"Holy fuck, that's Captain America."

Michaela, in her infinite wisdom (and apparently having learned nothing from her encounter with Thor) says this out loud. In broad daylight. Surrounded by dozens of jaded New Yorkers who give not one shit about anything she has to say. Aside from the little old lady she's in the middle of helping transfer her belongings from her apartment into a moving van.

"You're drooling, honey," the little old lady says, her mouth twisted with wry amusement. She sets down the box she's holding on the truck bed, freeing up her hands to pat Michaela consolingly on the back, though Michaela senses a shred of condescension in the gesture, which she chooses (graciously) to ignore for the sake of the woman's... reputation. Or something. "He looks even better now than he did on those posters when I was young, yes, but have a little decorum. You're a superhero, too, no?"

Michaela grimaces. Ugh. She doesn't want to be compared to Steve Rogers. The man is a literal living legend; Michaela's lucky if she can pay her rent each month, and she hangs out with what is presumably a high schooler and the so-called Devil of Hell's Kitchen in her spare time. Rogers lunches with the fucking president (probably – it sounds like something they'd make him do, anyway). If he's in the major leagues of this superhero gig, she's still playing swing-and-a-miss off a t-ball stand. She feels insulted on his behalf just to have their hero personas mentioned in the same sentence.

"Ma'am," Michaela says, then yelps immediately after when the lady smacks her bicep with her purse, because apparently she's not old enough to be called ma'am, okay, sure, let's go with that. "Uh, shit, miss—"

"It's Faith, Blackout, no need to be so formal."

Michaela has a very uncomfortable flashback to her first time meeting Spider-Man. At least there's no chance of her getting launched off the side of a building in this scenario. "Okay, Faith it is. I appreciate the, uh, support? But me and Steve Rogers are not the same, like, at all."

As if to prove her point, several store fronts down from them, Steve Rogers is currently posing with a group of college-aged kids, grinning beatifically into the camera and giving the cheesiest victory sign she has ever seen in her life. Again, living legend, leader of the Avengers, the moral backbone of America even when the government is being led by a bunch of corporate-pandering shit-heels. The man is so far beyond her in every sense of the word that... well. She doesn't have a set metaphor for this, it's never come up before in her idle daydreaming about befriending the Avengers.

Point is, he's amazing, and she's just. Not.

Faith seems to agree with her, judging by the way she's eyeing the way Rogers' shirt is straining over his mountain-esque shoulders. And hey, Michaela appreciates the man, he's as godly as a mere mortal can get (Thor being the obvious exception), but she's more interested in that steely moral center of his.

Also, his eyes. Fuck, those lashes are insane, Michaela would kill for eyelashes like that! And he just lucked into them! She's seen the pre-serum pictures, she knows those came with the original model. Goddamn him for being so pretty, even if she is partial to brunets these days.

Shaking herself out of her starstruck stupor, Michaela hefts the last of the boxes from the stoop of Faith's apartment building and slides them into the truck, tucking them neatly beside what's already inside. The furniture was a bitch to get out onto the street, especially that coffee table that Faith claims is from the 1890s; Michaela's just grateful that her nephew stuck around long enough to haul the armoire down with her, because Michaela may actually have gotten herself squished to death if she tried maneuvering it down the stairs by herself.

God, how did this even become her day? Fucking Spidey, he was the one who wanted to take a day trip to Manhattan for some fanboyish reason, she just tagged along because it was either that or waste a half dozen hours to panicking about what shit Spidey might get himself into all on his lonesome in a semi-unfamiliar borough. And he ditched her! Got a call on his real phone, stuttered out a squeaky response (so probably in trouble with the parents again), promised he'd make it up to her, then webbed his way home.

That's about when Faith flagged her down, because, see, her nephew had to get to work soon, but she had a deadline to get all her things out of her apartment, and couldn't Blackout spare just a little of her time to help a poor old woman move a few trinkets down from the third floor?

Trinkets. Of all things, she said trinkets.

Michaela is, first and foremost, a fool, and she accepts this about herself pretty readily, but this, this is the height of her folly right here. Believing that her powers somehow set her above the possibility of having to provide free labor to the elderly.

An hour and half later, Michaela is damp everywhere with sweat, her hands clammy beneath the gloves, her sweatshirt clinging to the small of her back, her goggles half-fogged over with condensation, and don't even get her started about the situation in her bra. Her athletic bra, fuck her life. Her spine's been creaking unhelpfully for the last forty minutes, she nearly twisted her ankle on her sixth trip down the stairs, and she knows for a fact that she is going to wake up tomorrow feeling like how Matt normally looks after a night of karate-chopping twenty-some armed men.

She also feels like this is what Spidey means when he laments the fact that he's only ever doing small-fry heroics, even when compared to what Daredevil and the rest get up to. Like, don't get her wrong, she doesn't mind offering assistance to someone in need, no matter how tedious the task; she's not in this for the fame and glory, or whatever compensation the Avengers probably get for their do-gooding. But she hasn't felt so much like an over-worked pack mule since, uh. Since the last time she helped someone move.

She got pizza out of that, though, so. Not a completely fruitless endeavor.

She's getting sidetracked. Captain America, that's what's important right now.

Captain America, who has just finished with his selfie-seeking groupies and is now heading straight for Faith and Michaela.

Michaela squeaks, just a little, just the tiniest of mouse-like noises as her shoulders draw back instinctively.

She's more than a little tempted to throw herself into the back of the truck and just hitch a ride to wherever Faith is moving to. But alas, Faith has no desire to aid her in her escape, because she cackles a bit under her breath, pinches Michaela's masked cheek, then wrangles the truck's hatch down and slips around to the passenger seat. Michaela blinks, struck dumb, while the truck rumbles off. She twists around at the last second, feeling like she's suffering through whiplash, but – yup, Faith's on her way to her new home and Michaela's within spitting distance of the good captain.

Michaela's dad was right – there is no hell. Hell is earth, and only the sweet release of death can free you from the torment.

There's no being subtle when you're decked out head-to-toe in nylon and electric-blue accents, though Michaela sure as hell tries to become one with the (admittedly minimal) crowd on the sidewalk. She's not all that successful, seeing as nearly everyone who doesn't recognize her irritably shoves her aside when she tries to sneak past them, and everyone who does have an inkling of who she is has their phone out and trained on her.

So, all in all, she's not surprised when she hears a disproportionately soft, "Hey, you're Blackout, aren't you?" but she does in fact seize up so badly that something grates painfully in her shoulder.

Biting hard into her cheek, Michaela gives up the pretense of blending in and pivots on her heel, coming face-to-chest with Steve Rogers himself. She blinks again, then twice more in rapid succession. Okay, this is just like Thor – not a dream, and not a meeting she can afford to fuck up. Right, cool. Michaela can just... channel Blackout's social skills. That's feasible, definitely.

"That's... me," is what escapes her mouth, and yes, the pause is as long and awkward as possible.

Fuck.

Captain Rogers smiles in sympathy, which. Unfair. Every Avenger has a devastating smile, whatever the meaning behind it. She did not mentally prepare herself for this today, she's going to die, right here on a sidewalk in the middle of Manhattan, and Captain America is going to have to report her to his Avengers buddies and tell them that her death was literally the result of him smiling at her.

But, miraculously, instead of asking if Michaela was raised by deer and if she's always mentally staring into headlights, he says, "I'm surprised we haven't seen you around the Tower recently. Whenever Thor's on-world, he talks about bringing you over for a day of bonding." His smile flickers with amusement. "He honestly didn't mean to get you in the tabloids' crosshairs, but he finds it hilarious that everyone genuinely thinks you're his daughter."

Of course he does. Objectively, it's really damn funny. Too bad Michaela is still getting memes from Spidey about it, all of them accompanied by the demand that she admit to being able to lift the hammer. She conjures up her least sketchy smile nonetheless. "Can't really speak for the masses, but I have a friend who won't let go of that. He's like a dog with a bone, and he sends me that article, the original one or whatever, at least once a week." She snorts a laugh, recalling his reaction when the news broke. "And he also wants me to call Thor out for being an absentee dad."

"Sounds like a good friend."

"Yeah, he's... something alright. Um, about Thor, though..."

"He was serious," Rogers says, catching her off guard. "About you visiting the Tower. You and Daredevil. He said something about you two being a package deal."

Michaela's cheeks flush, and she has to resist the urge to pat at her face to make sure her mask hasn't shifted any. God, she's never living that conversation with Thor down, ever. "Oh, that's..." She lets out a stilted laugh. "That's not something I... Hell, to be honest, I have enough trouble keeping it together when it's one on one. Willingly putting myself in a room with all of the Avengers? Think my heart'd give out."

Rogers opens his mouth to reply, but it's then that he seems to cotton on to how visibly they're altering foot traffic. People are more than content to force their way past Blackout, but Captain America? He clears a path as broad as his shoulders just by standing there. His brow furrows as he takes that in, and Michaela prepares a shaky excuse for her to get the hell back to her home turf, is practically ready to blurt it out, consequences of running away from an Avenger be damned, but then Rogers catches her eye and cants his head, silently asking if she'll follow him.

And. Well. Michaela already said she's a fool, right?

She follows in his wake as he turns around and heads back in the direction he presumably came from, though she notes that they're not heading towards the Tower. Thank god for small mercies, because she was serious about her heart failing her.

The Tower's out, but that doesn't help her whittle down the possibilities of where Captain America might be taking her in the heart of Manhattan. Come to think of it, though, she'd heard he wasn't living in the Tower with the other Avengers anymore, that he might never have been there in the first place after the fall of SHIELD. People speculate that he's residing in Brooklyn now (for what they consider to be obvious reasons) but they don't know where he lives. And the fucking vultures of the media have certainly tried to glean that information from him in a variety of ways, some of them probably illegal. He's in Brooklyn often, true, but he's usually seen in a mostly activist role, helping out at the local shelters, or visiting the VA, or even just out running with Sam Wilson. That might be enough to suggest he's got a home in Brooklyn again, if not for the fact that he does all of those things in Manhattan, as well. She's even seen pics and footage of him in Queens at rallies and giving lectures at the smaller colleges.

Michaela doesn't see the point in pinpointing exactly where he's living; sure she still believes that his heart's in Brooklyn, but that place can't be exactly pleasant for him, at least not all the time. It's gotta remind him of everything – everyone – he's lost. If Michaela were in that situation, she'd probably never step foot in Hell's Kitchen again.

That's her, though. And she doesn't know the guy well enough to make a judgement call about him. Maybe he likes the familiarity of Brooklyn, even if nothing is quite the same as how he left it.

In any case, they're in Manhattan, and Rogers looks as comfortable here as he does anywhere else. He's instantly recognizable out of the suit, likely because of all the charity events and the like he does, and people really do part for him like it's instinct, like they don't even have to think about it. He doesn't flaunt his notoriety, though, she's noticed; he's not trying to intimidate his way through the crowds, he's only taking advantage of the reactions people have to seeing him live and in the flesh.

A few minutes of walking brings them to a small café that Michaela personally didn't know existed until this moment. She tries (and subsequently fails) to read the loopy script that spells out the place's name above the door, but then she's distracted by Captain Rogers opening the door for her and gesturing inside. She pauses, glancing down pointedly at her get-up. Subtle she is not right now.

Rogers grins at her. "This place can handle Captain America waltzing in every now and then; they're not gonna blink at Blackout making a special appearance, I promise."

That's good enough for her. With a lazy salute in Rogers' direction, she ducks inside the café, which is populated only by a few people whose eyes don't lift from their laptop screens at the chime of the door, and two baristas behind the counter. One of them, the blonde, does a slight double-take at Michaela's entrance, but then they must spot Rogers over her shoulder because they offer her a small smile and a nod. Okay, so far so good. Now she just has to not... fuck up her entire life in the space of a ten minute conversation.

Anticipated success rate? Less than five percent. But hey, that's just her being pessimistic. Maybe things will work out for a change.

There's a thought.

Michaela winds her way through the smattering of glossy-topped tables and heads straight for the booth furthest from the door. They may be cool and groovy with her being here in costume, but that doesn't mean she deliberately wants to draw attention to herself. Rogers doesn't comment so she assumes he's fine with this arrangement, and they settle across from one another at the booth. Michaela's seat squeaks as she shifts, trying to get comfortable, and she nearly groans aloud at the cruelty of the universe. As it is, she has to bite down again on the inside of her cheek so that her internal griping doesn't become external, because yeah, that's the impression she wants to give Captain America: that she's about as mature as your average kindergartner, and that she can't fucking talk without embarrassing herself to death.

Mentally berating herself for the almost-slip, she digs deep and scrounges up a sort of convincing smile as she looks back at Rogers. Except.

Huh.

Rogers has company.

The captain seems unconcerned with this new addition; he shuffles a little to the side to make room (without squeaking, goddammit), twisting slightly to rest his arm on the back of the booth's seat and angling himself so that he's facing both Michaela and the man at his three o'clock. How nice of him. She figured he'd be big on manners, to a degree; not like, with baddies or anything, but with simple things like including everyone in a conversation. She's a teeny-tiny bit happy to be proven right on that count, but. Uh. Who the fuck is this guy?

He's Rogers age, she thinks, or close to it. Longish brown hair that curls a little around his ears and chin, otherwise hanging down in lank strands and partially stuffed beneath a frayed, well-worn baseball cap. She squints at it, confused; that's not the Mets or the Yankees, or... Where did he even get a Brooklyn Dodgers hat? There's no way those are in circulation anymore, it's been decades since the team got shipped to California.

Besides the outdated cap, he's layered himself in at least three different shirts, all of them oversize and in muted colors – burgundy, dark gray, black. She thinks one of them might be a Henley? Men's fashion isn't exactly one of her key interests. Then there's the jacket, which. She'd call it overkill but she catches sight of the look on the man's scruffy face and. It's. Haunting is the only word that comes to mind, that comes close to capturing his expression. Eyes that are shaded more gray than blue, heavy brows that look like they don't see much action outside of forming a confused-slash-menacing furrow, prominent cheekbones that she suspects are less 'attractive feature' and more 'evidence of starvation.' Plus, he's got a fucking killer jawline.

He looks – Michaela squints harder, chasing the fleeting thought of familiarity as it runs through her head.

Fuck, she knows this guy. But where—

It doesn't help her to dwell on the thought, so for now she shelves it, resisting the urge to set her fingers to tapping against the table and instead takes a moment to breathe, to settle herself. Then she says, feigning nonchalance, "You guys aren't gonna out me to the papers if I take off the mask, are you?"

Rogers blinks at the question, probably not having expected it. His companion cocks his head, assessing her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. She spreads her hands in an absent gesture, adding, "I feel overdressed, is all. And, to be honest, I've had the feeling that Tony Stark hacked his way into figuring out my identity the second Thor posted that photo of us, so. With Captain Rogers at least, I'm guessing I'm not risking much."

"You're not," Rogers says, his voice softer with the threads of apology spun through it. "Thor wasn't aware that Stark was looking into you, but by the time any of us thought to put him in check, he'd already gone and done it. I really am sorry he took that choice away from you." He pauses, considering. "You might've gotten the same treatment from Natasha either way, though. She's what you might call... overprotective."

Tucking away that nugget of information for later, Michaela shrugs, unbothered. She hooks a finger under her mask and tugs it loose, letting it sag around her throat. The goggles she pushes up atop her head, blinking to adjust to losing their filter. Somehow, like this, her breathing comes just that bit easier. She's never realized how freeing it is to be herself while she's also being Blackout. It's not something she's even really done with Matt; she's always kitted out in her gear when they're out doing super things.

She sticks out her hand, her smile much closer to genuine this time. "Michaela King. It's, uh, it's an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers. Big fan. You're like, my role model as a hero." That's not creepy, is it? Oh, god, please don't let that come off as creepy, she doesn't want to get hauled off to some underground prison for accidentally threatening the Captain's safety or his virtue or whatever charges they plan to stick her with.

Rogers, though, he smiles right back at her, reaching out to shake her hand, his grip firm but gentle, mindful of his enhanced strength. "Steve Rogers. And you can drop the captain if you want. Between you and me, the title's more honorary than anything. That, and I don't much like how people use it to set me apart from everyone else. I'm not better than any other person in this city, and the two of us are equals anyway."

Michaela opens her mouth, before just as quickly snapping it shut. Steve Rogers... wants to treat her like she's his equal? He wants her to treat him like they're equals? He would, though, wouldn't he? The little guy sticking up for littler guys, and all that, he'd be the first person to advocate for the legitimacy of vigilantes, so long as said vigilantes aren't bat-shit or harming the local civilians. A half smile tugs at her mouth as she lets that sink in. What a fuckin' weirdo. Consequently, she's awful glad she's had him as her favorite superhero for all these years. Like calls to like, or something.

"So, can I ask?"

Rogers lifts a brow at the question, though the thinning of his smile says he knows what she's getting at. He doesn't answer, just slides his arm down a little to prod gently at his companion's shoulder. The guy flicks him a wary glance, which is a change from how he's been staring intently at Michaela for the last couple minutes. His shoulders tighten at the suggestion of him being introduced, and while that's... unsettling, sort of, Steve Rogers clearly vouches for the man, and even if it shouldn't be, that's enough to settle Michaela's nerves.

"You don't have to give me a real name," she says, after the silence has stretched into the uncomfortable territory and she's broken it at least twice with the fucking squeaking again. She grimaces, unsure how that comes off; the man's blank-eyed stare isn't helping matters, either. "I mean. That sounds strange, huh? I just... I'm literally here 'cause Rogers asked me to come chat with him. I'm not anyone important. And it's not like I don't know a thing or two about wanting to hide my identity, so. Your choice, man, you give me whatever you want to. And if that's nothing..." She shrugs. "Then it's nothing."

The silence persists, so she adds, "Obviously you can't trust me, considering we've literally just met, but, well, not to take advantage of the title or anything, but if Captain America is in your corner, then I trust you." A huff of a laugh escapes her. "I'm stupidly naïve like that, just ask Jessica Jones."

"I wouldn't say it's naïve, exactly—"

"It's naïve," Michaela says, but also what, because the man next to Rogers says the exact same thing at the exact same time. She blinks at him; he tilts his head again. Rogers is smiling like a fool at the guy, though, so that's a win for Michaela. Any talking at all is worthy of the Captain's approval, apparently. She can work with that.

She taps her nose (a habit now, one she doesn't even remember picking up), points at the man in agreement. "I shouldn't trust people on someone else's word, at the very least not on the word of someone I don't know personally, but oh well, that's where I'm at in my life right now. The superhero perspective kinda changes things for you, I guess."

That gets a slight nod from him, and he seems to sit a little less stiffly in his seat, his shoulders falling from where they've been hunched around his ears. His eyes land on her then drop to the table, then snap back up to hers. His bites at his lower lip, his expression pensive and analytic. Then he says, "Call me James."

Michaela sees Rogers straighten at that but she pays him no mind, just ups the wattage of her smile at James, trying to appear as friendly and approachable as possible. She doesn't mind it so much when she's not working, when there's no expectation of niceness from her.

"James it is." And that's that. She's not going to ply him with questions, she doesn't even see a point in attempting that. Instead she looks at Rogers, who's since recovered from his momentary surprise and is watching James with bright, fond eyes. And, well. That's telling. "Er, Steve?" His head turns, and he blinks, clearly re-focusing on her. She smiles to let him know she doesn't mind, though he still flushes a little, like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Which is. Adorable. And frankly just too much for her poor fucking heart. "We have gotten way off-track, but uh, I think the point of all this was to tell you that me going to the Tower probably isn't going to happen in the foreseeable future."

"You really don't want to drop by for a visit? Natasha would like you," he says, as if this is an incentive.

Michaela is, rightfully, terrified of the Black Widow. She admires her, thinks she's absolutely kick-ass and criminally underrated, but that doesn't really translate into wanting to meet her. It's like with Jessica Jones – there's that pervasive fear that Michaela's going to land herself on awkward footing and get knifed for her sinful transgressions. She's not Emmett, Christ, but she is, by nature, incredibly prone to contracting foot-in-mouth disease. The reason she gets on so well with Spider-Man is because he has the same problem, and Matt just thinks she's amusing, so he doesn't get annoyed with her.

Natasha Romanoff? She might be more inclined to show Michaela an in-depth demonstration of that thigh-choking maneuver of hers, and unfortunately for everyone involved, that's not one of Michaela's kinks.

"I like life," she says, which makes James snort and Rogers—she'd call it a pout on anyone else but... okay, nope, that's a pout. America's golden boy is pouting at her. If Michaela believed in God she'd wonder why the fuck he's testing her like this today. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd... you guys are great, like I said. That's kinda the problem. Despite what you may think about me, I am very easily intimidated. I will experience near-crippling anxiety if I'm in a room full of Avengers, and I will probably throw up into a potted plant. I'm not sure you want that on your conscience, Captain."

"She's got your number, Steve," James murmurs, which thrills Michaela to no fucking end.

"Oh, come on, we're just people."

"With the exception of Thor?" Michaela asks, smirking.

"...that's fair," Steve admits, laughing. "No one quite compares to Thor."

"Yeah, I'd say so. What is he again? A godly, alien prince?"

"Alright, alright, we're a little more than just people. But I still say you should visit. You're a hero, Michaela, despite what the police have to say about it."

"...you're much more inspirational in real life than you are in those PSAs, Cap."

"PSAs?" James quirks a brow at Steve.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, a literal living legend – and he's blushing, holy fuck, Michaela almost can't believe her eyes. The red's high on his cheeks, bright and vibrant against his Irish-pale skin, and, oh, that's—um. He's not looking too happy with her, his blue eyes far from threatening but the tilt of his mouth suggesting he would have really appreciated her not making that last comment. Michaela, sensing she's stepped on what is, quite possibly, the most patriotic landmine of all time, backtracks quickly.

"They're nothing," she says, leaning forward enough that James' attention snaps back to her. Yikes, that's a quick reaction time. She'd call him paranoid, but then again, she's not sleeping too deeply these days, either. She figures a friend of Captain America has a few secrets, and he's entitled to them, but it's a little exhausting just watching him, he's so tense. He hasn't relaxed for a moment since he sat down, at least not that she's seen. "Forget I mentioned them. Forget I said anything, really, I'm, ya know. Known for my bullshit."

Known for my bullshit? What the fuck, brain?

The problem is (beyond her inability to keep from stepping in it repeatedly, Christ, why does anyone put up with her?) that James already has his phone out, and he's tapping away at the screen with—gloves? He's wearing gloves? They're those smart-gloves, or whatever they're called, the ones that let you interact with your phone while you're wearing them, but it's. Summer. And he's wearing all those layers... Maybe he's got a problem regulating his body temperature, or. Michaela knows people who have absolutely shit circulation, and they always seem to feel the cold sharper than anyone else, so. That could be it.

If only she had the balls to ask.

Ugh, like that would even matter. Matt's got his Catholic guilt, but Michaela doesn't need a priest ranting at her to feel like she's sorry for everything she's ever done in her life. The anxiety takes care of that just fine, thanks.

Something not unlike a smile passes over James' features as he looks down at his phone, which he's turned sideways in the universal sign that he's now watching a video. She can't hear anything so she assumes he's put captions on, but Steve clearly knows what the video is, going by the dawning look of horror that's creeping over his own face. Michaela suspects the only reason he doesn't make a grab for the phone is because she's sitting across from them. And maybe because he's appreciating the way amusement transforms James' face, softening the hard edges and bringing color to his ashen cheeks.

He looks like a completely different person, somehow, and Michaela can't wrap her head around it.

When she catches Steve's eye (James isn't sparing either of them a glance at this point, which in itself is a little astonishing) she mouths I'm so fucking sorry, to which he shrugs helplessly and mouths back Nothing to be sorry for. From the sagging of his shoulders and the blush still burning at the tips of his ears, she imagines the timing could have been better for this. How James didn't know about the PSAs, she has no fucking clue; they were the biggest meme a few years back, and they've made a comeback just this year for some reason that's lost on her. The life-cycle of memes isn't something she's devoted much time to studying, unlike a certain spiderling she could name. And even if James isn't big on the joys of the internet, she finds it strange that these PSAs are completely new to him.

Although, she has noticed a... a lilt to his voice, a cadence that might indicate that he's not originally from America. Not quite an accent, at least not a strong one; she couldn't pinpoint a country if you put a gun to her head. But it might explain how he's gone this long without encountering Rappin' with Cap for this long – she's not sure how well-received he'd be in other countries.

Whatever the case, Michaela thinks it's about time she got the hell out of Dodge. Captain America pouting at her was bad enough; she does not need to see his Disappointed Eyebrows in real life, the online pictures are damning enough.

She rights her mask and goggles, flashing Steve a fleeting smile just before she does so in answer to the questioning frown he gives her. "I gotta get going," she says, which gets James' eyes peering up at her, the bulk of his focus still on his phone. "I promised a friend I'd meet him for" – she hesitates, unsure how to phrase this without it coming off as... not what she's intending it to come off as – "a sparring session," she says, grudgingly honest. What kind of friends go over to each other's apartments just to kick the shit out of each other? Her and Matt, apparently. She lifts a hand, sparks licking in between her fingers as she wiggles them for effect. "Close quarters combat isn't my forte, so I'm taking the help where I can get it."

Steve, no longer tomato red, thank god, chuckles and nods, like this is normal. Fuck, maybe it is. She doesn't hang out with the super supers, this might be an average Tuesday for them. "Hey, if you're looking for some practical combat training... that's just another reason to come to the Tower. Natasha and I can teach you a thing or two."

"Uh. No thanks," tumbles out of Michaela's mouth before she has the wherewithal to abort abort abort. Panicked, just a little, she continues, "That's a ridiculously generous offer, but, it's, you know, like I said. I... like life."

And you could snap my spine in half like a piece of chalk goes unsaid, but she thinks Steve understands just the same.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'll think about the Tower thing," she says, as a sort of consolation for everything else he's had to deal with from her today. "S'not gonna be any time soon, and I really, really don't want photos of Blackout fraternizing in Stark Tower" – James snorts again, another win – "but I can promise to consider it as a potential event in the future." She stands, adjusting her suit and getting an uncomfortable reminder of how fucking sweaty she is; she needs like three consecutive showers if she wants to feel remotely clean again.

"It really was an honor to meet you, Steve Rogers. And James, you're a delight, buddy. If you're ever in Hell's Kitchen, me and Daredevil are good for a fun night out. It involves lots of me watching Daredevil roughhouse with gang members of varying nationalities and snarky commentary, if you're into that sort of thing."

Michaela swears his mouth twitches in response to her offer, not quite a smile but verging on it, though he doesn't do much more than raise both brows at her as an actual answer. She shrugs, unfazed. It's not like she was expecting him to jump at the opportunity to make a day trip to Hell's Kitchen; fuck, she loves the place and half the time she wants to raze it to the ground, start over from scratch. James can come by any time he wants – she'll make sure she mentions it to Matt – or he can make sure they never see each other again.

Steve makes like he's going to get out of the booth, possibly to walk her to the door or something else equally as chivalrous, but she waves him back down either way. One, he'd have to make James get up, and like this guy is still powering through the Cap PSAs, he doesn't need to be disturbed; two, she'd rather leave by herself, anyway, because god, does she not want the tabloids seeing her out and about with Captain America. They might've already snagged a picture of the two of them walking to this café, so she's not in the mood to give them any more ammunition.

She will never be over the media storm that was Blackout Is Thor's Illegitimate Child. She doesn't need Blackout and Captain America: Secret Lovers? or some such bullshit on top of that.

Michaela slips out of the café, only looking back once over her shoulder and waving in true dorky fashion when she sees Rogers tracking her through the window. James, not-so-predictably, doesn't bother making sure she's actually left the vicinity; those Rappin' with Cap videos are mesmerizing, in the sort of way a car crash is mesmerizing.

Once she's ducked into an alley and changed back into her everyday wear, she fights her way onto a subway car and drops into the first seat she comes across, already pulling out her hero phone.

Spider-Child you're going to be so jealous of me

omg blackout what did you do

I've now met not one, but TWO Avengers. I'm officially cooler than you

WHAT WHO DID U MEET

BLACKOUT

TELL MEEEEEEEE PLS

Who's strong and brave, here to save the American way...?

shdkshfhsncrikehfhf

U MET CAPTAIN AMERICA W/O ME????????

HOW DARE BLACKOUT

HOW DARE

It's your fault for ditching me! You could've met an Avenger, but you had RESPONSIBILITIES like a chump

u betrayed me blackout

Only because you betrayed me first

..................

Tell you what. Next time an Avenger randomly crosses paths with me I'll call you

that's all i ask

You've got a deal, Spidey

ok ok cool

so does he smell like freedom and bald eagles???

Didn't get close enough to sniff him, kid, sorry to disappoint

He does have mountain ranges for shoulders though good christ

tmi blackout ew

This is why I betrayed you

!!!!!!