Peggy only waits for a minute or two before letting the incessant banging on her front door drive her to her balcony.

She slides open the glass door and steps out into the chilly November air.

"MARGE!" The voice on the other side calls, "Marge, come on, you know you want to let me in— Hey, HEY, I'm talking to you, open this door right NOW."

She rolls her eyes and then checks her pocket, making sure she has her apartment key before shutting the door behind her. She glances to her right where the balcony that belongs to a Gilmore Hodge resides. Then she looks to her left and crawls very carefully over the ledge, gripping the metal guardrail tight.

She stretches her leg out, finding footing on the neighboring balcony and then slowly, so slowly, reaches over to grab the guardrail to her left. Her fingers clench the cold metal and she pulls herself over, quickly straddling it before toppling over and landing on her hip on the concrete balcony.

"Ow!" She hisses, rubbing her hip and thigh. That will bruise.

She quickly gets up and knocks rapidly on the glass door. When no one responds immediately, she knocks harder, paining her knuckles in the process.

"Hello!" She calls, adding desperation to her voice, "Is anyone there?" She is leaning on the glass door and knocking again when it slides open. She allows the momentum to carry her forward until she lands against something large and firm, and… wet? She jumps back, taking in the sight before her.

Bloody hell her thoughts shout. Her eyes are staring at a bare, and thickly muscled chest, with large broad shoulders, and thick arms still slightly raised as if to catch her. She finally realizes the dark wet splotches on his skin are paint, smeared and circled and looking as if he is his own palette. She finally drags her eyes up to the face where deep blue eyes, bright blonde hair, and a tensed strong jaw are set in an expression of confusion and concern.

"I— I'm sorry" she stutters. "I thought— I—" She's at a loss for words and she watches as he pulls thickly padded over-the-ear headphones off. She can hear his music blaring through them. His hair is slightly mused and a strand hangs down, touching his eyebrow. The room around them is darkened, but her eyes catch the sight of some light coming from another room. The room they're standing in is filled with askew furniture and half unpacked boxes.

Her eyes travel back towards his chest and the colorful paint that is begging to be stared at.

She hears him scoff and she snaps her eyes back upwards.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asks, "Can I help you?" The sincerity in the question rings out but she freezes at the sound of his voice. Her mind traveling back to six months ago, a dark alley in London.

Hey get off of her you jackass. Get outta here. Are you okay?

She swallows thickly. It can't be. They just sound the same.

"Miss?" He tries again, "Are you alright?"

She shakes her head, clearing the old memory and finally finding her voice. "Yes, I'm— well, I'm not perfectly alright, as you can probably guess by the fact that I just climbed to your balcony and accosted you. But I'm physically unharmed."

He's about to ask another question when another shout is heard from the hallway.

"Marge, if you don't open this door, I'mma break it down. You're not getting away that easy. I'm going to teach you a lesson—" More unpleasant things are said but Peggy just watches with fascination as the man's facial expression changes as he listens to the rant.

"He yours?" He asks with steel in his tone.

"While he may be speaking to me, I don't usually claim drunk colleagues who refuse to take no for an answer." She responds equally steely. His mouth quirks up and he holds up a finger.

"One second."

He walks towards his front door, snagging a shirt from a pile of fresh laundry set on a coffee table, and exits his apartment.

She quickly follows him and tries to peek out from the doorway.

"Hey, I'm Steve." The man whose apartment she'd just entered said in a calm, easy-going voice.

"Oh yeah?" Comes the voice from the hallway. "And who cares?"

"Oh, certainly no one." Steve responds easily. "But seeing as I'm a resident, and you're out here making a racket and disturbing the peace, I'm going to ask you to leave."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yes, sir. I am."

"Well, listen here, Steve. I'm not going anywhere until—" The man makes a grunting noise and Peggy peeks out further, catching Steve holding onto her 'assailant' by the scruff of his collar and saying something too low for her to hear.

"You wouldn't dare." The man shoves against Steve's chest but Steve doesn't move an inch.

"Try me." Steve drops the man's collar, and shoves hard against his shoulders, causing him to stumble, "Get outta here you jackass."

The man grumbles but takes off. The words he's just spoken and their cadence throw ice water down her back and she lurches back further into the apartment.

He walks back in and stops, hands resting gently on his hips.

"He's gone." He says calmly and then studies her, "I'm going to assume that I'm your new neighbor?" She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Well, not that I don't enjoy having a heart attack at someone banging on my balcony door, but I do hope it won't be a common occurrence."

She breathes deeply, her eyes trailing down to his white shirt which now has paint seeping through it, making the fabric stick to his skin and somehow being even more eye-catching than when he was bare chested.

"It won't be. I promise." She extends her hand. "Welcome to the apartment complex."

"Thank you." He says politely, opening up his door for her to leave. She takes the hint and exits, only sparing a quick glance up to his eyes as she leaves.

—-

A quiet knock on his door gets his attention. He sets the mixing fork down, turns down his music, and grabs a towel, wiping his hands as he pulls open his door.

The girl stands there, looking a bit bashful, but as beautiful as the night she basically fell into his apartment, disheveled and shaking.

"I just wanted to say thank you." She says, "For a few days ago… And to officially welcome you to the complex when there isn't a madman in the hallway." She holds out a store-bought carton of cookies and he eyes them warily. "What?" She huffs, "you don't like cookies?"

"No," he says slowly, "I love cookies. Thanks." He extends his hand and she sets them in his grasp. He expects her to leave but she just stands there, "did you need something else?" He asks.

"No… I just…" She runs an absent hand through her hair and looks a bit lost. Steve doesn't try to understand women at all, but if he had to guess, she looked like she kind of needed somebody to talk to.

"Do you…" he winces at his words, "want to come in?" He expects her to laugh at him, or decline but a relieved look crosses her face and she nods eagerly,

"Yes, thank you."

—-

She eyes the bowls on the counter and as she sits on the tiny stool set against the small island, she narrows her eyes at the ingredients.

"What are you making?" She asks casually.

She watches his shoulders tense as he sets the carton of cookies on the counter.

"Cookies." He says after a moment. He looks at her, and she snorts, laughter coming easily and letting it carry over to him. His shoulders ease and he chuckles too.

"Well, I'm sure my store bought ones will hold up against yours." She says cheekily.

His brow furrows and he places a hand over his heart as if wounded. "I take personal offense to that!"

"Why?" She queries, "You think you're such a great cookie maker?"

"I hope so." He says, squaring his shoulders, "I'm a baker by trade."

"Oh, you're not a painter?" The words slip out before she can stop herself, but the absolute flush of color that spreads across his cheeks makes it worth it.

"Well, I do enjoy painting." He says, rubbing at the back of his neck, "but no, I don't make a living that way."

"But you wish you could?"

"Maybe…" He smiles and picks back up his baking utensils. "Selling art is a tough way to live."

She nods and they fall into companionable silence. She notices the music and perks up.

"Are you listening to Thomas Newman?"

Steve's eyes go wide, "You know him?"

"Of course I do! Some of my favorite film scores are composed by him." Steve's mouth parts slightly in surprise before he smiles widely and nods eagerly, reaching over to the radio that is modern but designed to look like an old 1940's style. She notices it's one of the few items that looks like it's been unpacked for days. The music fills the room and she watches as his eyes go soft.

"I know it's from a kids' movie, but it's just so beautiful."

"Nothing Pixar makes is a children's movie." She says crisply. His smile widens even further and she can't help but watch the twinkle in his eyes.

About an hour later they're arguing.

"No, I don't care about the advancements Hans Zimmer has made in the field," Steve spouts, "He wouldn't have had those opportunities if not for John Williams!"

"So says you!" Peggy argues, "The man took what could have been considered a dying art form and revitalized it!"

Steve's face goes red, "a dying art form? You take that back!"

Peggy laughs at his passion and crosses her arms firmly. "No."

"Well, Michael Giacchino, James Newton Howard, Harry Gregson Williams, and Alan Silvestri would beg to differ with you."

"Don't you dare throw Michael Giacchino in my face! He came much later, don't lie!"

Steve crinkles his nose at her and her breath hitches at the sight. He doesn't notice, carefully using a spatula to transfer now cooled cookies from the rack to a plate.

He balances the plate and the carton of cookies in one hand, with a glass of cold milk in the other.

He sets them before her, on a still unpacked box. He pushes another box of books out of the way and sets the milk down carefully on the coffee table. He opens the carton and eyes her with a look she can only describe as smug and nervous at the same time.

"I'll not be biased simply because you saved me the other night." She says haughtily.

The affront on his face is adorable as he leans against the counter.

"Are you really a woman who can be bribed?" He teases back.

"Hmm…" she says, not responding. She delicately picks up one of the store bought cookies, eyeing it, and inspecting it before taking a large bite. She chews thoughtfully before swallowing. "It's not bad. A bit dry, but a passable cookie." He narrows his eyes at her assessment but says nothing. She then examines the selection of cookies he's placed before her. She selects the one that looks the best to her and lifts it up to her nose. It smells heavenly and she tries to keep her face even as she inspects it. It's perfectly golden brown and looks a touch gooey in the center. She breaks it in half, inspecting it further, making him sigh at her scrutiny.

She takes a bite, and as the buttery, sweet, and perfectly baked cookie melts on her tongue, the sound she makes can't be described as innocent.

"Oh my heavens." She sighs, covering her mouth with her other hand. She glances up at him to see his ears a bright pink and eyes fixated on the ground. The sight causes her to giggle and he looks up, surprised. "Well," she says, wiping her mouth daintily and picking up the crumbs, "I will admit that your cookie has a slight advantage."

He flushes, but his smile lights up the room as he chuckles.

"I'm Maggie, by the way." She adds and he laughs as he extends his hand for a shake.

"I'm Steve."

"Hello, Steve. Now, are you usually in the habit of seducing girls with baked goods before introducing yourself?"

She's growing fond, too fond of the specific color that flushes over his cheeks, contrasting nicely with his blue eyes, at almost everything she says.

But he swallows and his eyes get a glint before he shoots back, "are you in the habit of climbing onto strangers' balconies and staring at them when they're half-dressed?"

Her lips part in surprise and after a second she just bursts out laughing.

He's cleaning up the kitchen, humming to himself as he remembers the look Maggie made and the sound she elicited when she tasted the cookie. Even alone the memory of the sound makes him blush.

He goes to pick up the plate of cookies from the makeshift coffee table and notices that more than half are missing. He smiles again and makes a note to buy more supplies.

"I think we have the wrong guy." She states flatly.

"What do you mean, Carter? All the intel tells us it's this apartment."

"Well, I'm telling you, this isn't him. He's huge and—" she looks at the picture in front of her, a grainy black and white of a skinny man squinting into the sun. "This guy isn't."

"So maybe he worked out?"

"And grew a foot?"

"Hit a late puberty?" Barton offers.

"You saw him, Clint. You think this," she taps the photo, "could have turned into him?"

Clint, her fake assailant from the night of her 'get rescued by possible contact' mission, eyes the photo, squinting at it all different ways. "I don't know. There are some similarities. I got an eyeful of those cheekbones when he was threatening me."

Peggy sighs, rolling her eyes. "Yes, well, you didn't have to be quite so dramatic with the door banging and shouting."

Clint gives her a lopsided grin, "come on Pegs, you know we have to sell it. I wanted to make sure I played my part."

She turns back to General Phillips. "So how sure are we that he's even Barnes' friend?"

Phillips huffs at her and crosses his arms over his chest. "Barnes has been a ghost for three years. This connection, this lead is the first hint at a chance of finding that menace." He points at the photo. "I don't know who this shrimp is, but our intel sent this photo, and that address to us, that's it. So, figure. It. Out."

Peggy sighs, trying to rectify the three different versions of a man she didn't know. This photo of a small, sharp cheeked man; the large and looming shadow of a man, rescuing her in an alley; and the shy, but quick witted baker with a penchant for painting.

"Yes, sir."

She knocks on his door, a jug of milk in her hands. She puts a smile on her face and waits as she hears footsteps approaching.

She's only seen him once in passing since their cookie debate two days ago, and Phillips was already on her tail about 'hurrying it up'. She'd glared at him but then sighed, trying to explain that if she pressed into him too quickly he might get suspicious. But he just growled at her about terrorism and tax payers' dollars and she'd sighed and resigned herself to the lecture.

She is looking up when the door opens, and is surprised to find her eyes need to lower to a small woman— no more like a teenager, answering the door.

"Can I help you?" Says the girl.

"Oh, uh.." She glances at the door number, wondering if there was a possibility of knocking on the wrong door, but no… there was the same number: 18. "Is this— is this Steve's apartment?"

The girl narrows her eyes and looks at her suspiciously.

"And who's asking?"

"I'm Maggie." She says, shifting the milk to extend a hand, "Steve helped me out the other day, and then let me have one of his cookies and well…" she looks sheepishly down at the milk as if that would explain it.

The girl in front of her purses her lips, but just says "wait here". After a moment she can hear the girl say, "Steve? Some girl is here for you."

Peggy huffs, rolling her eyes, but then stops. If she needs to gather intel then she needs to be on everyone's good side, even petulant teenagers.

"Some girl?" She hears Steve call back. "Wanda, I swear if this is another prank from Natasha I will—" he stops as he catches sight of her. "Oh, Maggie!" He looks self consciously down at his paint covered clothes and skin, mercifully he has a shirt on, before he comes over to the door.

"Oh boy," he says, noticing the milk, "rough day?"

"The worst." She says, adding an exaggerated hand to her forehead as if she was going to faint. It elicits the laugh she was hoping for and he waves her in.

She sets the jug down with a slosh and she watches as he unwraps a platter of cookies. Setting them in the middle of the small island.

"I see you've gotten further unpacked." She muses, glancing appreciatively at the almost neat space. His furniture has all been unpacked, assembled, and arranged in an orderly fashion. The chairs look plush and cozy if a bit worn, and the small dining table looks like he bought it at a flea market but revamped it.

"Yeah," he says, getting two glasses down from a cupboard. "It's been slow going. Hard to get anything done when I have to go to bed to get to the bakery so early."

She nods sympathetically. "How long ago did you move in?"

He scratches at the back of his neck, "uh… about 8 days ago?"

"Well, you're ahead of schedule. It took me almost a month to empty my last box." He smiles and nudges the cookie plate closer to her. She gratefully grabs one and dunks it in the glass he's poured for her. She hears a door open and close and her eyebrow raises.

"That's Wanda." Steve says, "She's my little sister."

"Really?" Peggy's surprised, not that they really knew anything about this guy, but she hasn't seen anything in the apartment to indicate a sibling.

"Well, not my blood sister. We grew up together in foster care. I met her when she and her twin brother got separated into different houses—" His face darkens.

"So, now she lives here with you?"

"No, I wish—" His mouth sets in a grim line, "The court won't grant me custody because—"

"Because they're a bunch of disgusting rat bastards." Comes a sharp voice behind her. She turns to find Wanda standing in the doorway, an angry look on her face and a phone dangling in her hand.

"Wanda," Steve warns, "I don't care what kind of garbage your friends spew, I will not accept that sort of language in this house." He sounds like such a dad in that moment that she expects Wanda to pout or fight or shout back at him, but she just sighs and slumps her shoulders.

"Sorry."

"No apology necessary." He says calmly. "They are indeed rat bastards."

Peggy laughs but watches as Wanda's eyes narrow at her. She grabs another cookie.

"Who is this?" Wanda asks.

"This is Maggie, she's our next door neighbor."

"Hello, Wanda." Peggy says cheerfully.

"Hello." Is Wanda's curt reply. "Steve, can Natasha come over?"

"There's nowhere else you're supposed to be?"

"No."

"And your fosters know you're here?"

"Yes, Steve. I told them."

"Then yeah, that's fine. But tell her to leave her attitude at home."

Wanda rolls her eyes but Peggy notices the affection in them as she holds the phone up to her ear and disappears.

"I'm sorry," Peggy begins, "I don't think I understand the foster care system enough, what does growing up in it entail?"

He winces and she immediately regrets asking, "If it's too private I don't—"

"No, no it's not that, it's just—" He sighs and takes a cookie for himself. "When I was 14 and Wanda was 7, we got placed in the same house. I don't know why they didn't place her in a home with her twin…" he looks out the glass doors to his balcony. "I'd always been an overzealous kid, trying to protect anything I felt like needing protecting, even when I wasn't strong enough to protect anyone, let alone myself. But Wanda, for some reason, trusted me. We were lucky ones, being able to mostly stay together through multiple different houses and families. We've been inseparable ever since." He turns back to her. "When I turned 18, I tried to fight for older sibling custody, but the court just laughed at me. I tried again and again until—" His face turns a shade of red she hadn't known was possible. "They accused me of trying to adopt her for my own personal reasons." He grips the counter.

She gasps. A real gasp. "No…"

"Yes." He snaps. Then he takes a steadying breath. "Geez, even now it boils my blood. I got thrown out of court that day for giving the judge a black eye."

Peggy's questioning look is met with a sigh.

"Her new foster family is actually pretty great. They are fine with her being here when she needs or wants to be and I always make sure they're kept well aware of anything. And I went to the same public school she is now so I can help with homework or events. She comes here a lot of days after school or during the summer."

"How old is she now?"

"She's 16, almost 17." Peggy calculates his age from hers. He could be 23 or 24, depending on when his birthday fell. She studies him again and it really sinks in how young he is. She's only 25 herself but he seems infinitely younger with that sad look on his face.

"Well I'm sure you're a wonderful big brother, what with all the skills for bake sales."

His demeanor softens and he picks up another cookie, "yeah, I'm pretty popular with the PTA." She laughs and he smiles fully.

"So, Steve. Tell me more about yourself. You've saved me three times now and I know nothing about you."

He turns towards the sink, putting his back to her and is silent for a moment. "There's not much to know, I'm just a kid from Brooklyn."

"Oh come now, you've grown up in foster care and made a name for yourself in baking, you paint, although I still haven't seen any of the finished pieces."

"Oh, it's just a hobby." He says, peeling a section of dried paint off his arm. It pulls up the soft blonde hairs on his forearms and he winces. She sees an opening to a question Phillips desperately wants answered and she takes it.

"You said you weren't strong enough to protect yourself, but I find that hard to believe given your size now. You must have been a big kid?"

He shifts and she watches as something glazes over his eyes. "Oh you know, it was just one of those things, I hit my growth spurt late."

She hates knowing immediately that he's lying.

"Ah," she says noncommittally. "Where do you work? I would love to support your business."

"I work at Wilson's Diner." He says easily, grasping at the change in topic, "You should come by, their food is great."

"And your baked goods?"

He laughs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, "yeah, those too. I make a mean peach pie."

"I can't wait to try a slice."

—-

Peggy has stopped counting the cookies she's eaten by the time another knock is heard on the door.

Steve leans over the counter and calls out, "Natasha, it's open!"

The door opens smoothly and a shockingly red-headed girl enters. Backpack slung over a leather jacket and combat boots somehow silently moving on the wooden floors.

She turns to say hello when her eyes catch on Peggy. Her brow furrows and then her lips purse and Peggy has the feeling she's going to have a hard time with both of these teenage girls.

"Natasha, how was school?" Steve asks, not noticing the brief exchange.

"Fine, I got an A on my speech."

"What!" She can hear the pride in Steve's voice. "Tasha, that's amazing! You practiced so hard, you earned it."

The girl blushes slightly and the adoration in her eyes makes Peggy bite her lip in realization. This girl has a crush on Steve.

"It's nothing." She says, her eyes on the ground.

"It's not nothing. When I had to give my speech back in the day I almost cried on stage. So you're doing great, kid."

Natasha shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly but the pride is there.

"I made some cookies for you and Yelena. Don't forget them when you leave."

"Like I would ever forget to take some of your baked goods home."

Steve laughs and nods in the direction of where Wanda is currently. Natasha eyes Peggy again and disappears into the hallway.

"So you're a big brother to multiple people I see."

"Yeah, well, I always needed one, so it's nice to be one for a change."

"You had a big brother? I thought— with foster care…"

Steve winces mildly and then schools his face. "No— I had a friend, he… He always protected me and looked out for me like a brother."

Peggy doesn't miss the wording, "Had a friend?"

"Yeah, he— he got killed overseas. Just over three years ago."

"Oh Steve, I'm so sorry."

"It's…" he rubs a thumb under his jaw. "It is what it is, I guess. I always wished I could have protected him just once."

"What was his name?" She knows she's pushing, but she hopes her suspicion is wrong.

"James." He says quietly. "James Barnes. I called him Bucky though."

She bites her tongue between her teeth and uses the fact that his eyes are downcast to study his expression. Unlike a few moments ago, when she knew instantly he was lying. This grief has the ring of sincerity.

He actually thinks he's dead

She raises her milk glass, and says solemnly "To James Barnes."

He smiles a sad smile that has her heart wrenching in a way it shouldn't be and he tips his glass, clinking it against hers. "To Bucky."

—-

She leaves not long after, wanting to report back, but also not wanting to be too pushy.

Her phone is at her ear the moment she's in her car.

"Phillips." Comes the answer after one ring.

"I'm on my way to the office."

"I'll be in mine."

"See you in 10."

"He thinks he's dead."

"You're kidding."

"No, the man is either a top notch actor, or truthfully believes his best friend is dead."

"His best friend is mounting terrorist attacks across four continents."

"Okay, yes." She says, waving her hands, "but he doesn't know that!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes!" Then she stops and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay, I'll admit that my gut tells me that he doesn't know. But… I've met very capable liars and actors before and so possible deception can't be ignored." The thought of his quick and obvious lie about being a big kid rings in her mind.

Philips' nods approvingly and looks at the file they've started gathering about Steve.

"This is a man whose backstory is so simple, yet seems to be missing so many pieces."

"Well, I haven't gotten his last name yet. But when I do, we will be able to look him up in the foster care system."

"If he's telling the truth about being a foster kid."

Peggy grimaces. "Well, let's hope something he's told me is true or we're going to run out of leads."

"Who's this new kid you mentioned?"

"Two actually," she says, "One is a girl he grew up with in foster care, Wanda, and the other is a friend of Wanda's from school named Natasha. Again, last names not mentioned."

"He lives with two teenage girls?"

"No." Peggy says a tad too sharply, earning her a raised eyebrow. "No, Natasha came over to do homework with Wanda, and Wanda has a foster family, but she is over there a lot because Steve is like a big brother to her."

"Ah."

"I'm going to go to the diner he works for and try to get a few of his coworkers to talk about him, maybe get some more details."

"What should I do?" Clint pipes up after being uncharacteristically quiet through the meeting.

"Well, I think we have used up your cover. Now that he's seen our face, I don't want you around unless it's for a similar need."

Clint pouts but then goes back to twirling his pen between his fingers. "Phillips, can I be put on the Stark case?"

"Barton."

"Oh come one, a billionaire tech giant goes missing and no one can find him?"

"You just want the reward money." Peggy snipes.

"Uh, duh." Clint puffs out his chest. "You know what a man can do with that kinda money?"

Peggy rolls her eyes but turns back to Phillips. "It might not be such a terrible idea. Howard Stark's disappearance does seem odd, and the location he was last seen was one of Barnes' larger attacks. Maybe there's a connection Barton can find."

"His son is desperate to find him." Barton adds, "Though it seems weird since they'd been public about their distaste for each other beforehand." Barton comments.

"Yes, well having your father abducted can put petty fights aside." Peggy retorts.

Clint rolls his eyes but she knows he agrees with her. "Tony Starks only what? 19? He's not wanting to take on daddy's company just yet."

"Whatever his reasons are, it might help us in the Barnes case. And—" She looks at the measly information they have, "We need all the help we can get."

The next day, she steps into the diner and is immediately taken aback. She'd expected a 1950's theme, like most old themed diners relied upon. But this wasn't, it was designed to look like a 1930-40's soda counter, complete with an automat on the right wall.

She walks around, looking at all the details and running her fingers over the record player that while looking old, seemed to be connected to something via bluetooth. It's cozy tunes warms her up. She's eyeing the dark vinyl booths and the lovely wooden floors when she hears a voice.

"Can I help you?" She turns to find a large man, with a very pleasant smile standing behind the counter.

"Oh, hi!" She says, stepping forward towards the counter, it's metal and brass accents twinkling at her under the warm lights. "I was recommended this place by a friend and I thought I'd give it a go." She slides onto a plush barstool and looks around again. "This is such a lovely place." She comments.

"Thanks," The man says genuinely, "We've worked really hard to give it that old nostalgic feel without sacrificing any of the modern convenience."

She smiles, "Are you the owner?"

He nods, "Co-Owner." He says quickly, "I'm Sam Wilson. My sister and I run the place."

"Well, my compliments to the designers."

He laughs and shakes his head, "Well I can't take much credit for that, I wanted to go more modern truth be told, but one of my bakers and Sarah, my sister, insisted on the old school feel."

Her ears perk up, remembering Steve's old styled radio, "A baker? You have a bakery?" He points to the automat,

"We don't really have a traditional bakery case. It got too crowded trying to keep up with the diner and bakery demands. So we installed the automat. Makes restocking items so much easier, and not in the way of the kitchen either."

She pretends to act confused. "I'm sorry, I don't know what an automat is."

"Here let me show you." He says with an easy smile.

He leads her over to the many tiny glass doors, where all sorts of tempting treats await behind them.

"You find what you want, and then go to the pay station, insert the cash or swipe your card and enter the code for your item. That door will pop open and you take your food."

She smiles and starts inspecting the items. When she doesn't find any recognizable cookies, she thinks of something else. "Do you have any peach pie?"

Something flickers over his face and he rolls his eyes. "Damn."

She startles, "Oh no, what? Should I not have—"

"No, no," he laughs and turns towards the counter. "Angie!"

A small petite brunette pops up from somewhere behind the counter, a stack of order notebooks in her hands.

"Yeah?"

"You win again."

She drops the notebooks and claps her hands with glee. "I told you Sammy, I told you. He's been back like what? 6 days?"

Sams huffs and nods, turning back towards Peggy. "Sorry about that. Peach Pie is in B6." He points it out and she nods, bringing out a few bills and sliding them into the slot. The door pops open, and she takes a quick second to glance inside, but she can only catch snippets of a bakery kitchen.

She takes her pie back over to the counter where Angie is waiting eagerly with a hot cup of coffee and a small bowl of ice cream.

"He'll never forgive me if I don't offer." She says without any explanation.

She snatches Peggy's plate, carefully dollops the ice cream on top of the pie, and sets it back down, then picks up a shaker and Peggy watches as a very light layer of cinnamon sugar settles over the whole thing. She sets the plate back down in front of her and slides the coffee cup next to it.

"He's going to give all of my clients diabetes." Sam says with a pleasant eye-roll.

"You own a diner, Sam." Angie shoots back, "If you were concerned about people's health you picked the wrong profession."

Peggy feels subconscious as they stand there, obviously waiting for her to take the first bite. "Tally ho, I suppose." She says lightly. Hesitantly she puts the fork in her mouth, looking awkwardly at them, but the minute the cold fresh peaches, cool ice cream, and warm crust hit her mouth she's not paying them any mind. The cool sweetness of the ice cream adds a creaminess that heightens the fresh and sweet peaches. Her thoughts transport her back to summers at her aunt's cottage in England, picking ripe sweet peaches off the tree and rolling dough in cinnamon sugar to fry as a treat. Before the bad days, before the loss.

She hears a sound of surprise and she looks up, her eyes catching on Angie's who has a look of concern.

"You okay, English?" She says softly.

Peggy reaches up with the back of her hand and wipes the few tears that have fallen. She chuckles in disbelief. "Am I crying?"

Sam nods and then laughs, "You are indeed crying over peach pie. Damn." He shakes his head and then laughs again, "I gotta give that kid a raise."

She wipes again at her face and allows herself to laugh. Taking a sip of coffee to steady her nerves.

"Wow, I'm so sorry, how embarrassing."

"His baking will do that to you."

She finally remembers her task. "I think he's my neighbor."

"Oh, Steve?" Angie says easily, "Yeah, he's our baker extraordinaire. He's been working here for years, well I guess except the last—"

"Angie," Sam cuts in, his voice is light but there's a tone to it that Peggy catches, "Let's not bore this nice lady with our employee's work history."

"Oh!" Angie blushes, "Oh of course, sorry about that."

"I'm Maggie, by the way." Peggy offers. "I think since you've seen me cry over baked goods you can know my name."

They laugh but Angie frowns. "I don't know, Maggie doesn't suit you."

"Angie!"

"No offense, of course," she adds at Sam's warning, "I'm just saying you don't seem like a Maggie. I'm going to keep calling you English until I think of something better."

Before either can respond, the order up bell is being rung and she disappears quick as a flash.

"Sorry about her," Sam says, '"She's a bit of a wild card, but man no one can handle a grumpy customer or a wild toddler like her. And she's efficient, that's for sure."

Peggy nods and then leans forward. "When I ordered the peach pie, you said she won, what did that mean?"

"Well," Sam says, leaning his hip against the counter, moving out of the way for another server to pass. "Since Steve came back from a work break, we've made a bet to see which of his items will be ordered first. I don't know how Angie does it, but she guesses right 90% of the time, I'm convinced she's communing with the bakery gods." He laughs at his joke but then points to the peach pie. "You're actually not the first person to cry while eating something he's baked, can you believe that?"

Her eyes widen and he shakes his head. "Wow, you're lucky to have him."

His mouth pulls up in a sideways grin and he eyes her with a realization. "So you're the girl with the hallway guy."

She winces at the description but shrugs her shoulders. "That's me." She thinks quickly, if Sam is protective of Steve, for whatever reason she hasn't discovered yet, then being on his good side is vital. And to do that… she needs to seem vulnerable… So she looks at Sam and scrunches her nose, tapping her fork on her plate. "Did he tell you about the paint and the staring?"

His brow furrows and he shakes his head.

She allows the blush to color her cheeks, using the emotion she'd actually felt to add a ring of truth to her story. "Well, when I barged in on him that night, he was painting, shirtless I might add." She hears Sam snort but she continues, "when I saw him I must admit I openly stared, never having seen quite a sight like that." She lets out a soft giggle, and watches as Sam's eyes soften. Gotcha, she thinks. "Anyways, he was quite my knight in shining armor, scaring away the idiot banging on my door." She stabs a peach with her fork. "I tried to thank him later by giving him cookies, not knowing he was a baker. We've only talked a few times since, but he seems very nice." She ducks her head, pretending to be shy, "Do you have any tips on how to talk to a very handsome baker?"

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and smiles wide, rocking softly back and forth on his feet. "Well, to get to know one Steve Rogers, one has to get on Wanda's good side."

She doesn't react to finally hearing his last name. Phillips is going to be thrilled. "Oh I've noticed." She says with a sheepish grin, "I don't think she likes me very much."

Sam leans on the counter on his elbows, "Oh, so you've already met her? She can be a tough cookie to crack, her and Steve go way back, but if you show that you'll treat him right, you'll be golden." He looks pensive for a moment, "but truthfully, the best way to get to know Steve is to spend time with him."

"Is he… is he here?"

"Not right now."

"Oh, well, thank you for the advice, and the pie."

"Don't thank me," he says, walking back towards the kitchen with a wink, "thank Steve."

She drops some bills on the counter and then scoops the last bite of pie into her mouth. "I will make sure to do that." She smiles and heads out, eager to go tell her new information.

"Rogers." She says, smiling, "Steve Rogers."

"I can't believe we're an intelligence organization and we couldn't even figure out his name." Barton laments.

"It's not that." Phillips harrumphs and sits at his desk. "It's that this intel is so delicate that we were afraid any cyber snooping would be noticed by Barnes and keep him away. When we got the address and picture, we decided to do it the old fashioned way. Takes longer, but truthfully we usually end up with more information because it's shared openly."

Peggy nods, agreeing. "I've already given the name to the techs, however they've been instructed to be very careful with how they utilize the search engines. We don't want anyone tipped off if his name is searched a bunch of times."

"Exactly." Phillips says, eyeing a folder.

"Boring."

"Shut up, Clint. How's the Stark case?"

"Dead ends all over. But honestly, it seems purposeful. So I'm going to start pulling on all the dead ends and hope I find a loose thread."

"Any connection to him and Barnes?"

"Not yet."

"Carter!"

A voice she recognized as the tech she'd given Steve's name to rushes into the office.

"What is it?"

"I found some records I thought you should see."

The short guy with round spectacles has always been incredibly smart and quick at his job, but something about him always made her twitchy. "Thanks."

She takes the folders from him and opens to the first pages. Several school photos have been printed. And she sucks in a breath as she looks at them. She holds them up, showing the skinny sharp boned kid that matched the grainy photo they'd first received.

"It's him!" She studies his eyes and face and hair and suddenly she is sure that somehow the behemoth of a neighbor she has now used to be much shorter and thin as a whippet.

"How!" Clint exclaims, eyeing the photos. "I know I said late puberty but look, here's his senior class photo, he's 18 here, and he's what.. 23 now? There's just no way. No way he's grown this much in that short amount of time!"

Neither her or Phillips comment. She finishes a stack of enlistment papers with rejections on them, and then the last with a 1A. "He was in the military?" She says in disbelief.

"What?" Phillips bellows, snatching the enlistment form out of her hands.

He stares at it for a moment before leaning back in his chair. "Oh."

"What?" Clint asks, leaning forward.

"We need to go way deeper." He finally says, shuffling the papers. "If he's military then there's a record of him somewhere and I want it. And now—" he looks up, "Carter?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You need to be twice as careful. If he's military, we have no idea what his training or knowledge is. I don't want to lose one of my best agents because we weren't careful enough. Dismissed."

As Peggy leaves his office, two things are sure. One, Phillips just gave her a compliment that has her swelling with pride, and two, Steve Rogers is a mystery that she refuses to leave unsolved.