They stood at the the entrance to the train station.

It was a moment that Brooklyn had been dreading since her father had told her that he had no intention of coming home now. That he was going to leave her, again. That he still didn't feel like it was safe enough for her or her sister to be around them. Those precious moments they had together, here in Poland were what was going to have to keep her going until he either felt safe enough, or he gave up the fight in his own time, and returned to his family.

It was a depressing thought, on it's own.

She felt like she was starting to shake apart, under her skin. The weight of being alone again was enough to make her want to drop to her knees, and let herself give up to the crushing pressure of her father's expectations of her. Keep herself going. Keep herself safe. Keep her sister safe. All of it, too much. But she would rather jump out of the private jet she was scheduled to board in less than two hours, while in midair, rather than let her father down by admitting to it.

He stood, looking at her, a torn expression on his face, as he reached out to brush a strand of stray hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. The processed scent of quality leather almost overpowered his natural scent, even this close to him. She wanted nothing more than to rip off those gloves, and press her lips to his palm, soaking up his scent, his warmth, his touch, while begging him to never leave her. To give up this folly, and let her help him. Let her get him the help that he so obviously needed.
Surely Wilson would be able to help? Even if he personally wasn't up to the task, maybe he knew someone who would be willing to help a former World War Two vet turned brainwashed HYDRA asset? Surely there was someone who specialized in that sort of therapy?

Her fingers itched to reach for her phone, to blow her father's cover. Call Rogers, admit to everything, beg him to come to where she was, so that he could help her convince her Papa to not leave. It would be so easy, to give into him, and let him back in, just long enough to regain her father.

She had not been lying when she had told her father she was tired. That all she wanted was to sleep. She almost wished she knew how to run one of the tubes they used to shove them in. Maybe if she slept the time away, when she opened her eyes again, her father would be back to how he used to be. Maybe if she slept, Papa would be home, ready to be a family again.

But she couldn't. She couldn't protect Juliana that way. The child was too young to join her, in the cold sleep that she wished for. Even if her sister was, there was too much the child would miss out on, if the older sibling locked them away in an icy slumber for the years it would take for Papa to regain his sense of person. It wouldn't be fair of Brooklyn to selfishly steal those years from her, like they had been stolen from Brooklyn.

Despite how tempting it was.

Instead, she closed her eyes, and leaned into her father's touch, as tender as it had been when she was a child. Reaching up, she blindly touched her fingertips to his jaw, feeling it flex against her skin, before she slid them up to his face, cupping his cheek as much as he began to. She felt the press of his forehead against hers, as he heaved heavy breaths, which ended in a small hitch with each inhale. It was almost comforting to know this was as emotionally difficult for him as it was for her. Some small bitter part of her heart hoped it was hurting him, as much as it was shredding her apart inside. To know that he was going to feel the tear of his soul as much as she did. It was an uncharitable thought, but a satisfying one.

"I need you to promise me, that you will remain strong." He breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "I need you to, Brooklyn. Promise me. Please?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to deny him. To refuse. "Papa..."

"Baby Girl...." He took a deep breath. "I need you to do this. I need you to be strong. I need it, so that I can follow you home. Okay? Keep being my North Star? My beautiful, brave, strong Queen?"

The whine in the back of her throat was almost impossible to push back, to keep from escaping. She wanted to break, all over again. Why did he have to ask this of her? Hadn't she proven, time and time again, that she wasn't strong enough? How could he keep believing that she was able to carry the burdens he put on her? When would he realize that she was weak, through and through?

"You keep being strong, and when I come home, we'll be a family. I promise. You, Juliana, and me." He gave a half laugh. "Hell, we'll even have Steve join us. Maybe he'll be able to help me keep the boys away from you. And if Juliana grows up to be even half as beautiful as you, it'll be helpful to have another set of hands around to keep the boys from sneaking in and out. Shit, I bet he'd get a kick out of putting the fear of God into that Fucking Idiot Asshole of yours, if he doesn't step up and do right by you. Steve wouldn't be afraid to help me put the fucker in the ground. He's always been family, you know. He'd be so happy to know he's an uncle."

The lies, the lies, the lies... They began to form as tick in her throat as if she was trying to swallow thick crude oil. Black, sickening, toxic, they began to choke her.

"If you run into him, you make sure to keep him at a safe distance." He warned, his breathing slowly starting to even, his voice becoming firm, the order at the edge. "He'll fight you. He'll see it as his duty to make sure you and your sister are safe. But he'd be a huge spotlight, shining right down on you. You wait until I'm home, to bring him into the fold, okay? Arm's length, Baby Girl. No matter how much he begs. No matter how often the stubborn fool keeps coming around. You need to keep him just on the outside. Don't leave the door open for him, or else he's gonna sneak in. You hear me?"

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. The thick lies kept choking her, as well as the fact that it was too late for Papa's warnings. Rogers was already in the door. Hell, he'd already made himself at home. Despite her attempts otherwise, she had ended up opening the door, welcoming him in, inviting him to set up shop, and even opened not only her arms, but her legs, to him.

Where the hell was Papa's warnings in April? Maybe she wouldn't be in the fucking quagmire of a mess she was in now, if he had given it when he left the first time? If she had known, maybe she would have been able to protect herself better.

"I love you." He breathed, moving so he could press his lips to her forehead. "I love you, so much, Brooklyn. You are as deep in me, as the heart that beats in my chest."

She brought up her other hand, catching at the edge of his collar, her fingers curling around the fabric, digging her nails in. "I love you, Papa. You are the breath that gives me life."

"I am not leaving you behind." His voice grew rough, before he took a breath again, seeming to steady it, returning to the deep soothing voice of her childhood. "This is not goodbye. That is impossible, between the two of us. This is... this is a pause, in our lives. In our future. This is time for you to continue to grow, to learn, so you can be who I have always wanted you to be. This is the time for you to heal. From all of it. So that when I come home, all I see is starlight in your eyes. I need you to chase away all of those shadows, Baby Girl. For your poor Papa? Can you do that?"

"I can try." She whispered. "That's all I can promise. Just... come home soon, Papa. Please?"

"As soon as I am certain that I am not gonna hurt you or your sister, and that we are all safe, I will come home to you, my North Star." He pressed his lips harder to her forehead, before he pulled her in tighter, so that he could rest his chin on the top of her head. She turned her head, so she could press her ear to his chest, listening to the heartbeat she kept time to, like a metronome of flesh and blood. "Maybe you can go to Church, and light a candle for me? Maybe God will listen to you, on my behalf. Say a prayer for me."
"Papa..." She groaned, wanting to roll her eyes. "I don't believe in your God. You know that."

"I know." He chuckled. "But still, no harm in hedging our bets, right? Besides, how are you gonna stand in a church and get married, if you don't have just a little bit of belief?"

"I am not going to have a conversation about religion with you, right now, Papa." She sighed. "There's not enough time."

No, there wasn't enough time. If she thought for a moment that it would keep her Papa in one place, until she could either get the courage to let him go, or be strong enough to make the call to Rogers, then she would have spent hours debating religion and theology with him. Although, she would be the first to admit that both were subjects she was lacking knowledge in. But if it made him stay, she would learn.

"I would still like it if you would go in, maybe once or twice, and see if you can get a priest to say a blessing in my name." He whispered, like it was a secret. "Any little bit helps."

She sighed again, before nodding. "I'll try to remember."

"Also..." she felt his chin moving on her head, as he talked, the warmth from his arms around her. Slowly she slid her hands around his chest, holding on and soaking in everything about him. Committing it all to memory. The way his voice vibrated through his chest, deep and comforting. The sound of the air moving in his lungs. Even the little gurgles his body made which underscored everything. "Also... try to put me aside in your head, for the little while we are apart. You need to focus on you and your sister. We don't know how long this is gonna take me. I don't want to be the reason you keep yourself held back. Move forward, Baby Girl."

"I can wait until you're home, to move forward." She opened her eyes.

"That's just it." He tilted his head, and she could feel him burrowing his nose into her hair. "I don't want you to. I want you to move forward. Live your life. Live the life you deserve. That is all I have ever wanted for you."

"That's what I want for you, too." She took a deep breath, soaking in his scent.

"I'll get there, someday." He assured her, slowly starting to untangle himself from her. "But, for now, you have to let me go, Brooklyn."

"I know." She whispered, unclenching her hands from his clothing, letting them slide away from his body. "I know."

"We'll all be a family again, soon." He promised, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, cupping her face in his hands, before pressing their foreheads together. Taking a deep breath, he took a step back. "I need you to promise me to be strong, Brooklyn. Can you do that?"

She took a deep breath, and lied. "I can do that, Papa. I can be strong."

"That's my good Baby Girl." He praised, pressing another lingering kiss to her forehead, before dipping his head and kissing the apple of her cheek. "Now, come give your Papa a kiss, and wish me off. Just like when you were young, yeah? Right before I went off. A kiss for good luck, and to tide Papa over."

Like the obedient child she used to be, and still tried to be, she stood on her tip toes, wrapping her arms around her father's neck, pulling his head down far enough so she could press her lips to his smooth cheek. She had sat on the vanity of the bathroom this morning, leaning against the mirror, watching him as he ran the razor over his cheeks, removing the shaving cream, while he hummed. It had all seemed so normal.

But normal was a fairy tale, her Papa had told her, told to children by their parents.

Just like the fairy tale she told herself, that one day her Papa would come home, and everything would be alright. That a type of normal could be found for them. A normal that they could keep.

She pressed her lips to his cheek again, lingering, before he began to straighten, pulling away from her. She let him, sliding herself back onto the flat of her feet, while letting her arms slip slowly from around his neck.

He looked at her, his blue eyes a bit red around the edges, before he gave her one of his cocky half smiles. "See? There's my girl."

She pulled her arms around herself, before taking a deep steadying breath. She would not break, not in front of her father. There had been enough of that over the time they had spent together. He didn't deserve to know how weak she was, when he had been begging her to remain strong. She would not beg. She would not reach out to him, grasping on, trying to keep him with her.

She would not shame him, not like that. God knew, she had been doing enough of that already, by taking up with Rogers. By trying to keep his best friend under her. By trying to keep Rogers biddable and submissive to her.

She would not have him look back on this parting with regret, or any other feeling, than pride. She needed him to be proud of her, for being strong enough to let him go. Because maybe if she faked it long enough, maybe even she would believe it.

"Give your sister my love." He ordered, pointing at her, still keeping that smile on his face. "Remember how much I love you, Baby Girl. Keep shining for me. Show me the way home. And goddammit, Brooklyn, stop leaving your left side open!"

"Yes, Papa." She nodded shortly, still holding herself tight with her arms. "Be safe. I love you."

Her father reached up, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head, backing further away. "It'll go by fast, you'll see."

"I know." She dug her fingers into her sides. Lies, lies, lies, lies....

"Hey, maybe I'll be home by your next birthday." He suggested, as more space was put between them. "We'll go out to dinner, get you a proper birthday cake."

"That sounds wonderful." She raised her voice, so she could be heard over the rising sound of the crowd around them. She kept her eyes on his.

"I'll get Steve to bake you a chocolate cake. That boy can bake!" He stopped, his face and manner falling, before he slowly raised a hand, giving her a wave. "I love you, so much, Brooklyn. You're my home. Remember that."

She swallowed hard. "You're mine, too, Papa."

He seemed to be looking her over, and she gave him a smile, so she would leave him with a good memory, before he turned.

And just as suddenly as he had appeared back in her life, he was gone. A ghost among the shifting crowds.

Alone, she stood on the cement, suddenly chilled to the bone, looking into the crowd where he had been.

She pulled her hands away from her sides, bringing them up to her face, pressing them against her cheeks for a moment, feeling the heat on them, despite how much the chill was settling into her blood.

"Miss?" The driver of the private car spoke, and she turned to face him. He was standing besides the back door, waiting. "Are you ready to leave for the airport now?"

"Yes, thank you." She responded, taking a deep breath. She turned fully to go towards the car, freezing as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise. The full body shiver of awareness made her turn back to the train station, her eyes scanning the crowd, before letting the air out of her lungs.

Seeing no threat, no friend, no foe, she turned back to the car. The driver had the door open before she was even halfway there. Taking one more breath, she climbed into the backseat of the car, letting the driver shut it. She adjusted the coat on her, making herself a bit more comfortable, as the driver got back in, and began to drive. Turning her head, she looked out the window, swearing she saw her Papa, before she was driven away.

She told herself she imagined it.

She had to.

******************

Exhausted, she parked the car Kitty had arranged to be left for her at the airport. Looking out the window at the familiar yet strange sight of Carmine's bakery, she sighed. It almost seemed like it would be too much to leave the car and haul her sorry ass up the three flights of stairs to her silent apartment.

It was still early, yet. The bakery was open, but given the foot traffic at this time of day, the sidewalks were almost deserted. The cold, icy rain of January in New York was falling, sharp against the roof of the car, almost making it impossible to see out the windshield now that the wipers had been stopped.

Kitty was keeping Juliana another few days, so Brooklyn could get things in order. She had sent cleaners over, a couple of times while Brooklyn was absent from the building. The first time was to make sure that the food in the fridge was taken care of, as well as doing a quick upkeep clean and to turn the heat down to the minimal level for the winter season. The second, most recent, had been so that the apartment would be ready for Brooklyn's return. Food had been stocked, as well as the heat turned back up, so that Brooklyn would be returning to a warm apartment with enough food to last her until she could get herself to the store.

Pulling the key from the ignition, she sighed again as she opened the door, climbing out of the car. Going around to the back, she opened the trunk, pulling out the bags she had put there. The backpack was slung over her shoulder, while the small rolling suitcase was put on the ground, so she could pull out the telescoping handle, slamming the trunk closed with the hand holding her keys. She took a moment, juggling the car fob in her hand, while digging out the keys to the apartment doors out of the front pocket of the backpack, finally finding the key ring. She managed to hit the locking button on the fob, before stuffing that into the backpack for the time being, as she grabbed the handle of the suitcase and made her way over to the door that opened into the alley.

She managed to make it to the door, taking a moment to unlock the door and get through it, the suitcase knocking against her ankles in an annoying fashion, before she took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs.

She felt like she was climbing a mountain, the way it felt going up those stairs. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion, or maybe it was the physical. Or maybe it was the fact that she knew, going into that apartment, she was going to be faced with some tough choices.

Rogers things were still in her apartment. In her closet, in her dresser. His shaving kit was still in her bathroom. His running shoes were by the door, lined up with hers and her sister's. His jacket and hat were hanging on the coat rack. His boxes of files and papers were still tucked away in the corner of the the small dining area. His dirty clothes were still in the laundry basket. God knew what else he had hidden away in her apartment, but it was still going to be there, when she opened the door

Maybe she would get lucky, though. There was that hope. Maybe he had come by, or preferably, had someone else come by to get his things. She wouldn't have to deal with making a decision, then. Maybe he was going to make this easier on the both of them, and let her live her life without him.

Perhaps he was even going to feel relief, if she didn't fight him on it.

And amazingly, that was an extremely depressing thought.

She finally reached her floor, sighing heavily as she walked the distance to her apartment door, suddenly fighting with the keys to make sure the key to the door was ready. She had an inexplicable urge to throw everything to the floor and scream. Pausing, she let go of the suitcase, to reach up and rub at her tired eyes.

It just had to be the exhaustion. The flight from Poland had been long, and full of turbulence. Despite her years of being able to fall asleep no matter what, she had found it impossible to do anything more than doze during the flight. Even during the short stop in London to refuel the jet, she had not been able to take anything more than a light cat nap. The ghostly rememberings of the turbulence had still been shaking her body, and every time she felt like she was just about to drop off, she jerked awake.

And it wasn't just the turbulence that had been keeping her awake. It was the past few days with her father. Getting a lot of her feelings off her chest had felt both good and disgusting. Like she had been piling things onto her father, when he already had so much to deal with already. His back and forth had been confusing. One moment he seemed fully with her, clear and present, the next he was fuming about past slights and making up crazy conspiracy theories that would have been amazingly insane, if it weren't for the fact that some of them held a grain of truth.

He had accused her of working with Rogers to find him. And he was right, up until the moment Banner had told them about her pheromones. Until that moment, before Brooklyn's view of her world was shattered, he would have been correct. She had been working with Rogers, or at least, assisting him, in finding her father. Not for any of the wild reason he had thrown out. Rogers wasn't looking to bring him to justice, or to imprison him. Rogers wanted to help his friend regain his life, his freedom. His mind.

And yes, maybe she had been trying to handle him, just a little. She had wanted to see if maybe, if she pushed just right, Papa would be amendable to letting Rogers find him. Maybe he would be willing to come around, so that it would be easier to find him, and bring him home.

It had hurt, also, to hear Papa making plans for a future that involved Rogers. With all the warnings, and his being very vocal on the subject of a possible relationship between her and Rogers, she was well aware of the fact that unless they got their stories straight enough to either be able to laugh it off, or fake that they were just friends, Papa would eventually find out that she had been fooling around with Rogers. And given just how Papa felt about that subject, Rogers might need to make himself scarce for a few years.

Just until Papa cooled off. And only because Papa had been known to hold a grudge for decades.

But maybe she was over thinking everything. It was quite possible Rogers was already free of the effects of her pheromones. He had been giving her a logical, rational, almost well thought out argument, a few days ago on the phone. He almost seemed like he was back to the fabled military mastermind that she had heard about growing up. It was quite possible that all his claims of not wanting to lose her, were simply because he recognized their folly, and just wanted her back as a friend. That his claims of wanting to be family were just that of a man looking to be a semi-father figure to a pair of girls belonging to his old war buddy.

And anything she might have mistaken as a flirting tone, or a dirty innuendo, was simply her own imagination, brought on and fueled by the fact that she was dealing with her own broken heart. It was only the frantic grasping of straws, of her still yearning heart. The reality was most likely that she was deluding herself. Building up meaning behind his words in her head, even though they had been innocent in his intent.

Taking a deep steadying breath, she opened her eyes and wrapped her hand around the handle of the suitcase again, taking the steps to get to the door of the apartment. With memory she wasn't aware of in her muscles, she slipped the key into the lock and then opened the door. Slipping in the door, she sighed, as she shut the door behind her, locking it, before leaving the suitcase where it was. She went over, bending down to work off the boots from her feet, not bothering to line them up. Her coat and hat were tossed towards the rack, and if they fell to the floor,she didn't bother with picking them up again.

She tossed her keys towards the kitchen counter, hearing the sharp metallic slap and clatter that indicated they had landed, but other than that she didn't give them another thought. She shifted the strap of the backpack on her shoulder, frowning, as she looked around the apartment.

Rogers had not had anything picked up.

His stack of boxes, stuffed with Avenger secrets, were still in the corner of the dining area. His coat and hat were still on the rack, his shoes still lined up along the wall of the entry way. Underlying the scent of lemons left by the chemicals the cleaners had used, was the deep earthy scent of Steve Rogers.

She felt a sharp stabbing pain in her chest, as she inhaled. She could still smell him, even now. It wasn't fresh, by any means. The primal scent of him, that still called to her, was muted, stale. As she moved towards the hall which lead to the bedrooms and bathroom, she paused by the couch. It was almost stronger there. Most likely from the nights he had spent sitting there, watching the news and the various shows he had enjoyed, while she was finishing her homework or out. It was like he was permanently imprinted into the fabric. She would have to find away to get it out, or she was going to be looking at having to replace it. At the very least, the scent was a reminder of what she was never really going to have again. At worst, it might be one of the things that would snap the already thin threads of her sanity. If that was just her couch, she couldn't imagine how much her bed still smelled of him.

Worried now, she hurried to the bedroom, and before she even took a full step into the area, she knew she was going to have to replace her bed. She was almost smacked in the face with the scent of Rogers. It wasn't just the bed, she realized. It was the clothes in the laundry basket, soaked in his scent and sweat and skin and everything that was Steve. Like she had been smacked in the face with a shovel shaped in him, she felt her knees go weak.

Eyes going blurry, tears forming, she let the backpack slide off her shoulder, before she almost stumbled to the bed. Crawling on it, she burrowed herself under the covers and sheets. They had been changed and washed, but under it, through the mattress and the pillows, every move she made brought waves of scent up to her. It was mixed with her own personal scent, and the scent of them together. The scent of their sex, which almost seemed more hurtful than any torture she had ever grit her teeth against while in HYDRA.

Despite it, since she was apparently a glutton for punishment, she reached out and tucked his pillow against her chest, burrowing her face in it, inhaling his scent in greedy gasps.

And with that, the dam broke.

All the pain she had been feeling for almost two weeks flooded out of her. If she had been near tears before, she was now squarely dropped in the middle of her grief. Like an atomic bomb set off in her chest, all the pain, grief, rage, self-hatred, and self-disgust rose up, and evaporated everything else. Gasping, choking sobs rose in her throat. Her squeezed eyes, usually such an effective method from keeping tears at bay, proved weak, as first a trickle, then a deluge of water dropped from her cheeks, soaking the fabric under her face.

It was all too much.

Her father.
Rogers.

Even her own actions.

It was all too much to hold on to. She was breaking apart, shaking apart, blowing apart, at the seams. Deep well of emotions, seeming as deep as the deepest part of the ocean, where she had been shoving things for decades, now seemed full to the top. Everything rising at once, as if the bedrock hidden deep underneath was suddenly shifting, pushing everything out of its way. It began to flood through her, as thick and toxic as the black crude of her lies to her father. Running through her veins as deadly and painful as the most effective poison HYDRA had ever made.

Curling her body around the pillow she was holding onto tight, her face buried so deep she was sure if she really paid attention she would be able to smother herself, she let it go, let it flow through her, let it seep through her pores and her tears. The fabric under her face was soon soaked through, but she still wasn't done.

Her body ached, physically ached to be held. Either by Rogers or her father, she wasn't sure. And she didn't care. A deep lingering soreness, like bruises hidden under her skin, her muscles ached and throbbed. Despite the warmth that she logically knew flooded the room, she was sure if she was able to clear her vision, she would see her breath making clouds in the air. Cold, that bone shattering cold, was nipping at her fingers and toes. Imagined or real, it added to the ache she was feeling. Racking waves of shudders hit her, almost mimicking the waves of animalistic sounds she was a making.

The ice was forming in her veins. It had to be. Little sharp particles of ice, flowing through her, punching through her blood vessels, making her start to bleed, internally. Soon they would be big enough to shred her organs, and death would be sure to follow. Not even she would be able to heal from that,right? As the ice continued to form, it would even splinter her bones. They would find her on this bed, still clutching Rogers' pillow, a skin bag full of blood, shredded organs, and microscopic bone shards.

Maybe Banner would be able to do a study of it. He could title it, 'A study of the physical grief of the second generation Super Soldier'. he could go on tours and give lectures.

The absurd though almost made her snort. Or, rather, she would have, if she could breath through her stuffed up nose.

In the end, it wasn't an end to the physical effects of the emotions that made her stop. It wasn't even a cessation of the emotions themselves.

Her body, simply too tired from the events of the past few days as well as the travelling and lack of sleep, simply shut down. Her brain followed.

Surrounded in what used to be one of the most comforting scents in her memory, in a bed that was now a funerary pyre to a love affair that wasn't real, her hair still scented of her father, Brooklyn Barnes fell into the black pit of sleep. Its long black fingers rose up, covering her sight, and between one gasping, choking sob and the next, it pulled her under into the darkness, where maybe she would find a moment of peace, before reality returned with her next bout of consciousness.

*************

The sound of her phone ringing woke her. Her body felt refreshed. But the depression of her emotions and the roiling of her confused mind still made her feel like gravity was pulling her to the ground. It was almost painful to move, to let go of the pillow that was still wet under her cheek, but still reeked of Rogers. But she forced her fingers to let go of the fabric, to push it away from her body, feeling the tearing at her as she removed the scent of him from her body. Unwinding herself from the tangled sheets and blankets, she stretched her socked feet to the floor, pressing first her toes, then the rest of her feet to the ground, hauling herself up with almost super human effort.

She wavered on her feet for a moment, not sure her legs would support her, before her balance equalized out. Wrapping her arms around herself, she shivered as she went over to the backpack on the floor by the door. Bending down, feeling an ache in her back, she picked up the backpack, bringing it over to the bed, where she sat down, before digging through the pockets, not sure where she had put her phone. It had been fully charged when they had touched down in New York. Kitty had been the only person she had called. And that was just to let the older woman know she was back,to get the information on where the car was, and to make arrangements for Juliana to stay with the Marino's for the rest of the weekend.

The phone had stopped ringing, by the time she pulled it out of the bag. Sighing, she pressed the button to light up the screen, frowning when the first missed call she saw was from Momo. She ignored the ones from Rogers, as well as his texts, hitting the return call before holding the phone up to her ear.

It rang for a moment before a relieved sounding Momo answered.

"Oh, God. Thank you, Queenie." The bouncer at Tassels sounded hassled.

"What's up, Mo'?" She asked, bringing her leg up to wrap an arm around it, mostly for warmth.

"Most of the girls have called out. Stomach flu." He sighed. "I hate to ask. I know you are out of the game. But I was really hoping you would be willing to come and fill in tonight. I've got permission from management to offer a two hundred bonus, just for coming in tonight. Plus matching tips, if less than five hundred. Three dances? Please? Help an old friend out?"

She sighed, reaching up to rub her forehead. "Tonight?"

"Tonight." Momo confirmed. "I know your man doesn't like it... but maybe he would be willing to look the other way, just this once? I'm in a huge bind. I've got two scheduled VIP parties, and only three dancers, and one waitress. As it is, all the dancers are gonna have to work the floor. And I don't know what I am gonna do about private dances, tonight."

"So, what? Three dances, and working the floor?" She asked, still rubbing her forehead. "Is that what you are asking?"

"Please? You would be a life saver." He really did sound stressed. "I might make it through the night, if you came out and helped. You were always a crowd favorite."

"I don't even know what time it is." She admitted. "And my nails look like shit. I haven't waxed in weeks..."

"I'll call the salon, get you in right away. All you have to do is walk in." Momo promised. "Plus, I'll even give you money out of my own pocket. Just... can you convince him to be okay with it?"

"We aren't together, anymore." Brooklyn sighed, feeling the sharp pain in her chest. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Rogers wasn't there to stop her. He wasn't going to care, anyhow. If he was free of her pheromones, there would be no reason for him to be worried about it, if she went back to dancing. The money had always been good. And tonight, the physical activities might help her calm down, before she tried to sleep again. As well as the pure exhaustion from being on her feet in heels for hours on end. At the very least, she might relax her body enough to be able to push away the feelings still nipping at her heels. And there was something to be said to be able to shut herself down long enough to entertain strangers while they panted after her on stage. "What time do you need me there?"

"Can you be here by seven? The first VIP party should be rolling up in here around eight. That should be more than enough time for you to be ready to work the VIP area." Momo sounded so relieved. "I'll call the salon, make the arrangements. Don't worry about paying for it. The club will pick up the tab. I promise."

"Fine." She sighed. "Lemme take a shower, and I'll get myself to the salon. I'll see you around seven, Momo."

"An absolute fucking mother fucking life saver, Queenie!" Momo cried, clearly feeling victorious. "I'll post the info online. Let the people know Queenie is going back on stage. The crowd will be so thick, they will be raining bills at you!"

"Yeah, yeah." She grumbled. "I'm only doing this cause you are in a tight spot, Momo."

"I know. That still doesn't mean I cant be thankful." he told her, laughing, before saying his goodbye and hanging up.

"Goddammit." She sighed, dropping the phone onto the bed beside her. She really shouldn't be doing this. She had too much to do, around here, really. She needed to figure out how she was going to pack up Rogers' things and arrange for them to be delivered to the Tower. Then again, maybe she was being presumptive. Maybe he was just walking away from his things here. Too many memories of a time when he lost his head because of a chemical reaction she had created.

"Fuck it." She nodded, swinging her legs back over the side of the bed. "First day of the rest of your life, and all of that, right?"

At the very least, the work at the club would be a welcome distraction from the shit her life had become. It would also give her a few hours where she could shut off her brain. The worst thing that could happen tonight was that she might get groped, or propositioned. Which, in reality, might be the best thing.

What was that saying that the girls used to say in the dressing room? The best way to get over a man was to get under another one? Who knew? Maybe one of the VIP's would catch her interest. If the pheromones were something she couldn't avoid, maybe she should learn to use them in her own best interest. If they had brought Rogers into her life, maybe the could be used to help her get over him.

She stood over the bed, digging through the backpack, taking the time to toss the dirty clothes into the laundry basket. Maybe the combined scent of herself and her father would help suppress the scent of Rogers coming out of the basket. All of that, and perhaps the smells of the small villages she had been tromping around for the past week and some change, complete with some of them not having adequate sanitation, would help keep that part of the ghost buried.

Her hands pulled out a rolled up shirt, ready to toss it into the laundry basket, when she paused, feeling the hard thing in the middle. Realizing what it was, she unrolled the shirt, taking out the sunglasses case she had stolen from Wilson. Lifting the lid, she moved aside the cotton she had also stolen from him, picking it out of one of the pillows in the spare bedroom, picking up the two syringes.

The suppressors.

Rolling the syringes in her hand she sighed, looking down at them. They caught the weak light coming in from the window, and she paused, before cursing, turning and going to the kitchen, flipping on the overhead light. She held first one, then the second syringe to the light, before setting them down. The liquids inside had gone cloudy. That couldn't have been a good sign. While she was certain that they wouldn't kill her, if she injected them, the effectiveness of them was probably now, undoubtedly, called into question. Picking them up, she pulled off the caps, and turning to the kitchen sink, she hit the plungers, pushing the liquid out, into the sink. Utterly disgusted with herself for not thinking about how maybe, just maybe, the syringes should have been kept properly refrigerated, she put the caps back on, before setting them on the counter.

It was a minor setback, if she needed to use the suppressors. While she had sent over a fair amount of the suppressors to Banner to play with, she had been smart enough to keep some for herself. It was currently being stored in the back of Kitty's wine cellar. The cool temperatures of the refrigerated unit portion of the cellar, where Kitty liked to keep her ready to drink sparkling wines and crisp whites, was perfect for storing hormone and mood altering chemicals. The thought process had been, in case of her deciding to use it, having some as her own personal back up was a smart thing to do. Kitty had been a bit concerned about it, but when Brooklyn had explained her thought process, the older woman had conceded. Women taking control of their own lives was a championed theme of Kitty's, after all.

Besides, it wasn't like the short trip to Malba was that hard to make, should she decide to dose herself.

Shaking her head, she turned away, deciding to jump in the shower and get herself down to the salon. The more time between waxing and having to climb a pole, the better.

************

On the way up the stairs, after her trip to the salon, she stopped by the recycling bin, looking through it for clean boxes to pack Rogers' stuff into. She had a lot of time to think, while getting her nails done and through the waxing. There was no point in putting it off, she had decided. She figured, one way or another, getting Rogers' things out of the apartment would be therapeutic. It wouldn't be a constant reminder of how badly she had misstepped with him.

Besides, there might be things that he had a sentimental attachment to. As well as the boxes of super secret Avengers info, currently sitting in the small dining nook. He might need some of that, to chase down the leads for Loki's Scepter. And the last of HYDRA. She would hate to have something happen to him and his team, if that information was not made available, should he need it.

And it was also better to do it, and get it out, before Juliana came home. The last thing she needed was a major break down from her sister, watching her pack up Rogers' belongings. It would be hard enough to make the little girl understand that Rogers would not be a live-in fixture anymore. After all, if adult relationships were difficult for Brooklyn to understand, and she was the one living them, she didn't know how Juliana would understand.

With that goal in mind, and with hours on her hands before she had to get ready to leave for the club, she hauled the broken down boxes salvaged from the recycling up the stairs. Once inside, she took a moment to consider the plan of attack. It seemed the smartest to start in the living room, and work her way to the bedroom. Less movement, more packing. With that in mind, she refolded the boxes into their usable state, chasing down a roll of duct tape from under the sink, since Rogers had insisted it was important to have on hand. He had basically bought a roll for a small project in Juliana's room, until the super could be called in to fix it. Once he had been done with it, it went under the sink, ready to be called into action the next time something needed to be temporarily patched up.

Now, she ripped and tore strips off, taping up the bottoms of the boxes, before setting it aside as she loaded up his shoes, his coat, his hat, before dragging the box behind her, as she found various debris from his brief inhabitation of her apartment.

It didn't take long, really.

The box with things from the living room also was used to place his shaving kit, his shampoo and personal items from the bathroom in.

Then, with two empty boxes dragging behind her, she tackled the bedroom. She would have been lying if she said she was being careful in how she packed his items. Mostly, if she grabbed something, and it was identified as Rogers', she threw it in the box. Opening dresser drawers, she grabbed handfuls of clothing, throwing them into the box, focusing on the motions, rather then how his scent punched her in the stomach every time she inhaled. If she cut herself off from her emotions, it made the job easier.

A singular talent, really. Papa had said it was important to shut things off, when unpleasant thing were happening. A odd thing to teach a child, she now knew, but considering her childhood, a useful one. And now it served her well. If she pretended it was a life or death mission, and if she broke down, it would be the end of her, she was able to power through it.

It worked long enough for her to empty out his drawers, and grab the clothing he had hung in the closet. She didn't even bother removing things from the hangers. She just stuffed them into the box.

It was when she realized she had to empty out his side of the bed, his night stand, that she ran into a small glitch. Rogers liked to keep his small, personal items in there. Things that she felt would be disrespectful if she just dumped them into a larger box, to either be lost or ruined.

Sighing, she went over to the closet, digging out a pair of shoes in a box still, placing the never worn heels onto the floor of the closet, before taking the box over to the night stand. Opening the drawer, she inhaled, before sitting down on the bed heavily. This one was a bit more difficult to cut herself off from.

Small personal items turned out to be things that had, at the time, meant the most to him, it appeared. It went beyond the random folded bills of money and the small tray he tossed spare change into at the end of the night.

A folded piece of paper turned out to be a picture Juliana had drawn for him at school, showing off how the little girl associated Rogers with being a member of the family. The box that held the pocket watch Brooklyn had given him as a Christmas present, less than a month ago. The empty box that would hold the wrist watch she had spent so much time tracking down. The playbill from Juliana's Christmas concert. The business card for a jeweller up-town. The small bottle of cologne Brooklyn had put into his stocking. The pair of panties he had confiscated, before she had even gotten to wear them, from the night of their first date. A hair tie, from either Brooklyn or Juliana, she wasn't sure which. The behavior sheet from Juliana's class, marked November, where her sister had gotten a gold star, every day. One of those little plastic clamshell balls from the grocery store thing, the ones in the front, with a small toy inside. One of Juliana's small plastic ponies, one the little girl had insisted that Rogers keep, so he always had a friend when he went away.

Items that Rogers had deemed so important he had squirreled them away for safe keeping.

Taking a deep breath, and pushing away the urge to cry again, she began picking up everything and putting it into the shoe box. All of it, with the exception of the panties. It seemed distasteful to send a pair of panties for him to keep, even if she never intended to ever wear them, now. Those were tossed towards her side of the bed, so she could throw them away, the next time she was in the kitchen. The rest of it she left up to Rogers to decide if he wanted to keep or toss. Before she put the lid on the box, she stood up, and went over to her jewellery box. Opening the lid, she let herself feel the pain of what she was about to do.

She wanted to keep it. The necklace Rogers had crafted for her. She really, really did. She wanted to keep it as a small reminder of how, for a moment in her life, there had been the chance, the taste, of a future with him.

But if she was going to keep him as a friend, she needed to make sure he knew she wasn't holding back. That she wasn't going to hold on to something that never should have happened. So, with an aching heart, she lifted the necklace out of the cushioned box she had been keeping it in when she wasn't wearing it, and rubbing her hands over the embedded jewels, she carried it back to the bed, before letting it fall from her fingers into the shoe box, watching as it disappeared into the miscellaneous items Rogers had collected. Then she put the lid on the box, and after grabbing it and the books and magazines he had kept on top of the nightstand, she put the whole lot of it in the bigger box holding his clothes. The last item to go in was the power cord for his phone, which she had to twist her body to detach from the outlet in the wall. Giving one last look around the room, satisfied she had packed everything away, she dragged the boxes out of the bedroom, and back into the living room, taking the time to snag the panties off the bed.

After sealing up the boxes, she stared at them, frowning.

Now, how the hell did she get them to Rogers?

It would be so satisfying, in a petty fuck you how dare you break my heart, sort of way, to pack them up into her car, and shove them out at a high speed right outside the Tower. But it seemed like that would be something he would frown at. To uncivilized. Rude. That sort of thing. Also, a bit dramatic and eye catching. She would attract attention, if she did that. Besides, it really wasn't his fault that things had gone down the way they did. So there was no reason to be a bitch about it, she figured.

So, she pulled out her phone and began to look for couriers that did same day deliveries.

It took talking to a few of them before one was willing to work with her. They didn't ask any questions, not what was in the boxes, or why they needed to be delivered to Captain Rogers at the Avengers Tower. They simply asked for cash, and a time. Granted, the amount of cash they asked for was a bit more than she was willing to pay, up front. When they suggested a Cash On Delivery option, with a small fee for pickup, she had agreed. It satisfied her petty nature, to have Rogers have to come down from his Tower to pay some grungy courier to pick up his things. And considering the only thing of monetary value was the necklace, it would be a small thing if things got damaged in transit.

Besides, he had been the one to always insist on paying for everything, in their brief relationship. Might as well take him up on the offer, if only for the last time.

Making the arrangements for the pickup of the boxes, she looked around the apartment, before climbing to her feet. Brushing off the seat of her pants, she nodded, ignoring the ripping pain inside her that was now becoming a familiar companion.

There was more than enough time to start getting ready to go to the club, before the courier arrived. She had to repack her club bag, after all. It had been too long since she had used it. She also wanted to make sure that the banker bag was still where she had left it, the last night she had brought it home. Rogers had been moving things around the bedroom, the last few weeks of his stay, trying to make both of their things fit into the limited space.

Well, that wouldn't be a problem anymore. Her bedroom was hers again.

At least, until she learned to share it with someone new.

***************

She was sitting in the dressing room, drinking a bottle of water, hours later. Despite the fact that the work wasn't hard, she felt drained. Almost as soon as she had walked in, Momo had ushered her up to the VIP area. The first party had arrived early, and despite being told they were short handed, had insisted on being seated. Connie, or Candy, as was her stage name, had been run off her feet attending them, and the main floor, which was a little more packed than Momo would like, considering how short they were on staff. She had been running up and down the stairs most of her shift, taking drinks up and bringing empty glasses down, as well as fistfuls of cash. For all that she was dodging the hands and remarks of the VIPs, she was going to make off like a bandit tonight. Her first dance had been profitable, as far as she was able to tell without taking the time to actually count it.

And she had been right. There had been something comforting in being able to shut off her brain and move to the music. She had a slight hitch of hesitation, when it had come time to actually remove her clothing, the reminder that as soon as she bared her skin to the crowd, Rogers would no longer be the last man to have ever seen her naked, but she powered through it, and guessing from the crowd's reaction, no one had noticed.

So, now she was sitting with her shoes off, and her feet off, taking a break.

The boxes had been picked up and sent off to the Tower, and she was back where she most likely belonged.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror before her, she toasted herself with the water bottle. "Well done, Queenie. You're back on the pole. You're your own woman again. No pesky Fucking Idiot Asshole standing in between you and your money. Congrats!"

Not that Rogers had ever objected to her making money. Just the methods of how she did it.

She was honest enough with herself about that.

She picked up her phone to check the time, making sure she had enough to finish her water before she had to change and get back out on the floor, before she had her second dance of the night. The crowd had more than doubled since her first dance, and she anticipated making more as soon as she stepped on the stage. Say what you wanted about being short handed, when it was a cash and tip business, those that were the ones working made more money.

It was as she was checking the time, that the phone rang, the ID informing her it was the Fucking Idiot Asshole calling. She figured she might as well answer it, if only to make sure his boxes had made it to him safely. At the very least, to make sure the top secret Avenger boxes were safe.

"Rogers." She answered the phone, tucking it between her ear and her shoulder.

"What the fuck, Brooklyn?" He hissed, clearly agitated. "Why the hell did you send my shit to the Tower?"

She frowned, looking at herself in the mirror. "I figured you would want your things. I mean, I guess I was also trying to make this whole thing easier on the both of us. Although, I am a bit confused about why you didn't think to have someone come pick it up, while I was gone."

"Maybe because I didn't think I needed to." He hissed, anger coloring his voice. "And what the fuck do you mean, 'make this easier on the both of us'?"

"Well," She sighed, taking a deep breath. He really was an idiot. She was apparently going to have to spell it out for him. In big words. Written in crayon. "I figured, since this whole thing was a mistake, it would be easier if we just... I don't know... pretended it never happened? So I sent your things to the Tower. I mean, I guess if it wasn't that important to you... I'm sorry?"

"Not important." He gave a half laugh, one clearly not from amusement. "What the hell gave you that idea? I seem to remember, the last time we talked, I told you I still wanted you. That we belonged together. Instead, I come back from a mission, to find out that you sent my things from the apartment. That you have apparently summarily kicked me out of our home. So, again I ask, what the fuck?"

"Let's be honest, Rogers." She sighed, pushing the pain away, ignoring the way her heart leapt when he said 'our home'. There was no more 'our home'. There never would be. "This whole thing between us was a mistake. It never should have happened. It would be better if we just... kept our distance from each other. In fact, I was shocked as shit to find out you didn't send someone over, already. I expected to find your things gone, when I came home."

"When you came... are you telling me, that you are already back in New York?" Shock was now the flavor of his voice. "When did you get back?"

"This morning." She answered, shifting the phone so she could take a drink of her water, her mouth going dry. "I just want you to know that I have no intention of coming between yours and Juliana's relationship. I know you love my sister, and she loves you. And for all the issues between us, I know you wont hurt her. So... yeah."

"All of the issues..." He seemed still in shock. "The only issue I see that we apparently have, is that you don't understand what I have been telling you for this entire time. I don't care about any of the shit. I don't care about your pheromones. Alright? I don't want space between us. I don't... goddammit, Babydoll, are you trying to kill me?"

"No." She frowned again. "Of course not. Look, I know that everything that happened was my fault. I know it. I mean, I seduced you. Intentionally or not. And I know that... I know your morals are telling you that... I guess since I was a virgin, you might feel a sense of... well, I just want you to know that I wont hold all of that against you. In the future... Look, Rogers, I just don't see how this is can work, between us. Not with what I know now."

Not with the knowledge that Papa would lose his literal shit, if she took back up with Rogers. Not now that she knew what she did about her mother. Not when she had been the one controlling Rogers, even if she hadn't known at the time that she was doing it.

"I swear to God, if I ever get a chance to smack Bruce around, I'm taking it." Rogers swore, his voice hard. "I told you, I don't give a flying fuck about any of that. I belong to you. Clear and simple. I'm yours, Babydoll. You don't get to walk away from that. Not now. Not when I know what it's like to be owned by you."

"But I never did." She closed her eyes, refusing to cry right now. "I never owned you. Not really. Okay? I tried to grab for something that was never meant for me. Someone that never should have been mine. That's the truth of the matter. You were never mine. And leave Banner alone. It's not his fault."

"It's his fault that he told you, the way he did. Goddammit, if I could go back in time, and fix that damned morning, I would. In a heartbeat. Maybe then..." He groaned. "Look, I feel like this is the worst conversation to be having on the phone. Let me come by the apartment, and we can discuss this, face to face. I feel like we are both too disconnected, right now. Like we are talking about two different things, and neither one is making sense."

"Did Banner fix the pheromone issue?" She asked, dropping her feet to the floor, her heart pounding a little harder. "Are you immune?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Rogers answered. "Of course."

She narrowed her eyes at herself, slightly disgusted at him. "Don't you fucking lie to me, Rogers. Not about this."
"Look," he sighed, a groan in his voice. "I told you, I don't care. I never did. It doesn't matter. Not when I am... not when the risk is that I lose you."

"How the hell can you say it doesn't matter?" She snapped. "If you found out that... I don't know... Nat was being controlled by some person with pheromones, and that she had been... sleeping with them... would you still feel the same way? Knowing that those pheromones maybe negated her ability to consent? Would you still feel the same way, and say, eh, it doesn't matter? C'mon, Rogers!"

"You're right." He agreed. "I would maybe have a few things to say about that. But!" And he almost sounded triumphant with this. "The biggest difference is I wanted you, before your pheromones kicked back online, Babydoll. I wanted you, from the moment I saw you. I chased you, the moment I realized I had nothing holding me back from you. I was willing to wait, no matter how long it took, until you were able to respond to me. So, yeah. It doesn't matter. Not when what we have between us is what it is."

"We have nothing but lies and manipulation." She whispered, suddenly exhausted with this conversation. Her heart just didn't feel like it could take anymore. "Its been almost two weeks. You're almost clean. Why the hell would you walk right back into that toxic environment?"

"Because it's not." He insisted. "Look, I'll come over. We can... we can hash this out."

"Don't bother." She closed her eyes, tipping her head back. "I'm not at the apartment."

And she wasn't sure she would be able to handle having him leave his fresh scent in the apartment. It was bad enough, having to deal with the stale scent. Despite what he wanted, this wasn't going to work. Even being in love with him, she had to be strong enough to cut him loose. He may not believe it was the best thing for him, but she knew that if she didn't, one day Banner would manage to make it possible for her pheromones to no longer be an issue. And on that day, Rogers would wake up from whatever bullshit his brain was going through, and wonder how the hell he had gotten in so deep. By that time, she would be so deep, that the loss of him would most likely finally kill her.

How ironic, in a way, really. HYDRA had always warned her that Captain America would be her greatest nemesis. That he would have the power to destroy her. And they were right. Steve Rogers would be the death of her, if she didn't stay strong now, and protect herself.

"Where are you, then?" He almost crooned. The soft, loving voice he used when she was pushed to the edge, and he felt like he had to pull her back. "Tell me where you are, Babydoll. I'll come to you, even if it's a public place. We can talk it out there. That should make you feel safer about it, right?"

"Even if I wanted to, it's not a good place." She snorted. "I'm working, right now."

"Working?" He sounded confused. "The Russians are no longer a problem, you said. Marino said it was all over. There would be no longer a need for you to go out at night."

"Jesus, you are a dumb fuck." She groaned. "I'm at the club. They were short handed tonight. Stomach flu. A lot of the girls are out. So Momo called me up, asked for a personal favor."

"Okay, I'm sure Momo wouldn't mind if I borrowed one of his waitresses for a bit, so we can talk." Rogers didn't sound too happy, but there was hopefulness in his voice.

"Yeah, not just waitressing, Rogers." She rolled her eyes, leaning back to prop her feet back up on the dressing table. The heels were killing her tonight. Although, the ache was a relief compared to the constant companion of pain in her chest. "I'm due back on the stage in about thirty minutes."

"The stage..." His voice changed. It was hard, commanding. "Are you dancing, tonight?"

"Yeah." She shook her head. God he was an idiot. "What part of, a lot of the girls are out do you not understand? I'm personally handling the VIP party, as well as putting in time on the stage. So, you see? Can't steal me from the club, Rogers. You are just gonna have to wait until I have time for you."

Which would be never, if she could manage it. I have to be cruel to be kind, she reminded herself. No time like the present, really.

"We are also short lap dancers." She decided to sharpen the knife. Best to make the show a good one, and to be convincing. "I might have to take on one or two of the private rooms tonight. At least I'll get paid well, right?"

"Babydoll, I don't think this is a game you want to play with me." His voice was low and even. Maybe even a little darker than she was used to.

Whatever. What the hell was Rogers really going to do?

"Please." She scoffed. "Who's playing games. This is my life, Rogers. This is how I chose to live it. And since I don't answer to you, anymore, I will live it how I want to. You don't like it? Go find a girl who will roll over for you. Maybe she can be your Babydoll. Because I can't, not anymore."

She hung up, taking a shuddering breath as she set the phone down.

God, that had hurt. More than she had anticipated.

She sighed, rolling her head on her shoulders, before she put her feet back down, reaching for her shoes. Well, best to get back to work.

She did another round of the floor, as well as the VIP lounge, making sure everyone was well lubricated, before she went back to the dressing room to change for her next set. She hadn't chosen her songs for the night, relying on the DJ to pick appropriate songs. The DJ, in a fit of humor, had decided to play up her innocent and youthful looks. The first song had been some sickeningly sweet pop song about first love, and the second was a mash up of two Britney Spears songs that had been popular about ten or so years ago. So, when she had gotten the text about her songs, she had chosen an appropriate outfit for the songs. She slid on the plaid skirt that barely covered her ass, snapping up fasteners up the side designed for an easy tear away, before changing her bra and shirt. The white shirt was tight, tight enough that the black bra she had on showed through the thin fabric. She didn't bother buttoning it, just tying it under her breasts. From there, it didn't take long to tie her hair up into high pony tails on her head, making sure to add some fluffy pom pom things to add to the girlish look, before sitting down to pull on the skin colored knee pads, and putting on her dancing shoes.

Dancers were particular about their shoes, she had learned not long after her first time dancing. The rule of thumb was, spend more on your shoes, or you performance suffered. The idea was to find the perfect match of height and support that made your performance look effortless. A shoe that would help you grip the pole, without slipping.

It also helped if that shoe made your ass look great too.

With her, the issue was that sometimes, she forgot how strong she was, and that in reality, the shoe was merely an extension of her foot. She didn't need it, to hold on to the pole. With some of the moves, the curve of the front platform was a boon, but she had been trained since childhood to push through pain. All the same, it was still nice to not have to break a toe, to do a trick. The reinforced heel, despite its thin look, was strong enough to bear the force of a lot of the landings she did, which was a huge plus.

In the end, one of the older dancers had turned her on to Pleasers. They weren't cheap, but again, they were worth the money. And in reality, they weren't as expensive as some of the shoes in her closet that were considered 'appropriate'. Tonight, she wore a pair of black and white sneaker style heels, with a five inch platform. The height difference, when she stood up, was a little disorienting, at first, but she soon adjusted.

The knee pads, which were really just a thick band of material, were there to protect your knees if you should accidentally hit them, or if you were doing floor work. No one wanted to see a dancer with bruised or bloody knees. It ruined the magic, apparently, according to the older dancers that had taken her under their wings in the beginning. Most favored the athletic knee braces, seeing as dancing, no matter what your age, could prove hard on the knees. The brace, while protecting the skin, also helped keep the knee from other damage. Also, to help her performance, she rubbed a bit of Dry Grip onto the insides of her thighs, as well as massaging some into her hands and the insides of her elbows.

Turning, she checked her side profile in the mirror, before bending forward to reapply her lipstick. Another check to make sure none of it was on her teeth, and she was ready to take the stage.

She left the dressing room, making her way down the back hall, towards the stage area, where she stayed out of the way of the dancer about to leave the stage, bending and twisting her limbs to loosen up a bit. While she didn't really need to, the fact that she didn't would be remarked upon by the other dancers. Appearances needed to be kept up, after all.

She was standing against the wall, arching her back, feeling it pop in places she didn't realize were tight, when the music ended, and the crowd cheered. Soon, the curtains parted, revealing Dixie, who was one of the older but still popular dancers. She waved at Brooklyn as she passed, breathing heavily, her naked breasts bouncing with each movement of her chest.

"Absolute fucking animals out there tonight, Queenie." She told Brooklyn, heading towards the dressing room. "Watch for their hands. Momo is by the door, and the new bouncer isn't fast enough. At least they are tipping well."

"Thank fuck for that, Dixie." Brooklyn called, listening to the DJ talk to the crowd, while the stage was cleared of the money that would have been thrown during the performance. She walked over to the stairs, standing just beyond the reach of the stage lights, shaking her hands. It was like when she was sent out on a mission. The jitters were always there, no matter how often she had been out there before. She waited, until the DJ had changed the lighting, taking a deep breath as he hyped up the crowd, before announcing her name. The driving bass of the first riff of the fast paced music sounded almost physically against her skin.

Practice made the switch click in her head.

She was no longer the White Queen. She wasn't Steve Rogers' Babydoll. She wasn't even her Papa's Baby Girl, his North Star.

She was simply Queenie.

Pushing past the curtains, into the lights, she kept her sights on the pole, bending down and flipping her body into a few spinning illusions, before actually doing a flip. As she came back around, she did a running shoulder mount on the pole, using her upper body strength to push her up off the ground, until she could hook an ankle and calf around the pole. She used the movement of the pole to spin, letting gravity pull her upper body against the metal, arching her back, before moving into more moves.

She let the music dictate how she moved on the pole, and apparently the crowd was enjoying it. She wasn't even afraid to clack her heels every so often. It was freeing, really.

She had already removed her shirt, giving a little shimmy on the floor, before mounting the pole, doing a little hello sailor before twisting her body and pole into the music box, when something in the air shifted.

Something dangerous. Something angry.

Something that was also familiar.

The problem was, with the lights in her eyes as they were, she wasn't able to see what or who was coming. Disturbed, and broken out of the mindless state she had let herself fall into while moving with the music and the bending of her body, she flipped her body so she was able to grasp the pole with her upper thighs, arching her back down, hoping to use the change of angle to see beyond the lights.

Someone tall, very tall, his hands on his hips stood just outside of the light's reach. As she flipped around again, she reached down with her free hand, pulling at her skirt. Whoever it was outside of the light was just going to have to wait. The crowd wasn't done with her yet.

But whoever was standing outside the light had decided otherwise.

Before she could remove her skirt, the person jumped onto the stage, which was an impressive feat for the average person. The stage stood a good four to five feet off the ground. Anyone of a normal persuasion wouldn't have been able to do that as easily.

As the movement startled her, she lifted herself into a seating position, holding herself still on the pole with just her hips and upper legs, one hand still on her skirt, the other on the pole.

Steve Rogers, his face blank, his eyes blazing with anger, stared at her. The fucking idiot didn't even have his stupid ball cap on. Everyone would know who he was.

"Rogers?" She asked, shocked.

"Get the fuck down, Babydoll." He snarled. "We're going home."

Rage filled her. How fucking dare he! Did she come barreling into his little Avenger adventures, fucking everything up left right and center? NO! So why the hell did he think he had the right to come into her place of employment, fucking up her set?

She opened her mouth, ready to give her a piece of her mind, but all that came out was not the brightest of responses, she would reflect on, later.

"Go fuck yourself, Rogers! I'm not going anywhere with you!"

A/N: So, long time, no see, lol. How's errybody doin? shout out to my wonderful editors, and just a reminder, i am still looking for another one, so if you are interested in getting early access to chapters, and the ability to tell me off in real-time, let me know, lol.   This chapter marks us hitting over 600k words in the story. So there's that bit of crazy to add to the day. And as always, vote and comment!