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Maria leaves the Stark Industries building at exactly 7:00 pm, her three-inch heels clicking on the marble floor and a headache pounding in her temples, not that she lets any hint of pain transfer to her features.
She notices with satisfaction that the two security guards at the front desk practically stand to attention as she passes by. It took her two weeks of firing incompetents, reviewing procedures and closing obvious holes in security for both Stark Industries’ physical and virtual holdings to be at least minimally secure. In the process she gained quite a reputation and, as she feels the disgruntled stares of the security guards bore into her back, she thinks of the two months behind her as Head of Security and the many months ahead. Long days of reviewing personnel and running drills before she will be satisfied with pronouncing security as adequate. No doubt she’ll be the target of more disgruntlement. She’s not worried. She’s always played the bad cop, and security guards are much less creative than S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (or HYDRA agents, she acknowledges bitterly) in getting their revenge.
Between Stark Industries’ lackluster security and Fury’s implicit assignment of evaluating potential any and all threats from the private sector, it’s no wonder she has a headache. Maria waits until she’s on the subway train and several stops away to take some ibuprofen. She has already heard some of the secretarial staff call her “The Ironwoman” behind her back, and while she resents the comparison to Stark, she wants to maintain her ice-cold reputation. Admitting she feels pain like a normal person would make her seem vulnerable.
Her feet ache to match her headache by the time she reaches her apartment, but the three inches in height the shoes give her are completely worth the pain when she’s staring down some ex-Special Forces grunt. That doesn’t stop her from kicking her shoes off as soon as her apartment door closes behind her.
She notices something is off as soon she flicks on the lights. Her hand goes to her hidden gun and her eyes flick to the small table in front of her. The keys to Steve’s motorcycle, complete with a Dodger’s keyring, glint in the light. She lets out a breath of relief. Suddenly the stress of her day lightens and the tension between her eyes loosens.
She makes her way to the living room, listening for Steve and Sam. She hears a soft snore and looks through the open door to her bedroom. Her boys are passed out asleep on the bed, still fully clothed. Their combined bulk dwarves her queen-size mattress and she thinks, not for the first time, that she might need to find a bigger bed.
She shuts the door to the bedroom softly, aware just how light they sleep after too much time spent in war zones. She listens at the door and waits a breath, making sure neither of them stir, then tiptoes towards her kitchen and begins to throw together some Bolognese sauce. It would be easier to order takeout, but Maria makes a point of having a homecooked meal every time Steve and Sam come back to her. The plus side of having ex-military boyfriends is that they don’t mind her so-so cooking, as long as there is enough of it.
The water comes to a boil as the door to her bedroom swings open. Sam tip-toes through, as she had, so as not to wake Steve. Maria wonders what took so much out of Steve that even with the serum he’s more wiped out than his merely mortal counterpart.
Maria raises an eyebrow in enquiry, wanting an update on their quixotic quest to find Barnes. Sam just grins at her in response.
“Interrogation later,” he says in response to her silent question, quietly, moving towards her with mischief in his eyes.
Maria knows if he had anything important to report, he would, which means this search was fruitless, just like all the others.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Sam teases, and he’s close enough to her now that she feels his body heat.
He kisses her, and her heart stops for just a second, even though it’s hardly a new experience. She responds, and he presses her against the kitchen wall.
“Getting started without me?” Steve asks from behind them, hair still mussed from sleep.
He’s looking at her and Sam with a wicked promise in his eyes that she never would have associated with Captain America until a few months ago.
Maria slips away from Sam, allowing herself an longing glance. “Food first, then sex,” she says, firmly.
She knows that Steve requires four times as many calories as the average man to keep himself going, and that both he and Sam let the mission get in the way of taking care of themselves. As much as she wants to pull both men back into the bedroom, having either of them faint from hunger would definitely ruin the mood.
“Yes ma’am,” Steve says, the rumbling of his stomach audible from where Maria stands.
Sam feigns a look of shock, and then elbows her aside so he can make her merely edible Bolognese into something delicious.
“We need to get a herb garden in here,” Sam mutters, as he does every time he and Steve crash at her place.
Steve puts his iPod in the speaker, and late 90s Britney Spears begins to play.
Maria laughs at the choice, and Steve gives her a look that says either he’s offended, or that he’s deliberately messing with her. Maria feels the rest of the tension in her body drain away.