The snap

They let her sleep in: she wakes up at 2PM, disoriented. (She’s never having vodka again, if she can help it.)

Her eyes immediately seek out the box. She still doesn’t feel up to opening it, though. She jumps in the shower instead, which turns out to be a rather unpleasant experience: the water fluctuates unpredictably between scolding hot and freezing cold. She gets dressed, washes the thick taste out of her mouth and follows the sound of voices. Time to get going.

The TV’s on in the living room. Christine Everhart and a colleague are debating the impact of President Ellis’ New Deal, three years in. She spots a Where do we go, now that they’re gone pamphlet on the low table and a printed copy of the Sokovia Accords: Framework for the registration and Deployment of Enhanced Individuals drowning in index tabs. 

She needs coffee. The number of blinking buttons on the machine, however, is daunting so soon after waking up and not helping her headache in the slightest. 

Upon spotting her, Natasha Romanoff waves her into a conversation with the hologram of someone Alex recognizes as Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes – no: Colonel now, from the looks of it. She remembers meeting him once during a presidential visit to National City. A quiet guy, polite, nice. She can’t help but look down, eyes drawn to his cybernetic leg braces. She remembers Kara tearing up when she’d recounted the accident to J’onn and her. She shakes the memory away and tries to concentrate on the now. They need information on an ongoing investigation, which she’s happy to provide, with the major caveat that her intel dates back to her time with the DEO.

“I don’t get it, don’t you have access to all this?”

They exchange a knowing look and Natasha Romanoff motions to him to explain: “We used to. Then with the Sokovia Accords debacle, as you know, half the team was blacklisted: they either became international fugitives or were placed under house arrest. I acted as a sort of liaison then, at least to the US authorities. But ever since the Black Order’s first attacks, Secretary Ross ordered my access blocked – whatever the agency – and we haven’t been able to restore it. We’re all “persona non grata”, if you will, in the White House these days.”

That doesn’t sound right. She remembers the Hulk and Captain America being in the news daily, those first few months: working side by side with the rescue teams, saving people left and right. “Despite everything you did to help in the aftermath?” 

“Sadly, yes.”

She’s heard of Secretary Ross’ legendary stubbornness, but how could the US deprive itself from capitalising on its wealth of superheroes? “So, you’re basically on your own?”

Natasha gestures to everything around them: the silence and lack of activity, not a single uniform in sight. It all points to the Avengers being – if not a rogue or clandestine – at least a private initiative now.  

She could really use a coffee. “But you signed the Accords, right? They officially placed you under the authority of the United Nations, no? Isn’t that what they were all about?” At least, that’s what she remembers from her conversations with Kara at the time.

Colonel Rhodes smiles wearily. “It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid: both Natasha and I signed them, yes. But she’s considered to have violated their terms and I’ve narrowly avoided a court martial since. Cap never signed them in the first place. I don’t think Carol or Thor even know of their existence and I’m not sure the Accords would apply to either of them in the first place. So, we’re basically, as you rightly put it: on our own.”

“Then how are you able to operate at all and not on the run anymore?”

He huffs good naturedly: “We’re in a sort of grey area these days? We don’t report to anyone. Agencies are still rebuilding themselves after the Snap. The UN panel exists only on paper and we don’t call upon them. We’re mostly working with a global network of local informants and try to avoid international travel as much as possible.”

So they’re what… under self imposed house arrest? “And the government’s ok with that?”

“We’re no doubt being monitored, but we keep a low profile and everyone’s happy with contact staying at the bare minimum. I suspect the administration is actually quite glad the Sokovia Accords aren’t fully functional.”

She remembers speculating along similar lines at the time. She had never quite understood why the US administration would ever agree to relinquish exclusive control over resources that, for the most part, were based in the US and viewed as domestic.

Colonel Rhodes thanks her, offers his condolences for Kara – alongside whom it was an honour to fight, he adds. (She really really needs a coffee. Or something stronger. Unless all they have is vodka, because then: no thanks.) After exchanging a last weighted look with Natasha Romanoff, he disconnects, his hologram flickering out. The conversation’s video is automatically added to what looks like a mass of colourful files.

“What is all this?” Alex asks, peering at the projection.

“Case files. Ongoing issues we’re keeping an eye on.”

She hums, “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

She starts scrolling through the digital library with a tentative swish of her hand: “That’s… There’re a lot of them.”

Natasha shrugs: “There’re a lot of threats that need to be monitored.” 

Alex hovers over a file and a video of an explosion starts playing. 

“They’re not all Thanos-level ones, of course. I assume you must have dealt with your fair share at the DEO, except some of these only involve humans – to the best of our knowledge.” 

She comes to face Alex, exits the video that was playing, points to a green file and enlarges it. They’re plunged in a lush dark-green forest. “This is a settlement off Lake Junin, in the Amazon basin. It seems to function like a cult, with little information filtering out. Nothing much to see here.” She shrinks it and switches to another file. The forest morphs into the entrance of a cave. “This is about experiments with bats in Costa Rica.” She taps a grey file, transporting them to a desert landscape: “And this is about the massacre of Abdallah El-Faouly’s archeological party, out in the Egyptian Sahara. A cold case (we’ve got a lot of those). Something about it feels off.”

Her eyes flit over the files’ labels to the left, wondering whether one contains her own crimes. “What about the red ones?”

“This one here is about vigilantism in Hell’s Kitchen. This one there is about some experiments in Madripoor.”

That last one gets Alex’s attention. “Experiments?”

“We’ve got enough evidence to suspect someone’s trying to replicate the super soldier serum.”

No surprise there. It’s rather a given that several parallel attempts to replicate it are happening as they speak and it’s only a matter of time before one’s successful (again). 

Natasha Romanoff must sense her trail of thoughts, for she adds: “It’s not the first time of course, nor will it be the last. But they seem to be awfully close to succeeding.” 

“The Power Broker?”

She squints at Alex, that penetrating stare again: “You’ve been to Madripoor?”

Maybe she should be more careful with the kind of information she volunteers: “Only in passing.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been, but from what I hear, it’s doubtful such a project would see the light of day without at least the sanction of the Power Broker. So one way or another, they’re involved.”

Thousands upon thousands of files. And there’s what, sometimes three, more often two of them here? How’s that supposed to work?

“Isn’t this all…” she tries to find the proper wording, considering what she herself has been up to these past couple of years. “Isn’t this all duplication with the work of national and international law enforcement? How do you choose which cases to look into and which to leave, what’s Avengers-worthy and what’s not, if you don’t know what’s already on an agency’s radar?” Especially now that Nick Fury, their maestro so to speak, isn’t here anymore.

Natasha Romanoff looks at her for a beat, seemingly debating something. “You’ve put your finger on a major issue.”

“Ok…”

“We need to get back into the current administration’s good graces. If only for access to essential and up to date information.”

“Right…”

“Considering all the bad blood with Secretary Ross, we’d need to find the right person to restore our collaboration with law enforcement.” 

“I’m sure the right person for the job’s out there.” 

“We’d need someone with the right connections. And with experience in fostering inter-agency cooperation. Someone with clout, solid field experience, enough to earn everyone’s respect.” 

“Not a politician.”

“Exactly. We need someone like you” Natasha Romanoff finishes, watching her closely. 

Wait. 

What? 

“Someone from the DEO, you mean?”

“You’re right, Alex: without ties to law enforcement, we’re essentially flying blind. We can’t continue to rely on the occasional hacking. We need a liaison. At the very minimum to all US agencies and to the current administration. We can work on the UN and allied countries later.”

“Sure…” 

“I hope you don’t mind: I read your file. I think you’d be perfect for the role.”

“I…” This is nonsense. They don’t … This is complete and utter nonsense. They can’t possibly be serious – or that desperate for team members. They don’t want her, they wouldn’t want her, if they knew. She settles on: “I’m not looking for one.” 

If Natasha Romanoff’s surprised, she doesn’t show it: “That’s ok. But think about it. And if your situation were to change, you know where to find us.” She turns back to the monitors.

…

That’s it?

“Why me?” she can’t help but ask, still incredulous.

“You successfully led a major city branch of the DEO. You’ve proven you have a strong sense of integrity. You’ve demonstrated your skill at bringing people together behind a common purpose. You see both sides and straddle both worlds with ease: your sister was a superhero, but you’ve also moved up the ranks in a government agency dealing with extranormal operations. You come with overall excellent credentials. Need I go on?”

She doesn’t even notice the use of the past tense when referring to Kara, something that usually never fails to aggravate her. “What are you talking about? I…” Wait: “Was this a set-up?”

Natasha Romanoff frowns. “You mean you coming here? No. Not that you’ll necessarily believe me, but it truly wasn’t.” 

“I’m not a suit and tie type of person.”

“That’s fine. Neither was Rhodey.”

The comparison’s preposterous. “Colonel Rhodes is a decorated Air Force officer. He had a direct line to the President. That’s distinctions and access I don’t have.” He also wears his military uniform like a second skin. (And hasn’t, to her knowledge, killed people deliberately. A very long list of people.)

“That may well be. Word is you made quite an impression on former President Marsdin. That tells me you’re just as comfortable dealing with the suits. Look, I’m not saying it’d be easy. But we need new blood, we need to start over with Secretary Ross. He comes from the army, you’re right, but he’s also moved on from that now. And you wouldn’t be on your own: we’d be with you every step of the way. We can learn from past mistakes, make sure we take this relationship more seriously and invest in it better this time around.”

“I’m… You’re a spy. Captain Rogers is a superhero. I’m neither of those things.”

“And yet something tells me you’d fit right in” Natasha Romanoff volleys back with a small smile.

Does she… Do they know about her vendetta? She swallows, “Does Captain Rogers know about this?”

“About our conversation just now? He does. And he agrees you’d be a great pick.”

Ask me, she wants to say, ask me what I’ve been doing for the past two years. Ask me and I’ll tell you how many I’ve killed, see if I’m still a great pick then. She frowns: “So it’s not a set up, but it’s also already been discussed?”

“I suggested it this morning to Steve and Rhodey. The discussion was short, not much of a discussion really, because your profile received unanimous support.” 

She doesn’t know if she believes her. (She doesn’t) “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s completely understandable, we just sprung this on you. If there’s any chance you’d be interested, why don’t you stick around? Just for a couple of days, to see what we’re up to. And then you can decide later?”

She doesn’t leave.

It takes her less than a week to come to the conclusion that the Avengers have become a one-woman show: Natasha Romanoff simultaneously their unofficial leader, manager and oldest member. Captain America’s around, sure, but for some reason that escapes her, he seems to have taken a step back from the day to day. Natasha’s not just holding down the fort, she’s the glue holding everything together: she’s proactively in touch with their network, worries about everyone’s well being, answers calls at any time of the day, monitors an endless list of threats and is a wealth of information on the Avengers initiative.

It also takes her less than a week to understand that neither of them is in any shape or form ok. Natasha goes from one intense activity to the next, no breaks. If she’s not in the conference room, then she can be found shooting targets into oblivion. And if not there, then she’ll for certain be in the gym. As for Captain Rogers, he can spend hours staring off blankly into space and tends to disappear for extended stretches of time. (Not to mention the daily delivery to the compound of new punching bags to replace the ones he destroys.)

Something’s definitely off. They’re less living together and more coexisting in a vast shared space. To the point that they go entire days without talking, even seeing each other. Whether by chance or on purpose, Colonel Rhodes does not drop by once. Alex for her part feels lost in this giant compound of bare walls and pristine glass windows. She goes through Sun’s routine, explores a bit, and stares at the box of Kara’s belongings, rinse and repeat. 

Sentences or conversations in which the disappeared come up are left unfinished, abandoned halfway through, with both looking so stricken you’d think it’s been mere days since they vanished. It’s plain to see that Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and Sam Wilson are a particularly painful subject for Captain Rogers. Natasha meanwhile stiffens like clockwork at any mention of Kara or family. (She’s pretty sure she’s seen her eyes mist over a couple of times.) 

As strange as it may sound, she finds it reassuring – or maybe not reassuring, but comforting, somehow. If the Snap leaves two Avengers stranded like this, it’s proof that they all, collectively, experienced a trauma of unprecedented proportions. One it’ll take much more than just a couple of years to recover from.

She calls Lucy for advice. Not because she’s seriously entertaining the idea of staying and taking the Avengers up on their offer – no, that’d be too on the nose, she’d feel like an impostor – more out of curiosity. Lucy’s been out of DC for a while, but promises to speak to a few contacts and get back to her. Things are improving with Clark and Lois’ two boys, in part thanks to some of Alex’s suggestions. She changes the subject when they get to her so-called sabbatical and Lucy kindly lets it slide. She’ll be in National City with Kelly in a few weeks, to commemorate James’ disappearance and wants to know if she’ll join them. Alex’d rather suffer through a second run-in with Rick Malverne than return to National City, let alone for such a macabre anniversary, but she keeps that to herself and changes the subject once more. 

Sun sends her a picture of udon noodles in a rich steaming broth, she replies with a picture of the sunrise over the compound, remaining vague as to her location. 

She starts to shadow Natasha in her many tasks: carnage in the Amazonian rainforest in Peru, a certain Miles Warren’s research on serums causing physical enhancements… Every two to three days, Colonel Rhodes blocks some time to brief her on his past role as liaison, obstacles he faced, useful contacts and people to watch out for. It gives her a good sense of what it entailed. 

Captain Rogers is harder to connect with.

“So you uh… you… like to run?” she tries one morning, grimacing at how forced it sounds. 

He’s clearly back from a workout and she’s looking for any excuse to linger, in the hope of finally figuring out how this bloody coffee machine works. (She’s been going without caffeine for ten days now. And it’s… not going well.)

She’s tried everything: being in the kitchen at the same time as one of them, randomly bringing up coffee in conversations in the hope one’d offer to make some, testing all possible switch combinations. She’s combed through the entire kitchen and communal living space, looking for a Stark Industries instruction manual. She even asked Siri for help. All to no avail: the machine stubbornly refuses to make her something remotely resembling palatable coffee. (How hard can this be? She’s got a PhD for Christ’s sake! If she doesn’t get her hands on a cup of good coffee soon, she’ll take it apart. And the machine better believe this isn’t an empty threat!)

“Yeah, I guess you could say that” he smiles good-naturedly, running a small towel over his face and hooking it around his neck. “I run every morning.” 

No shit, Sherlock. She’s been living with them for a couple of weeks now: she knows their predictable routines by heart. 

He washes his hands, reaches for a mug and lifts it in a silent question. Eureka! Alex nods, trying not to appear too eager and inches forward to keep the machine in plain view. She’s so concentrated, she’s forgotten all about keeping the conversation going. “How… uh… how long do you usually run for?”

“An hour or two. Depending on the weather and my mood.”

More like: one hour and a half, on the dot, every single day, come rain or shine, followed by fifteen minutes of stretching. She focuses hard on remembering the buttons he presses and in which order. The machine rattles to life: the first coffee is on its way. 

Small talk has never been so rewarding. 

“What about you?”

Uh?

Damn it, she just missed the last sequence. Did he turn or twist something? That small lever perhaps? But in which direction?

“What about me?”

“Do you run?”

“Oh. No. No offence, but I never got the appeal.”

He sets his steaming mug aside and puts hers in its place. Now, this time it simply has to work. She memorises every single one of his movements. Renewed pleasant rattling, her own coffee’s finally brewing. Mission accomplished! 

“Yeah. Wasn’t my idea. I used to associate running with Camp Lehigh. That’s where I trained. Before, well, before this…” he gestures towards his body.. He grows serious: “Before we were shipped out. I don’t have particularly fond memories of my time there, you know?” He leans against the counter, the move highlighting his flexed arms. “But it’s something they recommended I do when I woke up. After they pulled me out of the ice. They said I needed a healthy way to cope, for my mental health. To keep active, find an outlet. And it helped, for sure. There’s something to be said for being outdoors, for navigating this strange new world on my own terms.” He shrugs: “Then it became something Sam and I’d do together.” He grabs her coffee, holding on and stares at it, lost in thought. The delicious aroma reaches her nose. “I guess I kind of need it now, to feel awake, to feel present. To feel good.” He seems to come back to the moment and looks at her: “You’re welcome to join.” 

Alex’s ready to commit to anything, as long as he hands over her damn cup and hands it over now. 

And that’s how she ends up the following morning in shorts that are way too tight, running along the Hudson river and groaning in frustration as he overtakes her for the fourth time. She’s not so sure the machine’s – admittedly delectable – coffee is worth the ache in her muscles and joints. (But the release of endorphins may well be.) 

She sends Sun a picture of the river, sparkling in the soft morning sun. If she stares long enough into the shimmering water, she can pretend the tears are due to the brightness.

Dinners together become a thing.  

They don’t cook, always order in and she suspects the reason they never fail to order too much food is on the off chance Colonel Rhodes, Clint Barton or Carol Danvers were to show up unexpectedly. (The fact that they know it won’t happen goes unsaid.) Captain Rogers is apparently into trying out different world cuisines, hence the teetering pile of take out menus in the kitchen. And he systematically records the experience after every meal in his little note book.

Natasha dips her bowl of Tom Kha Gai with enthusiasm. “Rhodey says the new White House Press Secretary is cute.”

“Does he?”

“Single, too” she continues, looking playfully at Captain Rogers.

“You’re still on this, seriously?”

“I seem to remember somebody saying we need to get a life.”

Captain Rogers volleys back: “You first.” At Alex’s bewildered look, he explains: “Natasha’s been trying to find me a date for… how long has it been? Let’s just say: a long time.”

“And I’m not giving up!” 

“Like Captain America would need help in that department…” The idea’s preposterous. 

“Oh, you’d be surprised. What about you, Danvers?”

The use of her last name’s a new thing, one Natasha’s been trying out the past couple of days. Alex doesn’t know how to feel about it. “What about me?”

“Do you have a special someone in your life?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” she replies, letting their easy banter and gentle ribbing get to her.

“Ouch” comes from Natasha, at the same time as Captain Rogers says “Fair.” 

“Then who are you texting all the time?” Natasha asks, curious.

She’s not… Oh, Sun? “A friend.” (And it’s hardly all the time.)

“Careful, you just signed up for a lifetime of matchmaking from this one” Captain Rogers warns.

Yikes, dating couldn’t be further from her mind. “I’m good. Hey, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“The water, in my shower, it keeps on going from one extreme to the other.” She’s rather over the sudden feeling of buckets of ice cold water being dunked on her (it’s fucking torture, is what it is). “Does that happen to you too?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Sometimes?”

“Pretty much all the time.”

And that’s… ok? “Have you had a plumber come over to take a look at it?”

“I keep on wanting to do it, sorry” Natasha offers. “I’ll put that on the top of my list for next week.”

“Tell you what, I’ll handle this” she offers. Natasha’s got enough on her plate already. 

And this is how Alex finds herself from one day to the next in charge of all compound and equipment maintenance issues. 

She finds a file entitled Ronin – there’s that damn name again – in the database. It’s in the yellow category, before one on the Biologic Preservation Organisation, a decidedly creepy international entity she’s never heard of before, and another focusing on a series of events in Freeland, Georgia. 

She wasn’t snooping per se. But now that she’s stumbled upon it, she might as well take a peek. What are the odds that that name would refer to someone else? Slim, apparently: the file’s without a doubt about her days as… Well, about her. 

The alley in Tokyo where she dealt the Yakuza a heavy blow comes together before her eyes, cordoned off by police. She doesn’t remember it looking so… grim. It dissolves, replaced by the butchery in Manilla (that one… yeah, she remembers that one vividly). They don’t have much and her name doesn’t appear anywhere, which means she can put her initial fear to rest: they do not know about her. But they’ve made the connection with Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, which is already too much. 

For a split second there, she entertains the idea of deleting the file, or at least erasing some of the information it contains. She dismisses it just as quickly. That would feel like taking this one step too far. (The fact that she’d even consider this is rather frightening.)

The pictures, the death toll, she has a hard time reconciling herself to the fact that this was all her not so long ago. She knows it was, of course. But it feels like another lifetime ago. 

It further solidifies the conclusion she’s come to: she can’t accept their offer. She’s not the person they think she is. She’s got blood on her hands. Not innocent blood, mind you, no. But still: she killed people, so many people, and in cold blood. She’d like to help, but it’d feel too much like a sorry simulacrum of rectitude. They’re essentially asking her to liaise with the very agencies that have warrants out for her alter ego. There’s no universe in which taking on such a role would feel right.

She informs them of her decision that very evening. Colonel Rhodes sighs in disappointment,  Natasha remains silent, as unreadable as ever and Captain Rogers replies with a baffling: “Fair enough.” He claps his hands together and smiles, before continuing: “But you’re staying, right?” 

She’s too caught off guard to come up with a counter.

Lena Luthor makes Time Magazine’s Women of the year for the third time in a row. Alex subscribes and gets access to the full article. (For the record: she’d been thinking of subscribing for a while now, the article’s merely a lucky coincidence.) The photos are artistic, they must have used a filter to make Lena’s eyes pop like that, a magnetic grey-blue that is bound to stay with the reader. Lena comes across as approachable in the accompanying video, even smiles a couple of times. The interview steers clear of anything to do with her family and she politely shuts down the few forays into her personal life. 

She almost reaches out: at the very least, she could congratulate her. 

She doesn’t.

Captain Rogers takes her into town to show her his favourite garage and bike shop. She takes a look around, while he negotiates a couple of upgrades. They geek out over a few older models (he likes his bikes way bigger than she does). She’s tempted to buy one again, the longing undeniable, but refuses to indulge. (Money’s kind of in short supply these days, plus she needs to sort a couple of things out first – her life, for starters.)

Natasha flings a pair of boxing gloves at her head, claiming she’s had enough of her moping around and strong-arms her into a sparring session. (For the record: she hasn’t been moping. Alex doesn’t mope. That’s just simply not something she does. She’s just on her fifth reading of that Time article. For… reasons.) Alex gets her ass handed to her far too easily and Natasha declares this is to become a daily thing. She’s not sure her body can take the abuse, but her affected cockiness has awoken Alex’s competitive side now. So, frankly for lack of anything better to do, she agrees. (A decision she quickly comes to regret).

As if on cue, Sun sends her a picture of a winded Mun in training gear, lying on his back, covered in sweat, followed by one of her, flexing (no doubt taken by Mun). Alex replies with a “Not so lucky here” and sends her a picture of her own face after a particularly intense sparring session: she’s sporting a split lip and a bruised eye well on its way to turning purple. Sun replies with an offended “Luck?!” and a long list of YouTube training video links for her to learn to better protect her left flank. She stays up late and binges them all: Natasha will pay for this. 

She stays.

Captain Rogers suggests she accompany him into town again. Except this time, it’s to participate in one of the activities he apparently facilitates. (Plus she badly needs to get sports clothes her size). It’s not really clear to her what it’s all about, until she finds herself sitting in what’s unmistakably a group grief counselling session. 

And, ok, they may look like a nice bunch, but that’s not at all what she signed up for. 

She feels cornered. Yet something in the calm and supporting atmosphere dissuades her from storming out. There’s no theme: they take turns sharing, reacting to each others’ recent news with words of encouragement and support. (It’s all very Kumbaya.) Captain Rogers talks about taking baby steps, about becoming whole again, about finding purpose. In fact, she’s pretty sure he talks more in that one hour than she’s heard him say in the past month, he certainly opens up more. 

It’s way too personal for her taste. She doesn’t offer anything herself. Thankfully, no one calls her out on it. 

She doesn’t ask him why he wanted to show her this specific project of his on the ride back, as the city’s lights slide by, but it does make her wonder what he – what they – see in her: do they think she’s broken? It occurs to her that night, right when she’s about to fall asleep, that maybe it’d less to do with an attempt to fix her and more to do with a desire to share this experience with her. Maybe this was about him, not her. 

Even so, she declines his invitations to join in the following weeks and he eventually stops bringing it up. 

She doesn’t need help. 

(And certainly not this kind.)

“By the way” Cap calls her back one morning, after their run. “I always leave the keys on the bike.”

She turns, the stitch in her side protesting. O…k…?

“I thought you should know. In case you’d like to take it out for a spin one of these days.”

He looks sincere. “... You’d trust me with your bike?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

To say she’s taken aback is an understatement (it doesn’t help that she hasn’t had her morning coffee yet). “Don’t you need it?”

“I don’t use it nearly enough. It could use a little bit more love.”

She’s seen him with his baby, his reverence and care, if there’s one thing it doesn’t need, it’s more love. “Ok… thanks.” She has no intention of taking him up on his offer, but still: “I appreciate it.”

“No prob.”

Ok, so, that just happened. She makes a beeline for the coffee machine.

She opens the box of Kara’s belongings, finds her phone, her glasses, a pack of gum and her 

Little by little, Natasha starts delegating tasks to her. It’s the weekly calls with the rest of the group she looks forward to the most. They all take her addition in stride, apart from Rocket who’s his usual rude self. 

Okoye is… Alex’s never had to work with the Dora Milaje before and if Okoye is anything to go by, damn: they’re tough as nails and intimidating as hell. As the Head of Wakanda’s Armed Forces and in the absence of both royal siblings (both lost to the Snap), Okoye’s understandably busy. She’s blunt and has little patience for nonsense. She feels reliable, though, and not unkind. Alex’s hit by this sudden intense wish for Okoye and Sun to meet. (Oh, to be a fly on the wall and watch these two stoic women collide!) She too, extends her condolences when she learns Kara’s her sister. (Was her sister. Past tense. She’s… getting there, slowly. Anyway…) She remembers Natasha mentioning Okoye was there that day, on the battlefield and is tempted to ask her about the final showdown with Thanos. Another time, maybe.

All things considered, Okoye’s actually the least bizarre of the bunch. 

Carol Danvers – whose style Maggie’d have labelled as “soft butch” –  is distant in every possible sense of the word and straight to the point. With no element of comparison, it leaves Alex pondering whether it’s because of simple disinterest or stress (for she too seems to have a lot on her plate). She checks in from time to time, a whirlwind of succinct information on worlds Alex will probably never get to see in her lifetime, but remains overall elusive. The only glimpse of emotion comes when she enquires about a certain Maria Rambeau (she always asks, without fail). The name rings a bell. A former US Airforce pilot and founding member of S.W.O.R.D she remembers hearing about during her training. Alex learns that Maria Rambeau is also a single mother battling cancer. Carol Danvers doesn’t react to the news of the illness’ recurrence, but cuts the exchange short that day.

Wong – or as he keeps on reminding them: the Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts, leader and former librarian of Kamar-something – is believe it or not even more puzzling. There’s apparently a building in Greenwich village in need of constant protection. And he claims to respond to one emergency after the other, even though none of the events he refers to are ever featured in the news. Their exchanges are always very confusing.

Nebula, the blue lady-robot from a humanoid race called the luphomoids, is usually quiet, when she’s not in one of her emo days. Alex doesn’t know how to react to the rare glimpses into her haunted past she occasionally throws out there. (She gets the sense Nebula wouldn’t much care for shows of concern.) As to the raccoon (at least, she’s pretty sure it’s a raccoon), well… (This is what her world’s come to: she finds herself now often arguing with the hologram of a talking raccoon.) He’s got one big foul mouth, no filter, derives pleasure from antagonising people and is quite unable to leave things alone. He and Nebula form a decidedly odd team. Then again, both lost their found family in rather traumatic circumstances. 

She supposes that’s bound to bring people together.

“Kara?”

Alex turns. Next thing she knows, she’s lying flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Her eyes find Natasha, who looms above her, arms crossed, and looks anything but impressed. (All in all, a rather familiar sight.)

“What the fuck?”, she wheezes out.

“Is there a problem?”

“What the fuck was that?” she repeats, rolling onto her front with a wince and pushing herself up with her arms.

“Care to elaborate?”

She gets back up: “You said Kara’s name. As if she was right there, behind me. What kind of a fucked up move is that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you expect your opponents to always play fair?”

It takes a lot of self-control to swallow back the “Fuck you” that wants to come out in response.

Fine. If Natasha wants to play dirty, Alex can play dirty. 

She gets back into a rhythm. Jab, jab, block. Dodge, dodge, jab. But it’s all a ruse: the real hit she saves for later. “So what’s your reason?”

As expected, Natasha doesn’t bite immediately. She follows through with her attack, forcing Alex into a defensive stance. “My reason?”, she eventually asks. 

“For sticking around. For keeping the Avengers going. You know mine: my sister.” She blocks a powerful kick and slides back a few paces. “You’ve got someone too.” 

It’s a shot in the dark, as Natasha is quick to point out: “A strange conclusion to come to.”

She feigns assuredness: “No. I can tell.”

She narrowly evades a strike.

“Bold statement from someone I had never met a few months ago.”

“See: you’re too sanguine about this. Your reaction’s too strong. It’s a dead give away.”

The next hit comes from the left and Alex is too slow to block it. 

“And you” Natasha replies with a feint she’s never seen before, sweeping her legs out from under her, “are out of your depth.”

Alex lands for the second time today painfully flat on her back. And by the looks of it, Natasha considers the session – and topic of conversation – over. But Alex has her answer: there’s someone. And she’s now more intrigued than ever.

Speaking of significant someones: she sends Maggie a voice message. Leaving her hanging after she tried to reach out, repeatedly, would just be cruel. (Also: she misses her.) Maggie replies within a few minutes: she’s in the middle of an op but promises to get back to her as soon as possible. And she keeps her word: she calls Alex back that very evening. It starts stilted, long silences punctuated by moments where they speak over each other. They eventually find a rhythm and tone that works, though. Maggie has a hard time understanding her decision to quit the DEO, she can tell, but the fact that she’s now staying with the Avengers gets her off the hook. She whistles, congratulates Alex on moving up in the world and jokingly asks whether they’re looking for extra talent. Alex talks about their most recent minor emergency; Maggie tells her about Gotham, its corruption, its superheroes. Alex thinks Gotham sounds like a living nightmare, but keeps that observation to herself.  

Natasha leaves one morning, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and announces she’ll be gone for a while. She doesn’t disclose where she’s going or why, nor does she say how long she means by “a while”. Alex isn’t even sure it’s Avengers business. (In fact, she’s willing to bet it isn’t.)

Which means: it’s only Captain Rogers and her, now. 

It’s not that she minds his company. It’s just that, well, she wouldn’t say no to more people to interact with, period. 

She finds him with a set of old school headphones – the kind with a metal bar – frowning in concentration in the living room that night. He’s sitting in what she’s come to consider “her” spot and it takes effort to refrain from claiming it back. A muted BBC Earth programme on animals reclaiming spaces plays on the TV. At first, she assumes he’s listening to tapes related to a case, except she catches the faint notes of a melody. It turns out, he’s listening to music: an eclectic selection ranging from Marvin Gaye to Swamp Dogg. He offers her an extra headset the following day with a blush, in exchange for a crash course on Spotify. (She’s truly seen it all.) 

Natasha returns after being gone for more than a month (38 days to be precise). She doesn’t offer anything on her whereabouts or what she’s been up to. But something happened. Alex hasn’t known her for long, but she’s certain of it. There’s something sad, something defeated to her. She takes her cues from Rogers: he doesn’t point it out, so Alex doesn’t ask. Their sessions in the ring turn longer, more vicious. Sun starts sending her pointers on the daily. The shadows under Natasha’s eyes grow.

Alex splurges and buys herself a pair of high quality headphones. This marks the beginning of several evenings a week spent winding down to music with Captain America, the two of them bobbing their heads to the beat. She leaves him in control of the playlist, amused at his disciplined scribbling into his little red notebook. They share approving nods and ignore Natasha’s perplexed looks. 

She introduces him to the music of her youth, revisits her grunge years (which inevitably brings back an avalanche of memories of Kara). While he doesn’t share her enthusiasm about Nirvana (funny, Kara used to hate them too, but that probably had more to do with how Alex would blast Smells like teen spirit on purpose, just to annoy her) and downright hates The Offspring, Radiohead and the Red Hot Chili Peppers (“Is that really their name? Why would a band choose such a name?”) are a hit. R.E.M, Oasis and Kent make for a nice listen, U2 becomes one of his personal favourites and Archive and The Verve offer a perfect soundtrack to his broodier moods. Alanis takes her down memory lane (how cliché) and he takes a surprising liking to Destiny’s child (he hums Say my name for an entire week afterwards). They steer clear of boy bands, but she does force him to listen to the Spice Girls. 

It pains her to say, but Captain America may not be so bad after all.