Chapter Text
“You’re not as stealthy as you think, you know.”
Steve hummed and took another sip of his coffee. He wasn’t surprised she’d spotted him. Not many could escape Natasha’s notice; she’d been trained to be the best by the best, after all.
She gracefully slid into the chair next to him. Not opposite—to let Steve continue to stare, he realized. One corner of his mouth quirked up into a genuine, if small, smile.
“You make a shit spy, Rogers. When you keep an eye on your target, you’re not supposed to blatantly stare at him.”
Steve shrugged. “I’m not really trying to hide.”
Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Really? The sunglasses, beard and plain, baggy civilian clothes say otherwise.” He said nothing. She sighed. “Steve—”
Finally, he looked away from the man who haunted his dreams to give her his attention. “You changed your hair color.”
It was true. Same length, but bright blonde. No longer red. Probably not for long, either; she knew how to change identities as well as water knew how to be fluid. At one time, it was a trait that frustrated him—pissed him off, actually. But not any more. It was just who Natasha was.
She accepted the change in topic long enough for her to flag down a waiter. “They say blondes have more fun,” she said by way of explanation.
He chuckled. “I thought they said that about brunettes.”
A small smile played at her lips. “Maybe I should try a dark brown?”
“I prefer red.”
The smile crumbled. She didn’t frown, but it was a near-thing. Instead, she studied him like a scientist would a micro organism under a microscope. She opened her mouth to say something Steve was sure he wasn’t going to like, but thankfully, a petite gentleman interrupted them. At his polite inquiry, Natasha ordered a fudge brownie with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream and sweet iced tea. The waiter jotted down her order and told them both he’d be back momentarily.
Steve, for his part, lost interest in the conversation in favor of staring at Iron Man across the street in the park. He was surrounded by a bunch of excited children, all begging for an autograph on whatever was handy. James Rhodes, Tony’s best friend, was propped up against a tree a short distance behind him, arms crossed casually over his chest as he watched on in apparent amusement. Occasionally, he said something to Iron Man, but whatever it was, was lost over the sound of New York chatter, traffic and squealing children.
Once, Steve would have been beside Tony. He would have been the one to sign autographs beside him, maybe take pictures with him. Tony’s mouth would be a constant run of commentary; jokes, playful jibes, statistical facts or encouragements for the kids. Whatever that’d come to mind.
But he couldn’t do any of that now. The Avengers wasn’t Steve’s team—it probably never really was. Steve didn’t agree with Tony; Tony didn’t agree with Steve. It was a fact that ached like a bruised kidney.
Steve wished he could at least see Tony’s face beneath Iron Man’s face plate.
“Why are you here, Steve?” Natasha asked softly.
Why was he here? Steve had been asking himself that since he left Wakanda. It wasn’t safe to be in the ‘States—it especially wasn’t safe to be in New York. But there he was, sitting at a simple cafe across the street from a park and watching Iron Man like the rest of the outside patrons.
“I wanted to see how he was doing,” he answered. It was the truth, if incomplete.
“There’s a new invention called a cell phone, Steve. People use it these days to call one another to keep in touch.” The waiter’s return with Natasha’s order interrupted her. She waited until the man left before asking, “I know you’re still behind on the times, but doesn’t a fossil like you have one of those?”
Steve cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “Do you think Tony would pick up my call?”
Natasha swiped a forkful of ice cream off her brownie. “I think he would.”
“Do you think he’d honestly tell me how he was doing?”
Natasha dipped her head, conceding Steve’s point.
It was quiet for a while, the sounds of car horns and Natasha’s clinking silverware filling the space between them. Steve absently fiddled with his pencil, twirling it in between his fingers before shading something on his napkin.
Natasha held her cup of tea in both hands as her own gaze shifted to watch as Iron Man hefted two little girls onto his broad shoulders. “If he sees you, he’ll try to bring you in.”
Steve nodded. “I know.”
“Would you let him?” Curious; not offensive.
“No.” A blunt truth.
He couldn’t afford to be captured by Tony and brought before the United States’ government to “pay for his crimes”. Steve didn’t see saving Bucky from death or persecution as a crime. He wouldn’t. He didn’t owe anyone an apology. But damn if it didn’t hurt to be separated from his other friends because he chose freedom and Bucky.
Natasha stared at him, a silent, if inquisitive, sentinel. Steve could only imagine what she saw right then. He hadn’t shaved in weeks—hadn’t bothered to keep his facial hair nice and trimmed. His jeans fit him just fine, but his threadbare T-shirt was two sizes too big with a handful of small holes littered about. He was at least grateful his sunglasses hid the bags under his eyes. He wasn’t really up for an interrogation about how little he’d slept in the past couple weeks.
All in all, Steve knew he looked worse for wear. His ma would’ve never allowed him out of their small apartment looking the way he did. Hell, neither would Bucky. A part of Steve was ashamed—he’d been raised to dress smartly. On the whole, however, he just didn’t care.
There was a cluster of whines. Steve spotted drooping shoulders; heard excited pleas for Iron Man to stay. One little boy was bold enough to grab a hold of Iron Man’s gauntlet.
He sighed. It was time to go.
“You going to leave that for him?” Natasha eyed the sketch Steve had finished just before her arrival.
Steve didn’t answer right away. Leaving it would prove he’d been there. Whatever A.I. Tony used now, it was sophisticated enough to find Steve for sure. And maybe Steve could outsmart it for a while; out maneuver the cameras and computers. But he couldn’t do it forever. Especially not with Ross on his tail.
Still, he wanted to leave it for Tony. Or rather, he wanted to give it to his friend himself.
When he opened his mouth to say no, Natasha smoothly rose to her feet, dug into her pocket for her wallet and set a few bills on the table. The abrupt action had Steve climbing to his feet as well. He held out an arm for her to take, but she stretched it around her waist and snuggled into his side as though she’d done it a thousand times before.
Natasha escorted them through the cafe and out onto the busy sidewalk, smiling adoringly up at him as though he’d just taken her out on a date instead of her crashing his alone time. “Sorry, Steve.”
Steve ducked his head so only she could hear him. “Ross’s men?”
Natasha shrugged. “Or CIA. Or FBI. You haven’t exactly made friends with your refusal to sign the Accords, Steve.”
He said nothing. He’d already gone over that and he wasn’t about to do it again. Besides, he had bigger things to worry about.
“C’mon,” Natasha steered them around the street corner toward the subway station. “Sam’s making lunch.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah. You’ll probably get an earful of how you shouldn’t leave your wingman in another country with your grilled cheese.”
_____
“Sir?”
“Yes, Friday?” Tony answered distractedly, gently prying the little boy off his arm with a promise of seeing him again.
“You requested I inform you if the U.S. Secretary of State mobilized any men within a ten mile radius of you or Avengers Tower.”
Tony straightened. Of course he’d taken precautions—just in case Ross decided the Avengers were too great of a threat to keep around. He might have agreed with Ross about the Accords but that didn’t mean he liked or trusted the man.
Tony took a few steps back. He motioned for Rhodey to distract the kids. “Status on the other Avengers?”
“They are unharmed and are not in danger presently, sir.”
He frowned. “What’s happening, Friday?”
“It appears a small task force is approaching Shirley’s Cafe not thirty meters from your location, sir,” Friday relayed.
Shirley’s Cafe? But that was right… across… the street.
Tony turned toward the business, the screen inside his helmet enhancing his view. Five suits approached the outside of the cafe, looking around for something—or someone—that was no longer there.
The thrusters started up with a simple command. He ignored the excited shouts of the kiddies as he slew across the street. He landed swiftly, mindful not to knock over a little old lady with a cane, on the sidewalk before the cafe’s small black gate. One of the suits—the leader, Tony surmised—gave him a once over. Then, “Did you know he was here?”
“Did I know who was here?” Tony asked. He had a feeling he knew who they were talking about. If they weren’t here for him and Rhodey, then that meant there were here for something—someone—just as important. And there were only so many people as valuable as two members of the Avengers.
An ex-Avenger.
“Sir,” a suit interrupted. He held up a single piece of paper between his gloved thumb and forefinger.
The head suit held his hand out for the paper, clearly dismissing Tony Stark as though he were no longer worth his time.
“Friday.”
The screen zoomed in on the lined paper in the suit’s hand.
Tony swallowed.
It was a sketch of him in the Iron Man suit. He was holding up a little girl with pigtails and adorable bowed shoes. He held her protectively, as though no bad in the world could or would dare touch her with him right there. Her small hand laid wonderingly over the ARC reactor case. By Thor’s shiny rainbow bridge, he could see the individual strands of her hair.
The scene in the picture had really happened. He didn’t know how long he’d been with the munchkins—they’d ambushed him when he’d made that pit stop in the park—but it’d been at least twenty minutes.
The picture hadn’t been signed but it didn’t have to be for Tony to know who drew it.
Tony’s shoulders almost sagged with the weight of the revelation.
Steve was in New York.
He didn’t wait for the suit to try and question him before taking off into the sky. “Friday, run a facial recognition for Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, through traffic cameras, phones, the whole shebang.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?” For an A.I., she sure could be snarky. Maybe he’d have to reprogram her to be more polite. Eventually. Probably.
“Tell Rhodey Happy’s on his way to come get him.” He paused. “Call Happy and tell him to pick up Rhodey, first.”