An introverted waitress stumbles into Captain America during Loki's attack on New York. After taking a bullet for him, he lets her go, wondering. She's on the run, but he can't know that. When she meets the Avengers again, escape is all but impossib...
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AMERICA'S POV
"Steve, should we really get him involved?" I whisper as we walk from the sidewalk to the front door.
"We need someone outside of SHIELD," he replies. His shoulder brushes up against mine and I wince, drawing back immediately. My burn isn't severe, but it still hurts. I cover up my pain. It's not important. I don't need to bother the other two now. Steve knocks on the door, and the three of us wait. Seconds later, Sam pulls the blinds up, gives us a quizzical look, and opens the door.
"Hey man," he says to Steve. Confusion is written all over his face. I try to imagine this through his eyes: I have this nasty gash on my face courtesy of the Winter Soldier, Natasha is covered in soot, and Steve looks completely hopeless. Wow. We are in pretty bad shape.
"I'm sorry about this," Steve apologizes. "We need a place to lay low."
"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," I say quietly, glancing down. I lived like this for years. You never get used to it.
"Not everyone." I give Sam a grateful smile as he lets us inside. He points us towards a guest room where we can get cleaned up, but stops me. "America, over here for a second." I'm confused, but I listen.
"What is it, Sam?" I ask once we're in his kitchen. He opens up a cabinet and pulls out a first aid kit. "I never said I was hurt."
"You didn't have to. It's all in your body language. You're shielding your shoulder." I look down and realize that I am acting more defensive on my left side. "Get over here, I'll clean it out. What did you do?"
"Burn," I admit, hopping up onto the counter. I rip what's left of my singed sleeve off and allow Sam to clean out the wound, biting my tongue to prevent myself from hissing. His eyes temporarily rest on my brand, but he quickly looks away and focuses on bandaging my shoulder.
"There you go," he says, offering me a hand to help me down.
"Thank you," I whisper. "I'm- I'm bad at asking for help."
"You're welcome. And it's really no problem. Go get cleaned up." I nod and go join Steve and Natasha in the guest room. They're in some sort of deep conversation when I enter, so I just head into the bathroom and wash the grime off of my face. The cut on my cheek looks better, at least. Not good, but better. And as of now, I'll take it. I pull my singed t-shirt over my head and stand in front of the mirror in a white tank top.
With delicate fingers, I pull up the corner of my shirt and silently read the names inked onto my side, tracing each one carefully. Then my scar that reads America. Then the brand they forced onto me. For each scar I can find, I remember. It's a reminder.
"I am Valeria," I whisper to my reflection. I like it. The girl in the mirror is finally herself. "Valeria Noelle Maximoff."
"You are." I spin around to see Steve leaning on the door frame, watching me with an adoring smile on his face. "I guess that's the only good thing to come out of this day, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Want me to start calling you that?" I consider this.
"I'm not sure. Once we make it out of this mess, I'm definitely switching my last name. But America is who I am at this point, so I might stick with that." I shake my reddish mane out and ask another question. "Where's Natasha?"
"She went to eat. Sam made breakfast if you're hungry." He approaches me and touches my bandage gently. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"
"We had other things to focus on."
"I wish I could only focus on you, doll."
"Me too," I whisper, face inches from his before we remember ourselves and the situation at hand. "But we can't."
"No, I guess not." He gives me a sympathetic smile and a kiss that I wish lasted longer. "Let's get in there."
"Okay."
A few minutes later we're all sitting around Sam's table brooding. "So, the question is: who in SHIELD could launch a domestic missile strike?" Natasha asks, leaning back.
"Pierce," Steve supplies mindlessly.
"Who happens to be sitting on top of the most secure building in the world," I add as I pour a cup of orange juice.
"But he's not working alone, Zola's algorithm was on the Lemurian Star," Steve says. We contemplate this for a moment. I don't like dealing so close with Hydra, but it's not like I have a choice. We're all wrapped up in this, and we're all wanted. It's too late to turn back.
"So was Jasper Sitwell."
Steve sighs. "So, the real question is: how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a SHIELD officer in broad daylight?"
"The answer is: you don't." Sam, who has been listening quietly this entire time, drops a file in front of Steve.
"What's this?" I ask, picking up a photo with interest.
"Call it a resume."
"Is this Bakhmala?" Natasha asks Sam, who nods. "The Khalid Khandil mission, that was you? You didn't say he was a para-rescue."
"Is this Riley?" Steve asks quietly, motioning to the picture.
"Yeah," Sam nods.
"I heard they couldn't bring in the choppers because of the RPGs. What did you use, a stealth chute?" Natasha asks. I'm curious, too. I like Sam a lot, and I'm liking him more and more.
"No. These." He hands Steve the file, and I crane my neck to see. When I do, my eyebrows shoot up.
"I could have sworn you told me you were a pilot," I say, looking at him with a small smile on my face.
"Nope. I told you I flew. Never said how."
"I can't ask you to do this, Sam," Steve says, shaking his head. "You got out for a good reason."
"Dude, Captain America needs my help. There's no better reason to get back in." He's a good man. He didn't even have to let us in. He barely knows us, and now he's volunteering to help three fugitives.
"Where can we get our hands on one of these things?"
"The last one is at Fort Meade, behind three guarded gates and a twelve-inch steel wall." I grin as he says this. It's not a battle or a fight. It's a heist, plain and simple. Meant for someone agile and fast. Someone like me.
