Just add Lillian Nightshade to that list thank you very much.

~

Cold is an all too familiar feeling to me, yet even I admit that an undeniable chill shot through me like a lightning bolt once I hit the water. Through the blankets of clouds I lost Steve as I fell, yet once I brought the water of the ocean up to meet me and catch me early, caressing me into the expanse, sloshing black canvas of water below, I resurfaced and caught the eye of my super soldier who momentarily swam over to me.

"You're faster in the water. Work your way from the back of the ship on the far right hand side up, I'll take the left side and rendezvous with you at the front," he breathily commands, beginning to freestyle swim his way to the side of the monstrous sized ship.

He has to be the only person I'm alright with ordering me around. Though, ideally, I would prefer it in the bedroom. There he can really be my captain.

Mm, you can tell I haven't been laid in a while.

It's becoming a problem.

Holding my breath as I command the water to propel me under the ship and to the other side, a large, impressive turret of water elevates me like a I'm standing on a tower until I am at the same level of the main deck. At my sudden pop-goes-the-weasel moment from the side of the ship, I am instantly met with the face of one of the pirates.

A face which is so stunned, his cigar fell out of his mouth.

I twiddle my fingers, grinning widely. "Hello!"

Rearing back with the same hand, I knock him straight across his still recovering face and water whip him into the ocean below, stepping elegantly onto the deck like the boss ass bitch I am. The rest of the way is rather similar, traipsing leisurely – nearly skipping – I am met with various shouts and the ends of a barrel of many guns, but all I do is contently whistle and bring the water of the ocean below to engulf them like airborne tsunamis before dragging them to the dark, unknown watery depths below.

I mean really, Steve could have done this on his own. Not that I'm complaining, more time with the bae after all.

I try to actively engage with conversations along the way, yet there seems to be a language barrier between us. Well, there are a few militia guns and a couple hundred litres of water as well, but personally I think it's the language barrier.

"Tue-la! Tuez l'agent!" (Kill her! Kill the agent!)

"Gee, I haven't polished my French in a very long time. However, I have a feeling that wasn't very nice."

"Qu'elle fait?" (What is she doing?)

"Est-ce qu'elle discute avec nous?" (Is she talking to us?)

"My favourite ice cream flavour is Neapolitan, thank you for asking."

".... Este-elle sérieuse?" (....Is she serious?)

"Je préfère les cookies et la crème." (I prefer cookies and cream.)

By the time I reach the rendezvous point at the front of the main deck, I spy a certain red, white a blue Captain severely kick some poor, unsuspecting pirate at least 15 feet into a cylindrical gas container, the impact actually denting the metal.

Snapping out of my old, playful ways (which I normally wouldn't but Steve still doesn't know me that well), I sprint over in time to leap up into an airborne plank and double kick the chest of another pirate that almost sends a blow to that perfect face. Jumping back onto my feet, I feel a comfortingly familiar hand weave into my own.

Whoa, okay, I know timing is of the essence, but now Cap? Really?

Instead of turning out like I had hoped (hell, like you all hoped), the speed at which he spins me is almost dizzying, but it's directly out of the way of a gunshot whilst he aggressively throws his shield at the face of the culprit. In doing so, as I spin, I am spun straight into another adversary, using the momentum to crescent kick the son of a gun right in his face with such power that he's sent a few feet away sprawling on the floor.

The fight is barely a minute long, but for most of it, Steve and I seem to use each other for height, momentum, power and leverage in our attacks. There are moments where he leans forward as we're back to back, allowing me to lean backwards onto his level body and push off as he jumps up evenly again to kick a man so hard that his neck snaps sideways.

Shit, I'm not supposed to be killing, am I?

I have to stop myself from being distracted most of the time however, because Steven Grant Rogers is a very distracting man. The raw strength and speed in his movements is simply astounding, he flows into each attack like water. My attacks seem softer in comparison, like a more elegant dance, but his is pure, unadulterated power. I've never really had the chance to witness the beauty of his fighting before.

Maybe because I've always been on the receiving end of it?

That's probably why.

Who am I kidding, that's exactly why.

The click of the safety being taken off two firearms reverberates in the air, pausing both our movements when we both realise there's one aimed at each of us. "Ne vous déplacez pas!" (Don't move!)

Hazel meets azure, and when we exchange a brief, meaningful look, I could swear there's a certain apprehensive worry dancing behind the mask obscuring his face. My own must mirror his, for in the milliseconds the whole exchange is conducted, he also appears perplexed by my own expression.

Deprived the chance to react accordingly – because, like I said, this did occur over a couple seconds or so – my favourite heroes come flying down on fluffy unicorns to the rescue –

And by that, I mean dick pricks Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins float on down on inelegant parachutes and bestow each hostile with a deserving bullet between their eyes.

Hmm, I wonder what would happen if I lit their parachutes on fire whilst they were still high up in the air?

Ah Satan, it's been a while.

"Thanks," Steve appreciatively greets them, nodding his head professionally to the professional jackass.

"Yeah, you two seemed pretty helpless without me."

I snort, then sober my mood up as if it never happened. Don't laugh at his jokes, you don't like him.

The others glide on down in a matter of seconds, unbuckling and slipping their parachutes their parachutes off with such a practiced ease that they even casually walk as they do so. By instinct I fall into step besides Steve as he begins to stride away, Natasha doing very much the same.

"What about the nurse that lives across the hall from you? She seems kind of nice."

Oh my Loki Natasha, drop it already. You're making this rekindling our romance thing so much harder than it needs to be!

Wow, that sounded unforgivably whiny in my head just now.

"Secure the engine room, then find me a date."

"I'm multi-tasking."

Grateful that the Russian assassin is now out of range – and by the relieved expression woven into his features, so is Steve – the might Captain America turns to me. "Go with Rumlow and the STRIKE team to secure the hostages. They'll need backup."

With a teasing grin tilting at my lips, I mockingly salute and bid farewell. "Aye aye Captain."

Jogging to catch up with the STRIKE team, I not so naturally fall into step with Rumlow. He faces me briefly, and for a fleeting, rare moment, he scans me up and down. "You alright?"

I blink, requiring a moment to recover and preserve my composure. "Uh... yeah. All G. You?"

An abrupt snort that could be mistaken for amusement breathes past his nose. It's even easier to mistaken it for amusement when a smirk ghosts his lips. "All G."

Wait... are Brock Rumlow and I... bonding?

*Shivers*

Slipping into the depths of the ship, Jack Rollins, Brock Rumlow and I split into a team of three and head for the main entrance to the room detaining the hostages, dispatching any pirates we find along the way. Rumlow outstretches a hand to gently yet firmly hold us back when we reach a corner, peeking around it to spy what lies ahead. He holds up one finger, signalling that one man guards the door, nodding his head for us to commence forward when a knock can be heard from the other side of the door the man is guarding.

I don't catch what is said on the other side, but with his back to us, I can clearly hear the hostile reply "Je vais lui trouver." (I'll find him.)

Turning around, he's immediately met with Rumlow's electric escrima stick gracing his forehead. The pirate is out cold in record time, but I have to react just as quickly to seize him by his vest before he ungracefully lumbers and falls back onto the door.

Soundlessly pulling him back towards us, Brock and I release our hitched breaths, his lips pulled back as if he is tempted to let out a hiss at the close call. He nods his silent thanks, one which I nod back without much thought before releasing the man into an awkward heap on the ground.

Brock sets up his position with his firearm constantly aimed at the door, Rollins disposing of his bag on the floor as he sets up the explosive device against the door. I fiddle with my electro-shock gloves before re-adjusting the ski mask taking up the lower half of my face, grateful I left my suit coat back at SHIELD. It would merely be soaked and heavy at the moment from my little dive into the ocean, yet my back is rather exposed due to the sleeveless halter neck style of my suit.

Running a haggard hand through my damp hair and removing all water from it in one elegant gesture, I allow the unsymmetrical sphere of water about the size of a large baseball to levitate in the palm of my right hand, taking up a position behind Rumlow.

"Targets acquired," is heard from Cap over the ear piece, Brock quick to respond "STRIKE and Nightingale in position."

"Natasha, what's your status?"

There's a long pause, too long for the liking of Steve Rogers.

"Status, Natasha?"

"Hang on!" Her breath is laboured and rushed. Evidently the number of hostiles in the engine room was greater than we thought. Yet it's only a handful of long moments later before a steady "Engine room secure," is confirmed from Nat's side.

"On my mark," Steve commands, and I readily crack my neck to the side in a way that momentarily startles Rollins. "Three... two... one."

The men stationed on the side of the ship shoot through the glass at the hostiles first, taking most of them out, but as Rollins triggers the explosive that yanks the door of its hinges, Rumlow wastes no time sending a bullet straight through the head of the man nearest to the door. At the same time, my little sphere of water speeds across the room and slices through the remaining standing hostiles as ice with a practiced precision that cuts through flesh easier than a scalpel. The water loyally returns to levitate to my palm before dissolving and allowing gravity to sloppily plummet it to the floor, about the same time that Brock's victim meets the ground.

A weasely, snide looking man hidden behind his large rectangular glasses tilts his head to the side unimpressed, talking to the fallen carcass. "I told you, SHIELD doesn't negotiate."

Oooh, watch out guys, we have a badass over here.

We all waste no time untying and aiding the hostages to a stand – well, I help them stand up anyway, can't say the same for the STRIKE team – before we begin guiding them back down the cold, metal hallways of the ship, attempting to cover them at all vulnerable angles. "Hostages en route to extraction. Romanoff missed the rendezvous point Cap. Hostiles are still in play."

Just as Rumlow utters the last syllable – slightly distracted by conversing with Steve – two jump out in front of us, and whilst he imbeds lead in the chest of one of them, I have to 'lightly' shove him to the side to miss the other one's shot. I sprint forth, using the walls on either side to leap back and forth before catching the hostile's head between my thighs in a crotch assault, spinning with him until a resounding snap of the neck cracks though the inhospitable atmosphere and I land firmly back on my two feet.

"Nightshade, let's move."

Oh Lillian, thank you so much for saving my life!

It's no problem Brock, really.

I would have died without you!

I know I know, but really, no sweat dude. I'm saving the satisfaction for myself later.

What?

Nothing.

Tracing back behind the Commander of the STRIKE team, we continue our unsteady way to the extraction point, having to finish off the remaining pirates along the way. With still no sign of Natasha or Steve as we reach the extraction point upon the main deck, I begin to feel the familiar pang of concern twisting my gut uncomfortably.

Just when Rumlow and I decide that radioing in on one of them may be a good idea, both stride purposefully into view, Steve with a beyond miffed look setting his jaw quite tight and Nat appearing as if she is the cat that got caught in the cream. Both are coated in respectable layers of grime and smoke.

I quirk an eyebrow as I assist the last hostage onto the quinjet, unclasping my ski mask and anxiously inquiring "Everything alright?"

Nat remains silent from where she is a few paces behind Steve, but the Captain moves his hard gaze onto me, softening it ever so slightly at the last second. "Fine, thank you."

As you may imagine, the ride back was quieter than the dead.

***

It didn't take long for Steve to storm off in restrained indignation when we arrive, and when I asked him where, his terse, sharp response was "Fury."

I take my time wiggling out of my suit and having a quick shower in the locker room, cleaning off any grime and sweat collected from the tense mission that we just underwent. Slipping into a black t-shirt with white print on it and some blue denim skinny jeans, I'm partway through lacing up my ankle boots when an audible knock can be heard outside the room. Announcing a coherent "Come in," I finish up the lace on my left shoe and glance up, only to be met with the tired smile of Steve Rogers.

"Ma'am."

I grin, that smile contagious even when it's exhausted. "Captain. I know I asked before, but are you sure you're alright? You stalked off in quite a fury," ha, pun "before. I'm aware you don't have to tell me, because we're still kind of newly acquainted, but –"

"No, it's not that," he assures, leisurely strolling into the locker room at a placid pace. "You've more than proved you have my back in a fight. Quite literally, in some cases." I snicker, but refrain from interrupting. "I just... wanted your perspective."

I perk up, intrigued by the request, and mildly alarmed when he kneels down before me and actually starts doing up my other shoe's lace for me. "Of course, but you don't have to—"

"It's okay, I've got it," he persuades again, goofy grin briefly flickering across his lips. "I was just having a conversation with Fury about trusting your team and sharing information that should otherwise be shared between one other." When he talks, he talks to my shoe more so than me, eyebrows coming together in that cute knot they form when he's confused, unimpressed or concerned. "We seem to have divided opinions on the matter. I was just wondering how someone else – someone who, with a different, outside perspective in comparison to the people who give orders – would view the matter?"

When he finishes tying up the lace, he doesn't stand up again, but rather rest one hand on the shoe he was just tying up, and the other gingerly atop my opposite knee. Through the skinny jeans, the touch is felt quite clearly; despite the fact the contact is gentle. "You know, I was actually discussing similar concerns with my sister not too long ago," I admit, lightly gripping the bench on either side of me because it's the only position for my hands to rest without it being awkward at the moment.

"I would trust my sister and Sam with my life a thousand times over; I know they have my back. It's just the other agents around here... being the new kids on the block the three of us aren't told much, which I understand on some levels, this is an espionage agency after all. But we're kind of kept in the dark about everything, which makes completing missions rather difficult. Mystery on one side of the mission is something, but on both sides? It makes the task vague, and offers no context. Team members should be able to share and trust each other, and at the moment, there are very few people I feel would actually have my back around here at all."

"I would," is his instantaneous response, grip on my knee growing marginally tighter. "But I know what you mean. I've known Natasha most of my time out of the ice, but even then, whilst I know she has my back, she's still willing to withhold information that could jeopardise the whole mission on Fury's command. She's following orders, I get that, but Fury leaving us in the dark like that could have cost us those hostages."

"Fury's like that," I shrug, tucking a short amber strand of mine behind my ear. "He enjoys his 'compartmentalisation' ... from what I've seen and experienced here so far." Nice save. "Growing up I would've agreed with him, but I've met a couple people who have seemed to positively rub off on me since then. Now I don't as heavily agree with such methods."

His cerulean eyes follow the movement of my hand securing my hair behind my ear, afterwards darting back to my own. "Thank you, it's reassuring to know I'm not the only one who thinks like that," his large, sculpted body rises to a stand, white shirt protesting against the shift. "Sometimes it's nice to –" he breaks off abruptly, eyes narrowing perplexedly on my own dark shirt. "You seem to have an interesting taste in wardrobe."

Staring down, I re-read the print strewn across it. 'Keep calm and break noses.'

I smirk impishly up at him. "I like my wardrobe to reflect my personality. It's how you make a good first impression."

His chuckle is momentary but brimmed with humour as he shakes his head. "I don't know if I've ever met a woman like you Lillian."

I stand up, an attempt to rise to his height yet he still beats me by a handful of inches. "I know I've never met a man like you Steve."

The grin that broadens across his cheeks is consolatory. Happy. "I have to say, I would be concerned if you had. Not many men from World War II are still kicking around looking as young as me."

"Eh, you never know. With all the crazy shit that has gone on around here, time travel shouldn't be discounted as an option," I warn, poking his chest playfully as his eyes trail the motion of my hand, smile widening.

"Like Doctor Who?"

I gasp, hands flailing to cover my mouth. "You're a whovian? You are whovian-literate?"

A breathy laugh fans warmly across my face from the close proximity. "Only a couple of seasons. Been rather busy."

"What about BBC Sherlock?"

"Can't say I have."

"Supernatural?"

"Nope."

"Game of Thones?"

"Interested, but no."

"Fifty Shades of Grey?"

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Lord of the Rings?"

"On the list, but no."

"Star Wars?"

"Also on the list, but no again."

"Once Upon a Time?"

"Not even familiar with that one."

"Indiana Jones?"

"Yes, actually."

I clap once, proud of my growing little senior citizen. "Some time in the near future, you're coming over and we're having a marathon. Or at least watch one movie or TV show series. It's not an option."

"Not an option?" His eyebrow arches, the corner of his lip on the same side also tugging upwards again. "Are you going to take me hostage?"

"Of course, you have no say in this. So expect a kidnapping sometime soon, because it's unavoidable Cap."

"Not if I don't take you hostage first."

"I'd like to see you try old man?"

"Ouch, old man? We're going there?"

"You are ninety five."

"Ninety five, not dead. I'm serious about the hostage thing though."

"So am I."

"Too late for you though."

"And why is that?"

"Because you're my hostage right now." Deprived the opportunity to retort, I am literally swept off my feet by Steven Grant Rogers and out the door, receiving various startled and puzzled glances from any agents passing us in the halls.

Half-heartedly slapping his chest, I threaten "Rogers, if you don't put me down so help me I will freeze your ass for another seventy years."

"I'll take my chances."

"Where are we even going?"

"I have a free afternoon, and was planning on visiting the Smithsonian. They have an exhibition on Captain America there."

"Oh well, aren't we subtle and modest."

He laughs, turning into the staff car park. "I'm interested to see how the people see me, and the accuracy of the collected information. Incognito, of course."

With what little arm space I have, I lift my arms mockingly in a gesture of surrendering. "Hey, no judgment from over here. I would start off as incognito then rip off my disguise and start signing autographs all around. Chaos would ensue."

Gently resting my feet back on the floor, is hands remain a tad longer than necessary to help me regain my balance, the warmth comfort gripping and grazing the fabric of my shirt. Releasing me (unfortunately), he takes the few additional steps to straddle his motorbike. "Sounds like something Tony would do, though he would probably just fly in with his Ironman suit without even considering the incognito beginning."

"Tony is the mother of all attention whores. That really shouldn't come as a surprise."

"True. You hopping on?" He nods his head to the available space on the motorcycle behind him, and I have to restrain my giddy hormones from the thought of snuggling up to the back of that beefy chest.

Yum.

With one hip jutted out, I place a hand on it and quirk a single eyebrow with no small amount of attitude. "Oh, so now I'm offered the option to come along? I thought this was a hostage situation."

"That offer was just a courtesy," he rationally explains, allowing the joyful, humorous mood to stay afloat. "I could always pick you up again."

"Alright soldier, I'm coming." My tone grows higher in pitch at the playful surrender, and I lift one leg smoothly with a subtle display of flexibility to straddle the bike just the same. Noticing the lack of helmets, I continue my teasing. "Captain America – the world's first super hero and Golden Boy of America itself – not wearing a helmet? That's breaking the law, you know."

"I won't tell if you won't," he replies, reaching down and swiftly picking up his shield. "I normally wear this on my back when I drive, but I imagine holding on with this in the way would be rather uncomfortable. Do you mind wearing it on your back?"

"I think every Captain America fangirl is screaming in jealousy right now, but alas, I will bear the burden if I must." Fixing the shield on my own back as he chuckles again at my joking, delightful personality, he begins to rev up the bike.

"Hold on tight."

"Don't worry, I won't let go Jack. I'll never let go."

He seems to understand the reference, cheeks crinkling from what I can see positioned behind him as my hands slip cheekily under his blue jacket, grasping his stone hard abdomen appropriately.

Who am I kidding, there's nothing appropriate about me.

Without another word shared, Steve Rogers pushes his feet off the ground and drives out of the SHIELD car park. And he doesn't once comment on how tightly I'm holding on the whole way there.

A/N: Wrote that all in one sitting. As you may imagine, I had no life today XD Besides watching Beauty and the Beast (which, btw, is my favourite Disney classic live action adaptation so far).

Convenient photo above :)

QOTD: Favourite Disney movie?

AOTD: Tie between Lilo and Stitch, the Fox and the Hound and Monsters Inc. Childhoooddd.

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

~ T.L