✧ Chapter 6 | Afterlight
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warnings in this chapter ⧽ sexual tension, suggestive jokes, fake marriage, forced proximity, physical affection, flirting, alcohol references, and implied sexual content. I promise the smut is coming, I swear.
Author is a non-native English speaker, so please be gentle.
Y/N
Natasha had transformed the conference room into an interrogation chamber.
Two files lay open across the table. Photographs, bank statements, fake passports, invitations, property records, and an absurd number of details about people who didn’t exist yet.
Daniel Mercer and Beatrice Mercer.
Married for four years. Wealthy. Discreet. Interested in private security, medical technology, and investments obscure enough to attract Elias Voss’s attention without making them appear desperate for it.
Steve sat across from me, reading the file with the concentration of someone studying a battle plan.
I was trying to decide whether Beatrice Mercer had taken her husband’s last name by choice, convenience, or a lack of imagination from the forgery team.
“Mercer is boring,” I commented.
Natasha didn’t look up from her tablet. “That’s the point.”
“I could be Beatrice Devereaux.”
“You couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you would spend the entire mission correcting everyone’s pronunciation.”
Steve turned a page. “Mercer is easy to remember.”
I looked at him. “That’s your criterion for a false identity?”
“It’s a useful criterion.”
“Daniel is boring too.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“It suits you.”
Steve raised his eyes. “Thank you.”
Natasha finally set the tablet down on the table. “Are you finished?”
She sat at the head of the table.
There were no visible cameras, but Tony had assured us that everything would be recorded for analysis, which meant he would probably watch it later with snacks and unsolicited commentary.
Natasha folded her hands over the table. “You need to know this couple’s story better than you know your own lives.”
“I know my life reasonably well,” Steve said.
“You forgot your own birthday last year,” I replied.
Natasha looked at me. “And you lost your passport three times.”
“Once.”
“Three times.”
“One of those was technically Clint’s fault.”
“It wasn’t,” Clint said through the speaker.
I looked toward the ceiling. “You’re listening?”
“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Tony.”
Of course.
Natasha tapped the tablet, and the audio cut off. “Now no one will interrupt.”
“You know he’ll find another way to listen,” Steve commented.
“If he does, I’ll break it.” The calm way she said it made the threat extremely convincing. Natasha opened a blank page. “How did you meet?”
Steve looked back at the file. “According to the report, in Washington.”
“I didn’t ask where,” Natasha replied. “I asked how.”
He closed the file. “There are no details.”
“Because you’re going to create them.”
I looked at Steve. He looked at me.
“You start,” he said.
“Why?”
“You’ve already complained about the names, the surname, and the biography. You appear to have opinions.”
I leaned back in my chair. “We met at a charity reception in Washington.”
Natasha waited. “What kind of reception?”
“Medical research.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s our industry.”
Steve crossed his arms. “And how did we start talking?”
“You spilled champagne on my dress.”
He frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you were looking at something else.”
“Daniel Mercer sounds clumsy.”
“Daniel Mercer was nervous.”
“Why?”
I looked at him for a moment. “Because he thought I was beautiful.”
Steve fell silent. So did Natasha.
The room suddenly seemed warmer, although perhaps it was only the heating.
“It’s a simple story,” I said.
Steve rested his forearms on the table. “So I spilled champagne on you because I was distracted.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided to speak to me anyway.”
“I decided to demand a new dress.”
“That sounds like something you would do.”
“You offered to pay. I refused.”
Natasha made a note. “What happened afterward?”
“He tried to apologize.”
Steve tilted his head. “I tried?”
“Several times.”
“And you made it difficult.”
“Naturally.”
“Then why did we continue talking?”
“Because you made me laugh.”
The answer left my mouth before I had completely considered it.
Steve watched me. There was no teasing in his expression, only attention.
I turned toward Natasha. “Write that down.”
She was already writing. “First date.”
“A small restaurant in Georgetown,” I answered.
“Why small?” Steve asked.
“Because Daniel didn’t want to impress Beatrice with money.”
“But we were wealthy.”
“Not together yet.”
“So I was already wealthy.”
“Old money.”
Natasha continued. “Who asked whom?”
“He did.”
Steve stared at me. “I did. But why?”
“You spilled a drink on my dress. You needed to redeem yourself.”
“First kiss,” Natasha said.
Steve looked at her. “Do we need all of these details?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because people ask questions, Rogers.”
I looked at him. “In the rain.”
Steve turned his eyes back to me. “In the rain?”
“After our third date. It was a summer storm. We were walking near the Lincoln Memorial.”
Natasha rested her chin on her hand. “Continue.”
“We argued.”
“About what?” Steve asked.
“You wanted to return to the car. I wanted to keep walking.”
“During the storm?”
“It was summer, Steve. I told you that you needed to stop trying to control everything.”
He released a short breath. “And what did I say?”
“That someone needed to stop me from catching pneumonia out of stubbornness, and then I kissed you.”
He went still. “You?”
“Me.”
“During the argument?”
“To make you stop talking.”
Steve looked at me for one second too long.
Natasha broke the silence. “Convincing.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment about your acting.” Natasha moved on to another question. “First trip together.”
“Paris,” I said.
Steve raised an eyebrow. “How original.”
“We didn’t go for the tourist attractions.”
“Then why?”
“A biotechnology conference.”
“How romantic.”
“We stayed for two extra days.”
“And what did we do?”
“We had a lot of sex.”
Steve turned red within seconds, and Romanoff choked on a laugh.
“I’m kidding. You insisted on visiting museums, and I complained through the entire Louvre. Then we had a lot of sex and returned the next day because you wanted to see an exhibit you had missed.”
“And you came back with me?”
“Yes and I complained again.”
Natasha’s gaze moved between us. I avoided thinking about why the story was coming so easily.
“The proposal,” she said.
Steve adjusted himself in the chair. “I assume I proposed.”
“Like a gentleman.”
“Where?”
“At a cabin in Hague.”
“Hague?”
“A small town in northern New York. It was the height of autumn, and we wanted privacy and peace.”
“You enjoy isolation?”
“Without irritating people, yes. We had been together for two years. You spent the entire trip acting strangely.”
“Is Daniel bad at hiding things?”
“When he’s nervous, he organizes objects.” Natasha looked at Steve.
He looked at me. “Do I do that?”
“You rearranged the papers three times before the meeting began.”
His eyes moved down toward the perfectly aligned stack in front of him.
Natasha remained impassive. “Did Beatrice notice?”
“Of course.”
“And she let him believe she hadn’t.”
“Of course.”
Steve touched the edge of the file but didn’t move it. “How did I ask?”
“Romantically. A short speech, but a beautiful and romantic one.”
The room became quiet.
“You said you didn’t know how to promise me a perfect life.” I paused. “But you promised I would never have to face life alone.” Steve didn’t look away this time. My chest tightened unexpectedly, but I continued before anyone could comment. “Then you took the ring from your pocket and asked.”
Natasha wrote something down. “Wedding.”
“Small,” I answered.
“How many people?”
“Forty at most.”
“Family?”
“Not much. Mostly close friends.”
“Location?”
“A family property in Iowa.”
Steve leaned back in the chair. “You have everything prepared.”
“That is literally the exercise.”
Natasha interrupted before he could continue. “You need to memorize everything. Dates, places, details.”
“How much time do we have?” I asked.
“Five days.”
“Easy.”
✧
The following two hours involved questions, rehearsed stories, emergency scenarios, and enough demonstrations of casual intimacy to make both of us permanently resent Natasha.
We practiced entering rooms together, communicating without words, recovering from contradictory answers, and responding if one of us was separated from the other. Natasha corrected our posture, our distance, and the way we touched until every movement looked less deliberate. Tony took a handful of photographs against different backgrounds and announced that he would build the remaining four years of our marriage digitally.
By the time they finished, Clint and Sam had disappeared, Natasha had gone to review the recordings, and Tony had left to prepare the communication devices.
Steve and I remained alone in the conference room.
For the first time that afternoon, there was no one watching us.
I gathered the files from the table and placed them into a single stack. “If you rearrange those after I leave, I’m telling Natasha.”
Steve glanced at the papers. “They’re uneven.”
“They’re paper.”
“They can still be uneven.”
I pushed the stack toward him. “Fix them, then.”
He did.
I watched him align the edges with unnecessary precision before closing the file.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“That sentence has never led anywhere pleasant.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He leaned back against the table, folding his arms. “This mission won’t work if we spend the entire time arguing.”
“We don’t argue all the time.”
Steve gave me a look.
“Fine. We argue often.”
“We challenge each other.”
“That sounds healthier.”
“Sometimes it is.” His expression remained calm, but there was less authority in it now. Less Captain America. “Sometimes we stop listening because we’re too busy proving the other person wrong.”
I looked down at the false wedding ring Natasha had left beside the files.
“And you think that’s my fault?”
“I think it’s both of ours.”
That stopped me.
Steve rarely admitted shared blame so quickly. Usually, we had to circle an argument several times before either of us surrendered an inch.
He continued before I could make a joke. “We’ll be alone there. No team nearby. No one stepping in if we disagree at the wrong moment.” His eyes settled on mine. “I need to know that if I tell you something feels wrong, you’ll listen.”
“I always listen.”
“You hear me.”
“That is generally how listening works.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I did. I rested my hands against the edge of the table. “And if I tell you something feels wrong?”
“I’ll listen.”
“Even if you disagree?”
“Yes.”
“Even if your instinct is to take control?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “That was very specific.”
“It was meant to be.”
Steve looked away for a moment, considering it instead of immediately defending himself. “Yes,” he said. “Even then.”
I studied his face, searching for the resistance that usually appeared whenever I questioned his decisions. It wasn’t there. “All right,” I said. “Then we make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“No pulling rank unless someone is actively dying.”
“That seems broad.”
“It’s extremely specific.”
“And you don’t disappear on your own because you think you can handle something.”
“I usually can.”
“That isn’t the point.”
I sighed. “Fine. I don’t disappear without telling you.”
“You tell me before, not after.”
“You’re becoming demanding.”
“We're negotiating.” His mouth shifted, almost a smile.
I extended my hand between us. “We listen. We don’t undermine each other in front of the target. We don’t make decisions alone unless there’s no other choice.”
Steve looked at my hand before taking it.
His grip was warm and firm. “And we trust each other,” he added.
I raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t part of my list.”
“It should be.”
Trust was more difficult than listening.
Listening required discipline. Trust required surrendering the possibility of control, and neither of us was particularly skilled at that.
Still, his hand remained around mine.
“Fine,” I said. “We trust each other.”
Steve nodded once. “No matter what happens during the mission.”
“No matter what happens.”
For a moment, neither of us released the other.
Then Tony’s voice came through the ceiling speaker. “This is beautiful. Should I add it to the wedding vows?”
I pulled my hand away. “I thought Natasha disconnected you.”
“She did. I improved.”
Steve looked toward the ceiling. “Were you listening the entire time?”
“Only from the emotionally significant part.”
I gathered the files and headed for the door. “Put cameras in that house, Stark, and I’ll throw every one of them into the lake.”
His voice followed us into the hallway. “Wrong, there's no lake around. Also, Fury already destroyed my dreams. There will only be emergency sensors.”
“Define sensors.”
“Heart rate, location, vital signs…”
“Tony.”
“Nothing invasive, I promise. Hey, one more thing." He stopped for a second. We looked at the camera. "Try not to kill each other before Florence.”
✧
Five days later, I sat inside a private airplane using the name Beatrice Mercer.
Sunlight reflected across the lakes and rivers below us.
Steve sat on the opposite side of the cabin, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms and black dress pants.
He was reading the files again as though a new question might appear between the pages. I wore clothes chosen by Natasha, jewelry concealing transmitters, and a wedding ring that looked far too expensive.
I rotated the ring around my finger.
“You move your fingers when you’re nervous.”
I stopped immediately. “I don’t.”
“You are.”
“I’m evaluating the quality of the ring.”
“For twenty minutes?”
“It’s a thorough evaluation.”
He closed the file. His wedding band was also on his left hand.
The image looked strange. Not bad. Only… strange.
Steve continued watching me, and for a moment, I thought he might ask something else.
He didn’t.
The airplane landed before sunset. A car waited for us on the runway.
There was no team driver, no nearby agents, and no familiar voices in the comms, only a man hired under our cover identities, who placed the luggage in the trunk and greeted us as Mr. and Mrs. Mercer. It took me several seconds not to look at Steve.
The drive to the house didn’t take long.
The late-afternoon sun spread across the narrow roads, painting the hills surrounding Florence gold.
Rows of cypress trees lined the route, broken up by vineyards, olive groves, and small stone properties. In the distance, mountains rose beneath the clear sky, softened by the haze of the summer heat.
It was far too beautiful for a mission and far too isolated for my liking.
The house stood on elevated ground, surrounded by extensive gardens, stone walls, and discreet iron gates that probably cost more than many entire homes.
The building was absurdly large, with the classical architecture of the region: warm-toned walls, a terracotta roof, tall windows with wooden shutters, and columns supporting the main veranda.
We entered without saying much.
The interior was cool despite the heat outside.
The living room was spacious, with high ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and large glass doors open toward the veranda. The furniture blended pale fabrics, dark wood, and carefully selected antique details intended to look casual, although they had probably cost a fortune.
The open kitchen stood to the left, separated from the living room only by an enormous stone island. There was an office behind glass doors and a powder room near the entrance.
The veranda extended across nearly the entire length of the house.
From there, we could see a lake surrounded by vegetation, hills covered with vineyards, and mountains in the distance.
A swimming pool reflected the blue sky in the garden. Beside it, built into the stone floor, was a hot tub.
Everything was large. Everything was luxurious.
Everything was perfectly prepared for two people who were supposed to pretend they were married.
With a walk-in closet large enough to house a small tactical team, but still only one fucking suite.
I stopped in front of it all. “This seems excessive.”
Steve placed one of the suitcases on the floor. “For wealthy people?”
“For Fury.”
“Perhaps Tony chose it.”
We continued exploring.
The closet was large enough to hold clothing selected for three or more weeks. Dresses, suits, coats, shoes, and false personal belongings had already been arranged convincingly.
Photographs of us rested on a dresser.
An enormous bed.
Perhaps the largest bed I had ever seen.
Perfectly made and unavoidable.
Steve stopped beside me and for several seconds, neither of us spoke. He placed the suitcase near the closet.
“We’ll share.” The simplicity of the statement caught me off guard.
“No argument?”
Steve shrugged and removed his suit jacket. The movement revealed the line of his shoulders beneath the shirt more clearly.
I looked toward the suitcase. My stomach reacted again.
This time, there was no Natasha, Tony, or team nearby to interrupt the moment. Only the silence of that enormous house, the sunlight outside, the bed behind us and the false life waiting to begin.
Steve looked toward the luggage. “We need to organize everything before the first communication window.”
“How long?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Okay.”
Steve returned to the kitchen while I put away my few clothes.
Several weeks with no other Avenger physically close enough to save us from ourselves. I looked at the photograph on the dresser again.
Steve appeared a few minutes later carrying two mugs. “I made coffee. I thought you might want some.”
He handed one to me, and our fingers touched.
The same quick current traveled through my hand. Steve felt it too.
Neither of us commented.
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