Smokes (a Steve Rogers Multi-Shot)

Smokes, Pt. 1

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.