Cheap Thrills

After a quick stop at the local shop, her truck is trekking along the solitary road, the green and bountiful scenery of Norway rolling outside her window. The music playing quietly from the radio is her only company.

After a long and monotonous journey, she eventually pulls over and turns off the radio just after listening to the daily news report that mentions her and Steve's name.

To think they were still the Avengers, and heroes, a few months before. They were still a team and a family. Now blown apart, half locked behind bars, the others shut behind their anger and resentment. She hates it and abhors this feeling of powerlessness even more.

Somehow, solitude becomes more unbearable after you have found a place and people to call home. She has been on the run more times than she can count but, this time, it feels particularly bitter.

She walks across the meadow, carrying her bag of errands. She gets inside the RV, inspects it one more time just in case before heading to the shabby kitchen.

Normally she would have another gourmet plat du jour, baked beans straight from the can — a plate somewhat feels like an unnecessary luxury. But not tonight. She pulls out the slices of decently fresh steak and pours rice to cook in simmering water.

The sun has come down (not that it stays up for long so up North, anyway): she settles in front of the old, buzzing TV set and begins to focus on the only program available the flimsy antenna can channel.

After nearly an hour, she hears a muffled sound outside. She slowly stands up and pulls the gun always stowed at the back of her pants. She quietly makes her way to the door and takes off the safety. She presses her palm against the door but it swings open before she pushes.

The barrel of her gun is aimed right at her visitor's forehead. His smile fades slightly and he raises an eyebrow. Apart from the dark stubbles, the outgrown haircut and the not-so-well concealed haggard expression, he looks the same as a few weeks ago. He's wearing a T-shirt and jeans — he hung up the suit long ago. The last time she asked about it, he said he left it somewhere secure. And remote.

"On edge, much?" Steve comments, half-dully, half-amusedly.

"Well, the veal has been expensive this season," she jokes humorously as she steps away from the door.

She catches a spark of excitement flash in his eyes. He comes inside while she puts the gun away — but still in safe proximity — on one of the shelves.

The perfume of rice and some other preparation fills his nostrils, makes his stomach growl.

"If you wanted to introduce me to your new firearm, then consider me impressed." His sarcasm feels homely comforting.

"You're never too careful," she comments dismissively.

"I texted you to say I was on my way," he retorts. They would exchange coded messages whenever they were passing on sensitive information or setting an occasional rendezvous, like tonight.

With General Ross, and potentially the second half of the Avengers after them, they deemed it wise to be on the run apart to avoid raising suspicions. A cap, a hood, and uncomfortable displays of affection can do the trick only for so long.

She puts up a smile as her last defense and walks over to the kitchen. She lays the two steaks into the frying pan.

Soon enough, they are sharing dinner on the narrow couch. They've had worse.

They fill each other in on Ross, Sam, Wanda, Clint, and Bucky. Whatever small piece of information or remote whisper they've retrieved is worth sharing.