Blue. Baby blue. Soft, innocent, entrancing. Damn I am a sucker for the eyes, but his eyes are just so freaking beautiful. Do I look like some flabbergasted fangirl who has just aimlessly wandered off the streets right now? I probably do. Crap, I probably look so stupid right now, but I can't help it. It's the blue.

           "Ma'am," Steve amiably smiles, hand rising between us in a courteous act of introduction.

           Goddamn it Lillian Veronica Nightshade, you're a trained murderer and demi-god, pull yourself together—

           But they're so blue. Yet, the small, near indiscernible specks of green seem to surround the pupil. They're only noticeable up close though.

          "Hi, uh hey. I'm – he just – I'm Lillian," I manage to form words, but not really a sentence. "I know Tony just said that, but uh, yeah. So, uh.... hey."

          I can feel Stark's facepalm.

          Steve, being the humble 40's man that he is, simply begins to heartily chuckle at my awkward stuttering. "Hey Lillian. Feel free to call me Steve instead of Cap—"

          "But you can also call him Fourth of July Stripper, Independence Day Mascot, Ancient Flag, Spangles, Capsicle, Virgin of all Virgins, America's Goldenboy—"

          "Thanks, Tony," Steve sarcastically intervenes, shooting the other Avenger a half-hearted, chiding expression for the onslaught of nicknames.

          "It's what I'm here for Grandpa," Tony winks, yet turns the focus of the conversation back to me. Thank God I'm a tad more composed than before. "Just thought I'd introduce one of my closest companions to you while I'm here. She'll be joining SHIELD, so keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't start any espionage wars while I'm gone—"

          "I'm a twenty five year old woman Tony," I admonish him, but not as heatedly as usual due to the understandable euphoric state I'm in right now. "As nice as Mr Rogers is," Oh my Lord I just called him Mr Rogers, "I don't need a baby sitter."

          "No but you do need a trainer," Tinman reminds me, staring pointedly at Steve after doing so. "And who better to train you than the world's first super hero, Captain America?"

          "Exactly, he's Captain America," I justify, eyebrows higher than my hairline. "He's a busy man with more important things to do."

          Tony snorts. "Yeah but he's—"

          "He is standing right here," Steve politely yet amusedly reminds us, making me go bashful and Tony expectant. Steve – whom I've just realized is sweating quite profusely, considering we interrupted his work out session – plants his hands firmly on his hips, his fitted t-shirt protesting against his muscles when he does it. Yum. "And he would like to back track into the conversation a bit more. You're a friend of Tony's?"

         Oh my Lord that t-shirt is leaving nothing to the imagination. I just wanna rip the shit outta that – wait was that question for me?

          "Yeah, we go way back," I smoothly reply, nonchalantly stuffing my hands into my black jean pockets. "We uh, used to—"

          "Go to this local bar together," Tony cuts in, saving my ass. "Her dad was the bar owner before he died in a car crash, so even though she didn't necessarily drink until the legal age, she would sit around with her sister waiting for her dad to finish up—"

          "Because my mum is out of the picture. Passed in childbirth." At least there's one truth in here. "So I would see Tony sitting around and –"

          "The first time she saw me she offered me girl advice for picking up the ladies. Apparently I was doing it all wrong—"

          "He got laid that night thanks to yours truly," I defend myself, neglecting Stark's condescending tone. "But after that, he would just come in for a chat, if he was in town. He was surprisingly good company for a half sober, playboy billionaire who had never had to handle kids before." A cheeky and wrong idea pops up into my head. Sorry Tony. "But there was that time you were trying to give my sister and I sex advice when we weren't even legal—"

          "How was I supposed to know you were fifteen?" Tony rebukes, managing to go with the flow and putting on quite the show. "All you girls looks like you're in your twenties when you wear enough make up, high heels and a short enough skirt."

          I level my gaze with his own. "I was wearing a flannel, jeans, flats and cheap mascara. Oh, and a t-shirt with my school logo."

          Steve almost looks horrified at my words. "You gave sex advice to a fifteen year old girl?" He incredulously asks Tony, to which Stark shrugs at, but I could see the meaning behind the look he's giving me. I'm in for it later. Oops. Shouldn't have tattled a tale to the Grandpa then.

          "Like I said, didn't know she was fifteen. They got to grow up one day anyway. Better to be prepared when they do."

          Deciding it was my turn to rescue Tony, I swiftly swoop in and continue "Anyway, after a couple years we grew pretty attached – him and I more so than him and my sister – and I began to see him like an older brother. He even let me work at Stark Industries when I was running low on cash, which was inevitable in my life considering the fact that dad never really got much cliental at the bar."

          In case you're wondering, yes, Tony and I did plan all of this prior to this conversation. We needed a story for my dossier, and this particular story filled in the most blanks of my life than any of the others did, as well as seem plausible for my circumstances and how I turned out. I'm kinda losing track of all my different back stories though, I don't know how the Joker manages to jump between one or the other. Eh, he's insane. He can afford to have a multiple choice childhood. Then again, my own sanity is rather questionable, and my multiple choice childhood seems to be working so far.

          Hey, maybe I am good at this after all?

          "Poor kid bounced around on the streets a lot," Stark starts reeling in the sympathy, almost making me wanna puke out my breakfast. "Grew up on them practically. Barely had enough money for school, food, a house, etcetera etcetera. Learned a thing or two from them though, didn't you?" His arm chummily drapes around my shoulders, his facade the epitome of chilled but affectionate. As affectionate as one who is Tony Stark can appear anyway.

           "Where were you raised?" Steve inquires curiously, and I have a pretty good feeling why. It's the old Brooklyn boy in him, looking out for his own. If I said Brooklyn that would be a bit too much of a coincidence though, and I don't think the answer Japan would sit too well with the current story.

           "Bounced between Staten Island and Brooklyn originally, but by nine we were set pretty firmly in Queens." Do I act the part of a Queens street rat? Hell, do I even act like a New Yorker? I'm not too sure. Maybe if I start complaining about the traffic and bring up pizza a couple times I'll sell the story.

           A familiar, warm twinkle ignites behind those goddamn blue eyes. Dear God, I may be an on and off Catholic, but if you exist, please make him recognise me. "I'm Brooklyn myself—"

          "Wow, that's so interesting Rogers. Absolutely fascinating, and this has been fantastic, really, it's been great. But I've got places to go, people to see, a multi-million dollar enterprise with a stunning CEO to run. Why don't you two catch up a little though? Working partners ought to know each other and all," Tony manages to rush out so quickly it almost sounds like one, full, blurred sentence. By that point he's got one arm around Steve's shoulders – which is pretty commendable considering how Tony nearly needs a footstool around the guy – and one arm around my own. By the end of his spiel, he's 'lightly' pushed us towards one another and made a break for the door.

          Oh, I am so going to roast his ass later on. Literally.

          My lips part to let loose a colourful threat regarding Tony, a stapler and a broom stick, but he's already long out the door. I scowl, yet suddenly remember the other presence in the room which, let's face it, is a pretty damn hard presence to miss.

          Do not think of that in the way I know some of you are thinking of that.

          I smoothly turn to face him, craning my neck a tad to do so. "Look, Steve – can I call you Steve? – Anyway, don't worry about bolts-for-brains or myself. I imagine you've got a pretty heavy schedule ahead of you—"

          "How does ice cream sound?"

          I blink. "What?"

          He grins, and it's almost boyish. "Ice cream. I've only been able to visit Brooklyn a handful of times since I woke up, but down on Henry Street there's this parlour that makes some pretty good egg creams and sundaes. Like Tony said, potential working partners should get to know each other, and you're from Queens. Got to look out our own don't we?"

          I try to suppress the broad grin attempting to overtake my face, yet I only manage to dial it down to a small smile. Ice cream? In Brooklyn? Such a cliché, and quite 40's like, but a very Steve Rogers thing to do. "Yeah, guess we do."

******

          "I can't believe you managed to eat that in thirty seconds."

          "You underestimate just how much food I can stuff in my mouth before I require the need to be stopped."

          His breathy chuckle is visible in the late afternoon air, reminding me how goddamn much I missed that laugh. The fact that he not only has time to spend with me –amongst his hectic Captain America work schedule– but actually proposed to hang out and have ice cream with me, a complete stranger to him at the moment, is almost overwhelmingly kind. After all the crap I've done and been condemned for, when did I do something to deserve this?

          I spot a bin in my peripheral vision, lightly tossing the now empty sundae cup as swiftly as a basketball player into it as we pass. He nods his head, lightly impressed. "Nice shot."

          I grin, a bit too wide for such a menial thing. "Thanks."

          "So you practically grew up on the streets huh?" He attempts to instigate a new topic as he swallows a chilled spoonful of his classic vanilla and choc sundae, our long strides keeping up with one another whilst we aimlessly amble around the concrete Brooklyn streets.

          I shrug in a 'more or less' kind of way, feeling an unmistakeable pang of guilt building in my chest for the lies. More lies. "Yeah, it wasn't all bad though. Addie and I learned to fend for ourselves pretty early on, which was inevitable when dad would sometimes agitate the wrong people in his bar. Stepped on the toes of some less savoury people. What better way to get to a guy then through his kids, eh?"

           "That's low. There's no honour in going after a man's kids. Seems there are always people looking to bully and push others into submission, no matter what morals they have to pay up to do so," he wistfully comments, scraping the remainders of his cold, creamy dessert with the flimsy plastic spoon.

          I draw in my dark coat around me, the nippy near-night air trying to penetrate through it to reach my skin. "Bullies are bullies. They're the kinds of people who won't be happy until they've pushed you to the ground. All you have to do is have the courage to stand your ground and not give them the time of day. Hold on to what power you have, and never give it away."

          Steve stares at me with an intense, contemplative glint behind it, as if deliberating what he should reveal or not. It makes me wonder more about the man, and realize how little I actually know about him. I know about Captain America. I know about his values, his beliefs, what he stands for. But I don't really know a lot about Steve Rogers, only the importance that Bucky Barnes has in his life.

          I don't know his favourite ice cream flavour (though now I'm guessing it may be classic vanilla). I don't know what sport he liked to play as a kid. I don't know the name of his parents. I don't know if he had ever loved a woman before me. I don't know what he liked to do in his spare time before he joined the army. I don't know Steve Rogers. So maybe... maybe starting fresh is a good thing. He doesn't know me anymore either. He doesn't know my upbringing. He doesn't know my father. He doesn't know of the blood that courses in my veins. He doesn't know of the deeds I've done. He doesn't know that I was an assassin and mercenary. He doesn't know that I almost killed him thanks to Scarlet Witch.

          He doesn't know me. I don't know him. It's almost a perfect fresh start... if it wasn't for all the lies I've already sported to build our friendship upon.

          "When I was a kid, bullies were a common thing to me."

          I have to shake myself out of my reverie to comprehend what he just said, noticing the faraway glaze over his eyes as they stare ahead. "I always came across them in the streets. Whether they were targeting me or someone else, I didn't care. It wasn't right to just stand by and let them walk over me or some other kid... so I didn't let them. Of course, this was before the serum altered me. Then, I was short, skinny and had enough allergies and health conditions to fill a book. Didn't stop me though, and I got my fair share of beatings because of it."

         He's already opening up to me? But we just met? Then again... I have freely shared quite a bit of what could be considered private information about myself. I'm almost too open to be someone he's just met. Perhaps I should dial down the personal information sharing a tad... "You were standing up for what is right. For what you believed in." I know my next words most likely overstep an affectionate boundary that people who just met shouldn't overstep, but the comment just freefalls from my lips before I can stop it. "Sounds like you were Captain America before the serum was even in your body."

          There's a faint smile on his lips as he discards the scraped clean sundae cup in the nearby bin, his head tilted down as a marginally closed off facade steps over his features. "That's not the first time I've heard that, so I guess it's true. Didn't learn much fighting wise from it all though, but by the sounds of it, you did. How good are you in a fight?"

          Kicked your ass on more than one occasion Captain Kill Joy. Even broken your damn nose. Oh, and shot you. Annndddd almost killed you under freaky, voodoo magic kinda mind control. So, you know, I'm not that bad a fighter.

          God I wish I could say that.

          "Good enough," is what I end up replying, absentmindedly kicking a little pebble as we casually walk. "Martial arts became a big thing for me, so while I have the edge of a street fighter, I guess you could say I have the finesse and elegance of a ninja."

          He chuckles heartily at my playfully spoken last sentence, hands digging into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. "Looks like Nat is going to have to watch out, she may have some competition."

          I feign confusion. "Nat?"

          He throws me a perplexed glance, and then comes to the realisation that I'm still new – and technically not actually a SHIELD agent yet either. "Natasha Romanoff. She works closely with Director Fury. You'll see around often, the red hair is hard to miss."

          I nod as if I understand, when as well all know, I am very familiar with the mentioned Russian assassin. "The name sound Russian—"

          "P-Please Mickey, that's all I have tonight. I-I'll bring more tomorrow, I swear."

          Steve and I pause when we hear the fear-stricken tone of an unfamiliar man from an alley not three meters in front and to the right of us. It's followed by a voice that's too cocky and threatening for my liking. "Only $68 tonight Jimbo? Come on man, you know the deal. One hundred every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday and the boys and I leave you and your lovely wife alone. Ain't that right gentlemen?"

          Supportive and what would be considered intimidating (to the average Joe anyway) grunts and 'yeahs' of agreement course all at once, sounding as if there's maybe another three or four guys there too. "I-I'll bring one fifty tomorrow, to make up for it."

          There seems to be a pause for thought at the threatened man's offer. "Two hundred and you've got a deal."

          "T-Two hundred? But M-Mickey, I've got a family to feed—"

          "Then don't be screwing with the payments next time. Come on boys, we will be getting double tomorrow night." There's a pathetic whimper that cries out, as if the extorted man has been gripped or his personal space has been invaded. "Or we're gonna pay Jimmy here a nice visit, maybe pop by to say hi to the missus."

          By the time Steve and I round the chipped and beaten brick corner to peer into the alley, there's only a single man kneeling on the damp, harsh, grimy floor, his cheap but doable looking suit quite dishevelled and his amber hair and tie in disarray. He's shaking a little, and seems to be somewhere in his thirties perhaps. He doesn't hear us at first, but as we near, Steve concernedly pipes up "Sir? Are you alright?"

          He jumps back, severely startled, falling on to his behind as his back abruptly slams against the unforgiving brick wall. "Wh-Wha...? Who are....." he pauses, seeming to recognise Steve. Do I miss being recognised as people stared in awe and fear? Maybe. More so the former than the latter, but yeah, I miss it. "Wait... y-you're Captain America." His gaze seems to fall on me, perplexed and unfamiliar. Dammit. Apparently he hasn't gone dimension hopping recently. "Who are you?"

          "Just you're friendly neighbourhood—" Wait, I can't say assassin anymore. Oh come on. "— sarcastic injustice fighter...?" Nice save. Idiot.

          "What happened here? Did they steal your money?" Steve completely bypasses my stupid response after helping the man up, which I am very grateful for to be honest. Sarcastic injustice fighter? Surely I'm more creative than that. Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

          The mugged individual – whom I recall was called Jimmy and Jimbo, so I'm assuming his name is Jim – seems to think Steve is worth more time than me, which, let's be honest, is probably true. Hell, he looks like the kind of guy who collected figurines of Steve as a kid and still polishes weekly them. Oh, and let's not forget the limited edition Captain America trading cards which are most likely in mint condition—

          "Y-Yeah. Every week, three times a week. That particular gang r-runs the block my family and I live in. It's like a protection racket on a smaller scale I guess... If we don't pay up, broken bones are the l-least of our worries. They tend to like going after our f-families."

          Um, excuse you. I was having a little internal rant before you decided to rudely interrupt. Didn't your momma ever teach you any manners? But, I suppose I'll let it slip, because the guys who just mugged you do sound like royal blockheads.

          America's Golden Boy is of course engrossed and deeply distressed by this. This is Steve we're talking about here. I'm sure if Clint started stealing extra tarts from the SHIELD lunch canteen; he would be the one to start a full blown investigation based on the inequality than one guy is getting more deliciously delectable desserts than everyone else. America is a land of equality and freedom after all. Nothing says equality and freedom more than a 'free the tarts!' campaign.

          "What are their names? What do they look like?"

          Ah, there's my Captain. Goin' all heroic on me. He's so cute when he's fighting crime—

          "I don't really k-know their names, I only know the head guy; Mickey." Like the mouse? "But they go around with matching hoodies, all which have the Anarky 'A' on them, like some kind of emblem." Great, now we're dealing with a logo-ized (not a word Lillian, but that's okay) clique of guys who think they're top shit because they have a symbol on their backs. They probably have some stupid touch-the-police-car-without-the-officer-noticing or steal-a-hotdog-from-the-hotdog-cart kind of initiation to join as well. What is it with crime in this city? First there's boob gazer douchenozzle Michael Romano, and now there's shaved monkeys with pretentious emblems running around like they own everyone in the joint.

          Well, this city has gone to crap. I may as well move to Gotham if I want tacky criminals with tasteless pseudonyms and colourful felonies. Got to hand it to the Gotham's Rogues Gallery though, they are original.

          Deciding that standing and mentally rambling isn't going to help at all, I cross my arms and ask "Would you have any idea what they do with your money each time? Where they go?"

          Steve's approving flickered glance in brief and nearly unnoticeable, but the giddy school girl in me squeals and starts freaking jumping in excitement, like the Jock has asked me to prom or something. I swear, Addie's softness is rubbing off on me.

          "Yeah, actually. There's a liquor store two streets down, then one to the right. They usually check around for the other people who 'owe' them money before visiting it though."

          "We'll get your money back. Just wait in a nearby public place," Steve firmly promises, the true-blue Boy Scout shining through him like a diamond.

          Steve is already stalking away like a man on a mission by the time I comprehend what he's said, and after sheepishly telling Jimbo "Uh, yeah. What he said," and jogging to catch up with him on the street, I swerve in front of him and firmly press my hands against his chest to stop him. Hel-lo. I've missed that chest. "Whoa tiger, calm down. As much as I would like to see the piss-funny expressions on their faces when Captain America asks them for the stolen money, it's not gonna keep them from going back in a few weeks time and startin' up all over again. They know you can't be here all the time, so you need to act like there's people watchin' them all the time, making sure they don't go about stealing again."

          He narrows his gaze, regarding me curiously. "What did you have in mind?"

          My smirk broadens to rival the Joker's. "Oh, just a little shopping trip is all."

******

          Steve Grant Rogers considers the about-to-be purchased merchandise on the sketchy shopping counter before us, eyebrows raised and a light smile playing on his lips. His eyes flicker between it and me, eventually settling on asking "You know, I used to have this friend who would've come up with something like this. You remind me of him in a way."

          "It's called creativity," I rebuke, handing over the right amount of cash as the equally sketchy cashier of the sketchy store accepts it – after taking a selfie with Steve of course.

          His grin widens. "It's called trouble."

          I can't help it; it's an automatic response that slips off my lips by now. "Trouble is my middle name Cap. And relax, this is totally legal. I wouldn't dare break any laws while I'm a) with America's Prodigal son and b) trying to go for a job in an espionage agency which said Prodigal son works at."

          After the cashier has packed the goods in the bags, Steve – being the gentleman that he is – picks all three of them up and waltzes to the entrance, holding the door open with his foot for me. "Now you sound like Tony."

          I beam at him, holding the door open for him in return once I'm outside. "Well, we are besties. Our better qualities do tend to rub off on each other." He laughs amusedly at my phrasing, following me towards the liquor store which is alarmingly nearby. The store we just walked out of nearby to a liquor store literally spells disaster. It's almost as bad a liquor store next to a firearms dealer.

          "Now, after briefly jogging back to Jimmy to check on which route the gang takes after collecting the money, he told me that he's seen them coming around the back of the store a couple times. So all we got to do is set up there, you get into position, and let them roll up before we kick it all off," I announce, feeling rather proud of myself as we walk down towards the liquor store and take a left into the alley that leads out back.

         Although he looks entertained, he still seems a tad unsure. "You sure this won't hurt them?"

          I lightly tap his burly shoulder, remembering how I used to curl up next to it once upon a time. "I'm 12% unsure of this, but if they're buyable over a counter, they've got to be safe." Well that was a pathetic excuse if I've ever heard one Lilly. "It'll just give them a proper scare and make sure they never try stealing again. I promise. Scouts honour."

          "Somehow I don't think you were a scout," he playfully remarks, pulling the firecrackers out of the bag and placing them in some of the metal garbage bins out the back of the liquor store, copying me doing so. "And how did we even buy these? Isn't New York pretty strict on the whole fireworks thing?"

          "The big ones that go boom in the sky, yes," I answer, placing unlit matches on the wick of each one in each can. "But these are firecrackers, not fireworks. These ones aren't illegal; they can just be a tad hard to get your hands on when it isn't the 4th of July or New Year's."

          Steve watches me work, still not entirely certain what to do with the last bag he has in hand. "How are you going to light them though? They're not just going to spontaneously combust... are they?"

          My smirk is rather wicked, lifting the corners of my naturally semi-dark nude coloured lips up. "Hmm, with a little persuasion they will. I can control and create two of the four elements; water and fire. Although, I'm more partial to ice part than the water part."

         Now that really shocks him. "You have... powers?"

         "Don't act so surprised," I playfully remark, fixing up the bins and neatly placing all the lids back on them. "Your team consists of an enormous green rage monster, a Norse God, a billionaire in a robotic suit and two highly trained assassins. Not to mention you fought off an alien invasion and another Norse God two years ago. Surely actual powers can't be that much of a shock."

         "In this day and age, guess not," he calmly agrees, still staring at me funny. "Still caught me off guard a bit."

         If you're saying that about fire and water powers Stevie boy, then you don't even want to know about the unstable infinity stone of ultimate darkness brewing inside of me.

         Steve hears them first, but I'm not too slow to pick up on it either. Heavy, echoing, erratic footsteps becoming more and more prominent. I quickly look to Steve, gesturing for him to grab the Pop Its in the last bag and get into position. "You'll know when to chuck them down," I whisper loudly, observing his taught muscular back through the tight fitted shirt tense as he climbs an unstable pipe to the top of the single storey liquor store, having thrown up his jacket first. He hides behind the protruding door that evidently leads down into the store from the roof, giving me a thumbs up which still appears rather hesitant about the entire ordeal. Perhaps causing mischief and pranking a few douchebags isn't the best first impression I could give him, but it's authentically me. I'm already building a potential friendship upon childhood lies, I don't need any more to feed him thank you.

          I casually lean against the brick wall of the building behind the liquor store, deciding to fish out a coin and flip it a few times for dramatic effect. Here I thought Tony was a drama queen.

          It's dark out by now. The pollution in the sky – even in the dark – is unbearable, casting a permanent, sombre bruise-like cloud over Brooklyn that hardly enables me to spy upon the stars or moon. It didn't seem so bad before, but now paired with the dark and the lights of the various buildings, it's funnily enough clearer to notice than it was in the day.

          Five cliché looking street men round the corner of the brick wall I'm leaning up against, chuckling and shoving each other as a couple count the money they're holding. They adorn the telltale 'A' emblem on their black and red hoodies, letting me know I've got the right guys. A couple are even already holding half empty or empty bottles of alcohol, having evidently already hit another liquor store. Well, that'll work in my favour. If they're already buzzed, then this plan will almost certainly be believable.

          One spots me after they're a few feet in front of me, bumping his mates with his elbows and nodding his head at me in a very guy like manner. "Ey boys, check out dollface over here."

         Five sets of eyes land on me, none with good intentions. Remind me why I signed up to be a good guy again, dear readers? Because I already know that by the end of this conversation, I'm going to wanna grab the firecrackers out of the bins and shove them down their throats before lighting them.

          Too morbid? Too morbid.

          "Gentlemen." I don't even need to feign superiority. Standing in the presence of a bunch guys who look like they need rats to help them out of a maze makes the superiority in me stand out more than apparently. Huh, Addie did mention that I showed signs of something called a 'Superiority Complex' one time. Perhaps she's right. She is a psychologist after all. "I seem to have a problem."

         "Well I'm sure we could fix it for you sweet cheeks," a spikey haired brunette informs me, taking another step closer. I lift my arm, holding my hand up in a 'stop' gesture as I nonchalantly push myself off the wall with my right leg. "You, gentlemen, are my problem. You've been extorting money from civilians all around town, and my uncle isn't too pleased with it." Do I sound like a stuck up bitch? Please tell me I do. That's what I'm aiming for.

          The five men exchange puzzled looks, laughing at my expense. "Does it look like we give a damn about your uncle lady?"

          "You should," I prissily press, stuffing my hands into my black coat pockets. "Because he's Rafael Romano."

          Let's wind the tape back a tad, shall we? Rafael Romano is the ever important, all-powerful Don of the Romano crime family. He's also the nitwit who raised the ignoramus known as Michael Romano – the dunce who thought it was a good idea to get into a bar fight with me. The only thing that frightens gangs in a city like New York, is the mafia. So if I play my cards right, these imbeciles should be running and crying for mommy by the time I'm done with them.

          A couple of them pale at my reveal, but the other three seem far from convinced, even going to the lengths of laughing at me to convey it. "Your uncle is old man Romano? Cut me a break broad," a raven haired guy with multiple startling tattoos sneers, hands shoved in pockets with the money clenched firmly.

          I sigh, breathing a puff of palpable air like a dragon in the cold night's air. "Don't believe me? I've got this place surrounded with my men in various positions. Give up the money now, and there won't be any need for trouble."

          That garners me more chuckles, as well as more disbelieving comments. I momentarily glance up at Steve, the others oblivious to it, and relieve one hand from my pockets to click my fingers as a sign for him to start. My vision is strangely more acute than it usually is in the dark, so I can prominently see his hands reaching into the already torn open bag and grasping a palm full of Pop Its. He may have seemed hesitant about this plan, yet strangely enough he's more than willing to throw just the handful down for now.

          The Pop Its can't be seen in the dark, but the sound a large amount of them makes all at once imitates gunfire as they collide with the callous concrete ground. Paired with the fact the men are already far from sober, the Pop Its probably sound more than realistic.

          The loud cracks even sound believable to my ears, only, nowhere near as loud as proper gunfire should be. Luckily he threw down a handful; otherwise even a drunkard would've been able to tell that wasn't noisy enough for a bullet. All the men instantly utter colourful profanities and jump up in fear-gripping panic, despite the noise already having some to a stop. When all has fallen eerily quiet again, the five men gape at me in unadulterated horror, faces turning so pale they would give dad a run for his money.

          I keep the single raised hand in the air, shrugging it and my shoulders innocently whilst angelically admitting "That was a warning shot. Test me again, and you'll be getting a very bad headache very quickly."

         They remain frozen in terror for a few moments, then madly scramble to fish all the money out of their pockets, rushing forth – but not too quickly in fear of being shot – and handing me the money, saying various comments like "Ey, tell Don Romano we meant no disrespect. W-We didn't know he ran the town," or "No hard feelings, ey dollfa—I mean Miss?"

          A ghost of a grin upturns my lips as I count and stash the money away in my pockets, both hands retreating to follow them just in case they start to twitch when my powers start up. I doubt they will, because I no longer need to move around to work my abilities thanks to Thanos and Asgard, but you can never be too careful.

          "But uh, Miss..." I quirk an eyebrow at the brunette who still has the audacity to speak up after all that. Guy's got guts, gotta appreciate that. "What about... uh... us? I mean, we've been keepin' the town in order after all... do we maybe get a little somethin' in return?"

          A particular movie favourite of mine pops into my head, the circumstances of the current situation just begging me to use it as a reference. So, me being me, of course I take advantage of that.

          I cock my head to the side, a wry, all-knowing smirk playing at my lips. "Hey, I tell ya what I'm gonna give you Snakes. I'm gonna give you to the count of 10, to get your ugly, yella, no-good keister off my Uncle's property – before I pump your guts full of lead."

          The men don't seem to catch on to the movie reference, leaving me a tad deflated but at the same time grateful. I suppose they wouldn't take me seriously if they realised I was quoting a movie.

          "A-All right Miss, s-sorry. We're goin', we're goin'!" The guy I imagine is the head honcho calls out, the five of them clumsily stumbling backwards but not daring to veer their intimidated gaze off me. Good. Serves the punks right for treating everyone else in town like this.

         "One..." I begin, the shit-eating grin I'm sporting only growing and growing like a sponge being fed water. "Two.... ten!"

          I feel my right index finger twitch as I struggle to light a fire that doesn't come straight from my hands, but rather sparks in all the tin garbage bins that Steve and I set up firecrackers in. The crackling, popping, booming noises that screech through the night air definitely sounds like gunfire, the bins even jerking around like they were being shot at.

          Steve starts tossing down the rest of the Pop Its, and by now, all of their expressions are absolutely fucking priceless. They're yelling, bolting, jumping and almost dancing out of the way of what they think is gunfire, dropping their bottles and watching them shatter like showers of glistening glass under the hard glare of the flickering street light above. They really waste no time in running away, and by now I'm absolutely positive they won't be giving any of the people around here any more trouble.

          The Pop Its run out, and the firecrackers fade away. And when all has fallen silent once more, I cheekily say to no one in particular "Keep the change, ya filthy animal."

          It doesn't take long for Steve to leap down, striding up to me with an inquisitive look drawn over his features. "What was that last little bit of dialogue all about?"

          My thoroughly entertained expression drops, as does my smile. "Have you never seen Home Alone?"

          His brows furrow. "What's Home Alone?"

          I sigh dismally, forgetting just how much he is ignorant to in the modern world. "One of the greatest tales of all time. This kid gets left alone by accident in his house for the last couple or so days leading up to Christmas, and these burglars try breaking in and stealing everything in his house. What's a kid to do in a situation like that? Easy – he lays colourful and imaginative traps made out of the simplest household items for them to fall into. It's hilarious. The kid is my hero."

          Seeming to at least partially understand the joke now, his smile reveals his pearly whites, shining bright like pure white starts in the dark of the night. "So that entire last bit was from the movie?"

          I shrug in a more or less kind of way. "Eh, in the movie he had the firecrackers in a saucepan, and in the background he had this Gangster movie playing so it sounded like people were home. The burglars didn't know this though, because they were outside and eavesdropping in on what they thought was a conversation. Nearly soiled their pants when the firecrackers went off, mistaking it for gunfire like the bullies just then did."

          "It's creative, I'll give you that," he admits, but it nearly seems as if he's suppressing how much he actually wants to smile at the situation – as if he would be a bad person for doing so.

          "Hey, Cap, calm down," I comfort, patting his shoulder reassuringly. He stares down at me questioningly – damn my height – so I attempt to encourage him further with soft eyes. "Remember how angry you were at them? They're not nice people. They took over $300 off Jim back there each week, and heavens know how much off of the rest of the people. We didn't even beat them in submission or anything – like they have countless times to people who live around this area. All we did was give them a scare. A psychological scare gets them message across more than a physical one." My smile stretches to the ends of my face. "And did you see the looks on their faces? I didn't know fully grown men were capable of looking like a five year old who's just been scolded by their mother for sticking their hands into the cookie jar."

          He can't help it, I can tell. His grin threatens to rip his cheeks open it spreads so widely, the heartiest chuckle I've heard from in a very long while tumbling forth from it. He even bends forward a bit from the laughter, those baby blue eyes brighter than a tree on Christmas. I've missed this so much. I giggle with him, stepping back and accidentally bumping my bullet wound arm against the brick wall I previously pushed off.

          The pain slices through my amusement like a fine razor, a small protest of irritation hissing past my teeth like a snake. He's quick to catch onto my discomfort, smile fading slowly as his brows knot. "What's wrong?"

          My own smile is strained. "Just irritated a bullet wound. Not much, don't worry."

          That catches his attention. "Bullet wound? When were you shot?"

          "A few days ago," I answer, the pain progressively subsiding like a cup being drained of water. "Got into a bit of a bar brawl with a guy named Michael Romano – son to the mob boss Rafael Romano whom I pretended to be the niece to just then. Michael was trying to run a protection racket in the bar I frequent, and Mark the bar tender really couldn't afford it. I didn't want to see what they might do to him, so we passively aggressively argued before shots were fired. I won, obviously."

          "And it was properly tended to at the hospital?" He presses, staring at my arm with concern.

          My lower lip slips between my teeth as they worry against it. "I had a friend patch it up. She's good with those kinds of things – both of us have dealt with it more times than we care share."

          Sympathy. In the eyes of Steven Grant Rogers, we haven't known each other for more than six hours, and he's already sympathising for me. Worrying for me. It's like fate decided to stick the middle up at itself for everything it has done to me and reward me for enduring through it like a trooper.

          Why? I don't deserve nice moments and sympathy. Everything that has happened to me for the past eight months I have rightfully deserved for all the shit I've done to others my entire life. I may be with the good guys now, but all my life, I've been bad. I've been the villain. I've been the one the heroes fight, the one with the tragic backstory that morphed me into what I am. I've been immoral. Corrupt. Dare I say, perhaps evil at a couple times. So yeah, I deserved all the bad that came back to haunt me on Asgard. I deserved to see the one friend I've loved and grown up with killed before me – even though she didn't deserve to die. I deserved to lose the one guy I love to some screwed up memory loss shit. But this? Sympathy from that guy who doesn't even know me anymore? I don't deserve that. That is too good for me.

          But I'll be damn sure to appreciate it while it lasts.

          "You really have had it rough haven't you?" He quietly comments, face and eyes softer than cushion.

           My hazel eyes match the tenderness of his own. "You have no idea."

******

          After not only returning the money to an overly grateful Jim, but figuring out and tracking down who else the money belonged to, Steve and I decide to part ways. I hail a taxi as it's speeding by, momentarily turning to face Steve as it pulls over and saying "Thanks for the night out on the town, and for taking the time to get to know a complete stranger. You didn't have hang out with me this afternoon – despite what Tony said – but you did. You're a great guy Rogers."

          He shrugs, head slightly tilted to the side. "You're a friend of Tony's, and you're joining SHIELD. Nat has been pestering me to be more social, so if anything, I should be thanking you for giving me a reason to shut her up. More importantly though, how could I say no to spending time with a pretty dame?"

           I'm not a prepubescent school girl. I don't blush. I'm not blushing. Why would I be? Don't judge me. You can't judge me. Because I'm not blushing. "Ah, you're secret is out Rogers," I tease, moving to open the taxi door but he beats me to it as I continue "don't let the enemy know your weakness is pretty 'dames'. They could use it against you."

          "Considering my last big enemy was a God with hair longer than yours and Natasha's, I think that won't be a problem," he replies, that dreamy boyish smile tugging at those goddamn beautiful lips.

          I laugh, shaking my head at how mundane and simple yet incredible this moment is. "Better hope so. See you around Rogers."

          He watches casually as I step into the car, holding the door open until I'm fully in. "See you later ma'am." He shuts the door before I can open my lips to rant about the 'ma'am' comment, and I grumble at his retreating back as it waltzes down the street. "Makes me sound like some seventy something year old grandma...cheeky bugger."

          The taxi ride takes a lot longer than I originally thought. I forgot how I lived on the island of Manhattan, and how at this time of night traffic is astoundingly atrocious, even more so than usual. It's near the two hour mark by the time I finally get home, and when I do, Adelaide almost looks like she's going to have a conniption.

         "Where have you been?"

          I stare at her amused, remarking "Damn Mrs Weasley, I didn't know I went out for a joyride in dad's flying car. How many muggles spotted me?" as I leisurely hang up my black coat on the coat and weapons rack, ruffling my short brown hair.

          Sam's snort of laughter is cut short when Addie glares at him across the room. He instantly shuts up, shrinking further into the couch he's sprawled out on and hiding behind his book. Adelaide turns her attention back to me, heated enough to melt through Steve's shield and Bucky's arm. "If you got into another bar fight so help me God I will – "

         "I was hanging out with Steve."

          Silence.

          Silence.

          Silence.

          Then a squeal.

          Don't know who it belongs to though; Sam, or Addie? Maybe both.

          "She was out with a boy!" Sam chimes in, book completely forgotten as he vaults over the couch like a pro and practically rips my arm out of its socket as he drags me back to where he was seated. "Give me all the DDs. That's dirty details, in case you didn't know."

          "I don't know wha—"

          "Did you make out? Did you have sex?" He presses, all in one confusing flurry. Leaning forward, he whispers loudly. "Did you use protection? Who knows what ancient STIs he could have carried from World War II –"

          I literally slam my hand over his mouth, staring him dead seriously in the eyes. "Steve is about the biggest Virgin you could ever meet. Hell, he beats Virgin Mary at her own game. And we just met for the 'first time' remember?"

          "But you still kissed right?" Adelaide slides onto the couch next to me, just as enraptured by the conversation as Sam is.

          I throw my hands up in defeat, standing and calling out to the Gods above "I live with a bunch of horny teenagers!"

          "They kissed," Adelaide quips assuredly to Sam at my outburst, Sam nodding in agreement as he adds on "Yep, they totally did."

          "We didn't kiss! We just met, we're just friends." I exasperate, my wounded arm momentarily flaring in protest from jerking my arms up but not enough so that it distracts me from the conversation at hand.

          "Office romances never last," Sam sighs overdramatically, the back of his hand meeting his forehead in theatrical despair. "Oh, such a cruel world this is. One date, and she's already been cock blocked by the friend zone."

         "Ah, the friend zone," Adelaide stares off distractedly in the distance, biting her knuckle and feigning a wistful look. "Maybe if you broke his nose again you can get out of it."

        "Or shoot him," Sam suggests, informing Adelaide "that's how they got their first heart to heart last time. She shot him with a gun after he shot her with an arrow."

          Adelaide's sarcasm is painfully apparent. "How romantic. Can't wait to see what the wedding is like."

          "Assholes," I grumble, stalking off to my room like a moody teenager, even though there's a slight lilt in my tone that suggests entertainment. Closing and locking my door before they get any ideas, I distractedly sashay to my bed and collapse on it contently, tight muscles unclenching as I reminisce over the day.

          It hurt, seeing him so forgetful. It hurt, seeing no flash of recognition across his face. It hurt, lying and introducing myself to him as if we have never met before. It hurt. It all hurt. Yet... if felt so good at the same time. And those eyes. I never realized how blue they were. Yet, the small, green, imperfect specks make them all that more wonderful. But was this the right choice? Is meeting Steve and starting anew really all that good for me? Or is it only going to damage me and him in the long run?

           Dammit Stark. What have you done?

A/N: Been a while hasn't it? I kinda just sat down a couple days ago and had a little conversation with myself. It went a bit like this:

Tara 1: I need to update a chapter.

Tara 2: Wtf you talkin' about? Have you seen what your life is like at the moment? You're half way through yearly exams, you've got personal crap here, there and everywhere, and you've got a serious case of writer's block! You're crazy!

Tara 1: No, I need to get up off my ass and write a chapter. And reply to some comments. And talk to a few people who deserve to be talked to after I rudely haven't had the time to even send a single 'hi'.

Life: Nup, I ain't lettin' sit down and write for one sec-

Tara 1: Screw it all, they deserve it before I go to Europe for a month.

Life and Tara 2: But we-

Tara 1: I'm updating! Screw the writer's block. Screw life problems. Screw school and exams. Screw you!

Life and Tara 2: *sigh and hang head in defeat*

The fact that I had this conversation aloud really concerned my parents XD

But hey, you guys have stuck in there for 14 very long chapters, with long waiting gaps in between. It's only fair you get a fluffy chapter with Steve and Lillian finally together again (even though he doesn't really know her).

Let me know if Steve seems too OOC. He's a hard character to capture. I funnily enough find it easier to write as Tony. Wonder what that says about my ego and humility...

Double QOTD: Who in your ultimate OTP holds the other back by the hood of their sweater when they're about to do something stupid? And, who out of Lillian and Steve would hold the other back by the hoodie?

AOTD: Funny enough, I don't really have an ultimate OTP, but I've always loved the Destiel and Sabriel bromances from Supernatural. So, I guess I could see Cas holding Dean back by the hoodie and Sam holding Gabriel back. As for the other question, Steve would hold Lilly back undoubtedly. God I would love to see a drawing of that XD

Thanks for reading, and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L