have our secrets, I'm afraid."
"We know all about that," Sharon admitted. "If you don't mind me asking, Ivanna, your uncle..."
"Vasily Karpov," Natasha interrupted. "Your uncle - he was Vasily Karpov, wasn't he."
Ivanna did not reply. The Russians would have told her not to, before she escaped them. Either that, or the disturbance in previous Soviet states following the incident in Sokovia had created enough chaos for her to disappear. Either way, she was not going to jeopardise her new start for anyone, and if Sharon had been inclined to bring her in for failing to report Neo-Nazi activities, she had no authority anymore, not even with the CIA. She was pretty sure she had became a fugitive from justice, though the exact wording of such a title did not serve to convey the shame she had brought on her family.
Sharon decided not to dwell on that particular thought, which was just as well, because Ivanna did not give her time to. The waitress gave a quick survey of the perimeter, her grey eyes darting from this side to that, and then pressed a napkin onto the ladies' table.
"A man came in a few days ago," she explained, "and gave me this."
Sharon reached out, but Natasha got there first. With that, Ivanna disappeared back behind the counter, her sickly face covered with a wide, salesperson smile as she described the beautiful pastries that resided behind the glass. Natasha glanced up at Sharon, her eyes betraying the slight sliver of self-doubt that possessed even Agent Romanoff from time to time, and when Sharon gave a nod, she opened the tissue.
"It's in Russian," Natasha muttered. Sharon rolled her eyes.
"Of course it is," she said. "The one language I actively detest."
"Not so good for a super-spy, 13."
"Neither is shooting the King of a powerful African nation, Romanoff, but you don't see me bringing that up."
Natasha smirked once more and considered the napkin.
"Read it out," Sharon said. She felt a little like she was back in eighth grade again, at the sleepovers she never wanted to go to but that her mother always forced. The girls would gather around Cathy's phone and scream in delight and scandal at something Brett had said, and when Sharon attempted to get involved they would push her away and tell her to go sit in the corner and do her sudukos or something, which were infinitely more enjoyable anyway.
Conceding to her request, though not in any way indulging her distaste for the Russian language, Natasha set the napkin in the middle of the table so that both women could peruse it.
KITTEN - be very careful. We are being watched and your letters intercepted.
Natasha's face did a strange thing as she read it. Her expression became stoic, and she passed the letter back to Sharon, their clammy hands brushing.
"This isn't Steve," Sharon said. Natasha shook her head. "But Barnes must've told him he'd been here for months. That is if they've had time to talk at all, considering."
Silence hung in the air like a poison. Sharon and Natasha had always been close, even more so once Sharon's cover as Kate The Nurse had been lifted and she, Natasha and Steve could go on missions together and get milkshakes when it was all over. There had never been a day that had gone by that Sharon hadn't woken up and the first thought on her mind had been something she needed to tell Natasha, not since the first time she saw that shock of red hair and saw her take out a man with her thighs around his throat. There had never been a time that Sharon couldn't see past Natasha's fortresses and be able to work out to a point what was going on inside of her head, but that was exactly what was happening now. Sharon couldn't read the expression on her face, but it sparked of recognition, somehow.
"You know who it is," Sharon said. "You know who wrote this."
"I used to." Natasha rubbed the edges of the napkin until it fell apart in her hand. "Milli moi."
"Hydra?"
A small shake of the head. "Not anymore," she murmured. "I hope so anyway, for Rogers' sake."
"The Soldier," Sharon said, suddenly understanding. "But what about this?"
Both women leaned in once more, sipping on their bitter coffee because as much as it stung them, it was quite enjoyable. Better than alcohol for the adrenaline it provided, anyways, though that might've been a fear of what was in the brew than the effects of caffeine.
PS - 2591 8591 2691
"It's not a phone number," Natasha muttered. "Steve wouldn't be that stupid."
"Not many countries have twelve digit numbers," Sharon said. "Except for Italy."
"Rogers has only ever been in Italy during the war, and the Soldier operated in the Soviet countries or in America during the 70s and 90s, nowhere else."
"And the 80s?"
"He was on ice."
"Ah." Natasha's face had that strange expression again. "Was there a specific reason why he was put on ice?"
Natasha licked out over her lips. "Not that I'm aware of," she replied. "It doesn't matter, anyways. It happened. We need to focus."
Sharon considered snapping at Natasha that she had always been the more focused out of the two of them, but restrained herself.
"PS..." she hummed to herself. "Post scriptum."
"Is it initials?" Natasha suggested. "Someone who was in Italy with Rogers?"
"And Barnes, too," Sharon reminded her. Natasha didn't respond. A breeze had appeared, and it fixed the stray lock of red hair that had been bothering Sharon for about half an hour. "Azzano, that's where Barnes was experimented on. Steve went in by himself, no backup..."
"But he must've been transported across the front line by somebody, it was miles into enemy territory."
"Stark and my Aunt Peg flew him in," Sharon muttered. "When her dementia was playing up, she told me the story three times within an hour. I know it off by heart, now."
"Well then we're back to the drawing board." Natasha crossed her legs, not even wincing as the gun pressed into her thigh. "Neither Carter nor Stark have PS as initials."
"Not at that time, no," Sharon said. "But Aunt Peg married Daniel Sousa in ... 1952. That's the first set of digits backwards. 1952."
"Peggy Sousa, then," Natasha said. "But she didn't take his name. I've never even heard of him."
"That's why she kept Carter," Sharon explained. "She didn't want her job putting her family at risk, so she hid them away. That's why she could give advice to Nick Fury about the Bartons."
"I don't want to talk about the Bartons."
"Fine, God. No need to get snappy about it."
Natasha sighed. "It's been a long day," she said.
"I know," Sharon replied. "A long month, really."
"It doesn't feel like a month."
"It does for me. Thirty days is like a decade when you can only live somewhere for a few days."
"The benefits of being raised by the KGB involve being able to belong everywhere and nowhere at the same time. All you need to do in exchange is get tortured since eleven and you're in."
Sharon never knew what to make of it when Natasha said things like that, but she knew Natasha was trying to make people laugh, so she forced a chuckle.
"What are other dates, then?" Natasha perused the code. "1958 and 1962."
A loud bang went through the cafe as Sharon slammed her hand down on the table, causing several onlookers to turn around. Natasha quickly swiped the napkin into her bra, and Sharon grinned from ear to ear. She jumped up from the table and ran to Natasha, pulling her up from her chair.
"I know where to go," Sharon said as a disgruntled Natasha smoothed out her skirts. "Aunt Peg went on outreach missions to Wakanda in those years, both of which were postponed indefinitely. T'Chaka didn't want American intervention."
"Gee," Natasha said, rubbing her arm where Sharon had grabbed it. "I wonder why."
"Steve - Barnes - whoever sent this knew that we would read it. They knew that I'd be with you, and they knew that I'd be able to work it out."
"So, what? Are we going on an impromptu holiday to Wakanda now?"
Sharon stopped. "I don't know."
"You're the one who worked out the code."
"I wish I could write that on my C.V.," Sharon said. "'Beat the Black Widow at code-breaking' would look really impressive."
"If they looked past the whole fugitive thing," Natasha said, "I'm sure it would be."
When they got to the airport, they decided on a flight during one of the peak times that would depart the following day. It would allow them to disappear into the crowd, which wasn't an easy thing to do considering Natasha had rocketed herself into fame by telling Capitol Hill to kiss her ass. Most importantly, it would allow them ample opportunity to disappear into the crowds once the plane landed in Africa, if worst should come to worst and they got captured by an air marshal or something equally embarrassing.
"I'll get our passports sorted out," Natasha said, "if you could find us a place to stay."
Sharon gestured around her at the bustling airport. "Here you go," she said. "Nobody will look twice at someone sitting in the airport at night. For all they know we're layovers."
"And I call myself a super-spy," Natasha said with a small, fond smile. Sharon grinned at her and pushed her gently against the arm. "Fine, fine. I'll go get the documents. But you eat something, you hear? You're wasting away, 13."
"Okay, Mom," Sharon teased. Natasha assimilated into the passing crowds and disappeared without a trace. Sharon sighed and turned around to a man who was tottering between sleep and alertness, and asked, "Where sells the best hamburger around this joint?"
Fifteen minutes later, Sharon was standing in an off-site burger place, a tray in her hand and a grumble in her stomach. It brought her right back to high school canteens and the frustrating nature of finding someone to sit beside that wouldn't mention her black eye, or her bust knuckles, or her penchant for resting bitch face.
She was Number 5 in the line and was waiting patiently, despite Number 6 sidling up to her with unprecedented intrusion into her personal space. From the age of thirteen (coincidental, though she told Natasha otherwise) Sharon had exuded an air of power not unlike Peggy's, and so men had averted their eyes lest she cut them with her smile. This man, however, was getting far, far too close, and the distinct smell of fear rose off of him.
Before she joined S.H.I.E.L.D and had been attempting, very briefly, to get through law school without clawing her eyes out from boredom, Sharon had filled her nights with violent video games. Since being kicked out of the CIA (it was unofficial, but heavily implied, considering her fugitive status) she had resumed her video game addiction, albeit on the test stalls in video-game shops or on stolen Playstations she'd hooked up to a dumped TV.
Number 6 reminded her of Nathan Drake, and his friend, currently paying at the till, had a scar across his eyebrow in the same vein as Jacob Frye. There was also a third man, but he was already sitting down, and so by the time Sharon had to deal with him there would be no differentiation needed.
Sharon turned to face Nathan Drake, and his eyes widened a fraction as she lifted her tray in front of her face.
"What the-"he muttered, but she didn't let him finish before punching the middle of the tray, and conveniently Nathan Drake's face, knocking him back onto the floor, holding his bloody nose. Jacob Frye appeared behind her, and she whipped the tray behind her, digging it painfully into his stomach, just below his rib-cage.
The tray clattered to the ground. Guy #3 made a hurried move from his seat. Sharon stepped on the side of the fallen tray, causing it to fly up. She caught it and hit it into the third guy's throat.
A quick kick to Jacob Frye's face - easy as he was still on the ground clutching his stomach - and Sharon made a break for it. The doors of the diner flapped closed, reflecting the scandalised and particularly traumatised patrons of Odessa's Greatest Hamburger Joint.
Sharon burst out of the diner, only to come face to face with a floating purple man wearing a cape.
"Oh, for fu-"
"Miss Carter," Vision said, his voice as clear and crisp and British as her Aunt's had been. "Mr. Stark would like to have a word."
"Get out of the way," Sharon said. She clenched and unclenched her hand. Her knuckles were bruised for perhaps the first time in years. It had been a while since she had a fight without putting a bullet through someone's head, and while she had missed the adrenaline of a bare-bone showdown, she missed the simplicity guns offered in a fight more.
"He said you'd say that," Vision replied. Sharon let out a curse under her breath. "What was that, Miss Carter?"
"I said," Sharon repeated, admittedly paraphrasing, "that I don't want to hear anything Tony has to say."
"He said you would say that as well."
Sharon really wasn't in the mood to deal with Stark's messenger pigeon. She had spent a month on the run from the CIA, two years trying to rebuild her life and career after S.H.I.E.L.D went down the crapper, and her Aunt Peg had just fucking died. She didn't need this shit.
"Please don't try to fight me, Miss Carter," Vision said, when Sharon readied herself, her feet apart. "I will overwhelm you."
She had seen the footage. Even if she hadn't, Sharon was not a stupid woman. She knew that flying and an Infinity Stone beat walking and a human brain any day. She lowered her fists.
"Fine," she sighed, shoulders deflating. "But if anyone asks, it was voluntary."
"Of course, Miss Carter," Vision replied. He moved to the side to reveal several black police vehicles behind him, all manned by very confused looking police officers who were trying desperately hard to appear as if they were not confused.
Sharon made her way to the middle car. "I'm getting shotgun," she said. A police officer opened his mouth and then shut it abruptly when she shot him a glare. She slid into the passenger seat beside an officer - young, around twenty-three, completely out of his depth - and rolled the window down.
"By the way," she called out to Vision, who raised an - eyebrow? "Don't call me Miss Carter."
"Yes, ma'am," Vision said. "Would you prefer Agent Carter?"
Sharon shuddered. "God no," she said. "Agent 13 or - Sharon, I suppose."
Vision appeared amused. He was an enigma, and one Sharon didn't even try to comprehend given that she got freaked out when her phone knew what she was about to type.
"I didn't realise we were close enough for first names, Agent 13," he said.
"The world has gone to pieces," Sharon replied. "Me and you becoming best friends wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened in the past month."
The young officer rolled the window up before she could hear Vision's response, but she sincerely doubted that anyone could fight her on her statement.
With a sigh, Sharon leaned her elbow against the window and considered the scorching heat that rose from the pavements in waves. It was the sort of day that made wearing white a smarter choice than black. Natasha was probably burning up as they spoke.
Damn. Natasha. She'd still go to Wakanda, Sharon hoped. If their positions were reversed, that's what Sharon would do. It would be stupid for her to come and get Sharon out of prison, or wherever it was they were taking her. Yet, it would be nice to be rescued once in a while rather than having to figure out a way to save yourself.
She knew what the agents in the CIA would be saying about her. She knew they'd be calling her soft, that she'd lost her nerve and followed her heart rather than her head, that she'd fallen for a man because he offered the security she had searched for all her life. She knew whatever S.H.I.E.L.D operatives remained would put her decisions down to Peggy's influence; they would say her aunt had brainwashed her into believing Steve could do no wrong, but Sharon knew the truth herself. She knew that while Steve was a hero, and a warrior and a moral figure, he was only a man, and he was thirty years old and he had already died and so he was acting selfishly, and that was okay. Sharon had been acting selfishly her whole life, she understood the appeal. For once, though, she had wanted to protect people in a way that didn't necessarily follow the rules that had been set out for her. For once, Sharon had wanted to stand on her own two feet and make the moral decision that didn't come from reports somebody else had written. She wanted to be a trailblazer like her Aunt Peg, but instead, she just became a fugitive.
To top it all off, it had been only a few days after she had revealed her identity at Peggy's televised funeral that she had broken into CIA holding chambers and stolen back Steve and Sam's equipment. Her mother was probably having a fit right that moment, and her father was probably cursing Sharon from heaven to hell and back.
Regardless of the fact that the career she had built up and the life she had so caringly created for herself had crashed into a hopeless smouldering mess, regardless of the fact that she was a wanted woman, that she could not begin again with her real name unless she wanted Everett Ross on her ass, Sharon didn't regret her decision. She had chosen the right side.
At least, she thought she had.
The car pulled into a side street away from the following vehicles. Sharon glanced over at the younger officer. His name was Klein. She looked closer at his face, and recognised him as the agent who had refused to send the Helicarriers into the air, the agent she had saved by kicking his chair out from under him. She smiled softly.
"Nice to see you again, Cameron," she said. Cameron, slightly shaky, gave a smile back.
"Good to see you too, Agent," he replied. "Tha- thank you, by the way. For doing - what you did. Saving me."
"You deserved saving," Sharon said, and Cameron couldn't speak for a few minutes after that, his Adam's apple working in his throat. "Where are you taking me, Cameron?" she asked gently.
"A secure meeting place, Agent," Cameron said. "Mr. Stark infiltrated the police and paid some of them off if they would bring you to him and not Ross. Considering you're a-"
"Fugitive from justice and all, yes," Sharon interrupted. "Did you just say-"
The car ground to a stop, and a shining, white hotel stretched out before them. Cameron shuffled out of the car and then made his way around to Sharon's door, smiling awkwardly.
"We need to get inside quickly, Agent," he said. "Ross has surveillance helicopters everywhere."
"Of course he does," Sharon said. "Technology."
They made their way in. The lobby was busy, but not a single head turned to consider the new entries, and the ladies at the front desk did not get to their feet to stop Cameron's movements. Sharon pulled her light jacket around her arms. Air conditioning was something she used to take for granted, but after a month of trawling through desert towns and heated cities, the cool breeze made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
Cameron rapped three times fast on a door at the end of a grey corridor. When there was no response, he stepped back and gestured for Sharon to enter. Sharon looked at him, squeezed his shoulder in thanks, and made her way in.
Tony was standing beside the French doors that led out onto a balcony, a glass of whisky in his hand. His hair was streaked with grey, and there were both laughter lines and frown lines decorating his tanned skin. He still had the remnants of bruises, characteristic of aged skin, and there was a desperation to his drinking that pulled at Sharon's chest.
"Long time no see," she said. He didn't turn around, though his shoulders heaved with a chuckle.
"I would've preferred meeting at the pool," Tony said, "but Rhodey seemed to think that was a tactical mistake."
"He would be right," Sharon replied. She moved beside Tony and wordlessly, he passed the whisky to her. She took a gulp. God, it had been a while since she drank. With the strength of Tony's liquor, she'd be drunk within the hour, within five gulps.
"You know where he is."
Sharon kept her attention focused on the bottom of the whisky glass, how the remnants of the liquid parted as they touched the logo. It was not a company she knew the name of, but she recognised their symbol; she had seen it many times before in the Stark Mansion, at Christmas, on birthdays, as Howard glugged back his third drink and his fourth and his tenth.
"He told me he was going to Siberia, last time we talked," Sharon said. "He didn't say where he was going after."
Tony made a sound in the back of his throat. "But you knew he'd go for the others?"
The light cast strange shadows over his face, making him look younger and older all the time. If Sharon squinted, she could almost see the man she used to consider family. She could almost see the boy who ate the last peanut butter cup.
"He didn't need to tell me that," Sharon muttered, "for me to know he would."
"So you know nothing, is that what you're telling me?" Tony glanced at the whisky in Sharon's hand, but made no attempt to grab it. "That's rich."
"I know one thing, Tony," she said. "You weren't at Aunt Peg's funeral."
"Oh, not you too," Tony snapped. He moved away from the window and slumped back into a tub chair in the middle of the hotel room. It was angled in such a way that he was almost entirely in darkness, apart from the slight glint in his eyes, either from excitement or tears. "I had to deal with the Accords, Sharon. I'm the face of the Avengers, considering our leader decided not to show up. I couldn't just duck out like Romanoff did."
"I'm not staying if you talk about Nat."
"Sorry," Tony said. He wasn't at all apologetic. Bitter was a better adjective. "I forgot the two of you were bosom buddies now."
Sharon walked over towards him and sat down hard on the floor beside the tub chair. Tony moved his hand so it was dangling over the side, and, just like they were kids again, Sharon pressed the side of her head against the back of his palm.
"So," Tony said thickly. "You and Rogers, huh?"
She huffed a small laugh. "It's hard work not falling in love with Steve Rogers," she replied.
Tony put his free hand up to his temples. "Yeah," he said. "You kissed."
"You know, I was wondering how long it would take for someone to bring that up," Sharon said. "I know Nat had me tailed, by the way. I wanted you to know what I had done."
"You thought it would change my mind."
"I could hope." Though that wasn't it, not exactly. Some sick part of Sharon had wanted to prove to Tony that she could act on her own merits, that she didn't need her Aunt Peg or Tony Stark or anybody to make her believe what she was doing was right. "But like Steve said, it was too late. Maybe if we had - got together, before S.H.I.E.L.D fell, before Barnes returned, maybe. Maybe we could've been something."
"Doesn't explain why, if all of that happened, you still kissed."
"My emotions got the better of me. I resolve never to let it happen again. I'd just gone through a nasty breakup."
"Oh," Tony said. His fingers pressed, very gently, against Sharon's skin. "Any legs you want me to break?"
"Would the Accords let you even if there were?"
The warmth of his hand departed from beside her. She deserved that.
"It wasn't a person, Tony," Sharon admitted. "It was an - organisation, I suppose. I always used to say that I protected ideals, not people. People are easy to corrupt; ideals take more persuading. Now, I see how wrong I was. You can't trust people or ideals."
That strange expression that had covered Natasha's face at 'kitten' crossed Tony's dark eyes. Even in the diminishing light, Sharon could see his muscles tense under his thin t-shirt, could see him heave a sigh.
"Rogers would disagree," Tony said.
"That's why he and I were a maybe," Sharon replied, "not an almost."
The hotel room, upon further inspection, was a self-contained apartment, and obviously one that Tony had moved into specifically for the occasion, for there was not a shred of personal touches to be seen. Usually, the second Tony Stark entered a space it erupted with him, his personality bursting through the walls and materialising in the form of hurried notes written down in Sharpie, or tiny robots manufactured during brunch, or books hurriedly skimmed through because they provided inspiration for his next invention and not much else.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked. The white flash of Tony's teeth appeared in the gloom.
"I wanted to see whose side you were on," he replied. "I guess I know now, though."
"You'll understand, someday," Sharon said. She pushed herself up off the floor, her hand briefly grasping onto Tony's as she went.
"You sound like him."
"I know. But when you think about it - truly - I think you'll understand what he was fighting for. The same thing as you were, I imagine."
A bitter smile covered his face. "She's still not talking to me," Tony said. "I mean, she called to make sure Steve didn't kill me, but. She hasn't called after that."
"I don't know what's going on with Steve and Barnes," Sharon said. "But I know it won't be any easier than you and Potts."
"You're going to them now, I assume," Tony mumbled. "To join the rest of the Avengers. You and Nat, right?"
Sharon wasn't going to let the wounded nature of his voice touch her. She was a fortress, she was made of iron. She was not going to succumb to the sad, lonely boy who she had known for so long, except now he was in an old body. She wasn't going to sit down with Tony and run her fingers through his hair like she used to when she was trying to go to sleep, even though a small part of her desperately wanted to.
"Before you go," Tony said. Her hand froze on the cool doorknob. "Take this."
He pressed a StarkPhone into her hand. Sharon opened her mouth.
"I won't track you," Tony said. "If you trust me at all, anymore, trust this. Just - call me, okay? Just now and then."
This sad, lonely man, who only wanted the world. Sharon touched her fingers to the side of his face. He melted into them, into family, into home.
"If Ross finds out you had me in your grasp," Sharon began, but Tony interrupted her.
"He'll never have to know," he said. "Besides. I can make an exception for family."
Sharon smiled and made for the lobby once more. She was approached almost immediately by a small, balding man who offered a taxi ride to the airport, on behalf of Mr. Stark. Glancing up the staircase once more, Sharon accepted.
As she boarded the plane, the phone in her pocket chimed. She apologised hurriedly to the flight attendant and looked down at it. Her heart dropped in her chest.
FAVOURITE COUSIN: btw you stole the last peanut butter cup
Her fingers flew over the keys as she replied.
FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE: you got me. i taught you how to shoot a gun straight tho, so we're even
FAVOURITE COUSIN: :)
Sharon smiled and switched the phone off, slipping it into her back pocket. She slid into the seat beside Natasha, who raised an eyebrow.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"I took a detour," Sharon explained, "to Tony Stark's apartment. I told him I had no idea where they were."
"I was surprised he didn't hook you up to a polygraph," Natasha said.
"He made an exception for family," she replied. She grabbed a magazine and began flipping through it, feeling triumphant at the fact that she was responsible for the confused and bewildered look currently adorning Natasha Romanoff's face.
"The Soldier was hiding in plain sight," Sharon said after a while. "Did they teach you that in Russia?"
"No," Natasha said, snorting back a laugh. "He must've learnt it with the Americans in 1945."
"1944."
Natasha's green eyes narrowed. Sharon shrugged and leaned back in her seat.
"He never made it to 1945, " Sharon said. "Neither did Rogers, remember?"
"Vaguely," Natasha replied. "Rogers isn't really the care and share type."
"And you are?"
"Hm."
"I only know because of Aunt Peg." Peggy rarely mentioned the death of two of her closest friends within six months of each other, but when she did, it was always understated which just added to the tragedy. One of the stories that stuck out most in Sharon's mind was that of VE Day.
"We'd won the war," her aunt had said, "and I felt as if I had no one to share it with. The Howlies were off God knows where, probably still killing Krauts - Dugan wouldn't have accepted the surrender as easily as that, bless his soul, and where they were fighting it was rare to have any radio connection at all. Barnes was dead, Rogers was dead, and I was standing beside Howard Stark, who tried to kiss me. I might've even indulged him if Steve had been there, just to see the little frown he got when he was jealous. Instead, I pushed him into the Thames."
She wondered whether her aunt had known about the Winter Soldier, whether anybody had told her; Sharon certainly hadn't, and she doubted Steve was capable of saying Barnes' name out loud to anybody, especially someone who had loved him too. If she had been informed it probably would have became lost to her within moments due to dementia. The idea that her friend had been tortured right under her nose for seventy years might've been enough to put even Peggy Carter in the ground.
"He really loved Peggy," Natasha murmured.
Sharon picked at a rag-nail on her thumb, and wondered how long it would take to get to Wakanda.