Mina doesn't often smoke anymore, but when she does, one can guarantee she's had a long day.

She'd hurried to the upper balcony jutting out over the city from Stark Tower after such a day. There's a reason she continuously denies the invitations to join the Avengers, and snubs the numerous efforts to convince her otherwise.

It's too much. Not that she's not capable of teamwork, not that she doesn't have great affection for those on the squad, not even that she doesn't want to work with them. When things go well, it's a good time of friendly competition and stiff jokes.

When things don't go well...well, that's another story.

It's the following orders, the playing clean. She's never been good at either, more so after giving orders of her own, at S.H.I.E.L.D., of all places. She thinks differently from the rest. Or, at least, acts differently. Widow's not a clean player, Clint, Tony. Steve. But they try, right?

Mina? Not so much. And it puts her at odds with the last person she wants to be at odds with. He's infuriatingly kind and respectful, understanding and willing to see her viewpoint - because, really, at their core, they share it.

But Steve, while by no means white as snow, disagrees anyway. And it drives her to the brink of insanity. Especially today.

Hence the smoke, alone, outside.

Of course, he follows her. He cares too much to let her off the hook without mending their falling out.

"Modern science says that's terrible on the lungs, you know," he says, walking out to join her with his hands stuffed in his jean pockets.

"Doesn't do a damn thing to me, Rogers," she huffs.

He walks over and plucks the cigarette from her fingertips, putting it between his lips and taking a drag. He breathes out the grey smoke, and does it again, while she watches in wonder. "Got any extra?" he asks.

She receives back the stub he hands her, while reaching into the breast pocket of her plaid shirt. Out she pulls two fresh, white, paper sticks of poison - but not poison to them - and holds one out to him. He sticks it in his mouth.

"Need a light?"

"Please." Always so polite, he is.

The lighter she also had in her pocket she reaches to his cigarette, still lodged between his pink lips, and flicks it until the little flame appears. He leans towards her, and she holds the flame to the end of his cig until it starts to smoke.

"Haven't had one'a these in a long time," he says. His voice, though quite, rumbles through his chest, she notices. Not an unpleasant sound.

"A long time?" she chuckles as she lights her own. "That means my assumption would be wrong."

"What assumption?" He chuckles, too.

"That you'd never had one at all." She sighs as takes her first inhale.

"Back when I was a kid," he starts, "everybody smoked." There's a little gleam that appears in his eye as he reminisces. "But I didn't. Because I couldn't." He sniggers to himself. "One drag woulda killed me."

She listens on, admiring the view from the Tower balcony. The sunset casts a golden glow on the city skyline, a serene thing to behold, and something she didn't often get to enjoy. This, together with Steve joining her, made for an all right evening.

"After the serum, after I went out to France, fought with the Commandos..." The next draw he takes is long and heavy, and he sighs as he exhales. "They loved their fags."

Her eyes widen, confused, and the slightest of smirks creeps up the corner of her mouth.

"Er...cig- cigarettes. Cigarettes. Not...ah, dammit. Nevermind."

She giggles, waving him off with her hand, the foggy strands of smoke from the puff between her fingers curling into the air as she does. "No, no. It's all right. Just...make sure to never let anyone else hear you say that."

"You mean not to let Tony hear me say that."

"Yes."

They both laugh, and she thinks he should more often because he's so beautiful when he does.

He thinks the same thing.

"So, finish your story." She leans against the railing, and grins. "It was very interesting."

"Oh, was it now?" he retorts, with a grin of his own, as his eyebrow rises. He knows full well her sarcastic nature, although he's not sure if she's being serious this time or not.

"Really," she nods, genuinely, this time. "I want to hear the rest."

He examines the little roll he holds, touched by the fact that, yes, she does really want him to finish. "Well, in that case," he smiles. "We were still in France...January, 1944, I think. 'Round a campfire, fightin' the cold. Damn, was it cold. Ice on the ends of Dugan's mustache." Motioning to his face, indicating the facial hair and drawing an invisible picture of the ice, he laughs at the memory.

"We had one bottle of bourbon. Our prized possession. We were passing it around, they were getting drunk and smoking a round a minute, I was babysitting-"

"-as always," Mina interjects. He outright snorts.

"Some of us have to make sacrifices for the greater good," he wryly replies.

"Oh, of course." Her hand slaps over her heart with mock appreciation.

"I tell ya what, Mina Erskine, you are vexing as hell."

"And yet here you are." Because - and she knows this - he likes it, he finds joy and amusement in her dark, dry humor. He gets it.

"Here I am," he repeats, his eyes a bit darker as they search hers; for what, neither of them knew, yet. But he sucks through his lips more vapor and continues. "Bucky convinced me to try one. After that, I had 'em all the time. The tobacco - it didn't really do much. The serum ate it up. The calm was an illusion, but..."

"It was a distraction," she finishes.

"Yeah." There's a whole new understanding between them, now, even over such a minuscule thing.

"At least it made you think you felt better, right? Just the act of it?" Her cigarette is a stub, now, and she rubs out the smoke on the railing before tossing it over the edge.

He does the same, and his chin bobs in agreement. "What about you? You always smoke?"

"Started too young. I hardly remember my first one. But I grew up in a gang, you know. And since I knew it could never hurt me - the smoking - I just...did it. Like I said, you know..."

"At least you thought you felt better." His gentle smile at her speaks novels.

"Yeah." She shakes her head at herself and huffs. After Dad died, she went through smokes like they grew on trees. Not so much, now. Not hardly. But even for person like her, habits don't break easy, she supposes.

Steve's smile goes straight to her heart, and she feels warm. Content. Maybe even happy. This...it's lovely. She, Steve, the sunset and a few smokes, even though Steve makes her feel as if she might not ever really need another smoke. So she smiles back at him, a tiny smile, but a thankful smile. An almost loving smile.

"You're one heckuva guy, Steve," she says. He blushes, but only a dusty pink. She's seen him blush worse, and thinks this is a happy blush, not an embarrassed one.

"You're one heckuva gal, Mina," he answers. Now, she's the one blushing, the apples of her cheeks growing hot under his gaze.

He takes a step to her, so that they're nearly touching, and reaches out a cautious hand that brushes against hers. "I like smoking with you."

They both giggle at the ridiculousness of his words.

But she agrees, breathlessly, and only with a nod. Her mind focuses on the feeling of his fingertips trailing along her knuckles and the close proximity of his towering figure to hers. "Meet me here tomorrow night at eight and smoke with me again," she suggests.

"Eight it is." His fingers travel farther, over her wrist and the edge of her forearm. He wants so much more than a smoke with this girl, but his heart pounds at the thought of initiating. "Until then, got anymore on you? I forgot how good they taste and I'd like another," he murmurs, a growl reverberating through his throat.

He freezes. That's not what he intended to say at all. That sounded...oh, lord. That sounded...not like he wanted another cigarette.

But she shivers. "I've got some; I'll have another with you," she whispers back.

He relaxes some, but he's leaning into her. "You will?"

"Yeah, why not?" She barely ends her sentence before his lips touch hers.

It's soft, at first, and slow, as Steve tests the waters. His hand rests lightly on the curve of her waist and hers on the base of his neck. He's waited a long while for this and it's about damn time, but like the gentleman he is he somehow manages to give her space even in the midst of a kiss.

His lips are exquisite. Soft, plump, and gentle. Mina's heart pounds in her chest as the pads of her fingers caress the sharp line of his jaw. She doesn't know what to think, besides 'Good lord...mmm.' Maybe it's not that she doesn't know what to think, it's that she can't think because her mind's gone into a tizzy.

She pouts as they separate, but his hand stays on her hip. She wants to say something, anything, but nothing strikes her. So, she strokes his cheek and smiles at him. That little lopsided grin of his, the one Mina loves, quirks up his mouth, like he's proud for doing it - kissing her.

"Those smokes musta been good for something," she jokes.

"How 'bout that?" His head tilts to the side, eyes sparkling like an excited little boy's and brow furrowing in consideration.

She sighs, and buries herself in his arms. "I'm sorry," she murmurs into his chest.

He returns her embrace easily, and strokes her hair. "I know."

"I'm not used to any of this...not used to not doing things on my terms."

"I know."

"...forgive me?"

"Nothin' to forgive, Mina. Just...hell...next time I say somethin's not a good idea, please trust my judgement, for God's sake. I'm not an idiot."

"Could be awhile before I conform to the acceptable pattern of things."

"I'm a patient man."

She pulls away from him, but only enough to see his eyes - those kind, wise, blue eyes that make her knees weak. "Should I test that?" she smirks.

"Not tonight, doll." And he kisses her again, field concerns far from mind.