It was a cold March evening in 2013; Washington D.C.'s streets still echoed with the highway clash's aftermath. A day after the Winter Soldier's attempt on Nick Fury—Fury, wounded, had warned Steve, "Trust no one," and vanished. In Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve and Natasha were now fugitives, branded by S.H.I.E.L.D.—really Hydra—with Sam Wilson's home as their only haven. We'd escaped the highway; Natasha leaned on me, her shrapnel wound bleeding but holding strong—Black Widow's resilience stemmed from Red Room training. Steve, blood staining his shoulder, walked ahead, shield in hand, haunted by Bucky's face. At Sam's modest house, that familiar face—my Central Park running buddy, "On your right, bro!"—opened the door. He ushered us in; brown leather couches, a wooden coffee table, fresh coffee scent from the kitchen—a warm sanctuary. Sam Wilson, ex-Air Force paratrooper and VA counselor, was our calm port in the storm. A Ding! flashed the system screen:
"Emergency System Quest Reward: Close Combat Mastery (Epic)."
Description:
"Close Combat Mastery (Epic): Supreme skill in all fighting styles—speed, strength, reflexes in perfect sync; a lethal blend of karate, judo, kung fu."
"Guess I'm channeling Bruce Lee," I thought, smiling, "I like it." My fists had spoken against the Winter Soldier; this skill would make it easier.
In Sam's living room, we sprawled on couches—masks off, secrets bared; the Winter Soldier was Bucky, and Diabolic was exposed. Natasha knew me now; Steve guarded his 2010 secret—my super-soldier blood—while Sam reeled. He headed to the kitchen, "Coffee, catch your breath," he said, voice steady, eyes curious—minutes later, he returned with four mugs, setting them on the table. Natasha sat close; we'd bandaged her arm—using Herbal Medicine Mastery (Rare), I'd mixed Sam's dried mint and olive oil into a salve for the wrap, "This'll help," I'd said, grinning. Steve, shield propped on the floor, sat pensive—Bucky's face lingered in the highway's smoke. Sam sipped coffee, "So… what's the story?" he said, eyes on me, "Who was metal-arm guy? And Ali, what's with the mask?" Natasha turned, "Yeah, Ali," her voice mixed shock and a spy's sharp curiosity, "Tell us everything—where's your strength from?" I took a deep breath—I couldn't mention the system or Steve's blood; I needed a careful tale, truthful but veiled.
"It started after I got shot in the chest at Stark Expo," I said, locking eyes with Natasha, voice calm but earnest, "Waking in the hospital, I felt my muscles grow—opened my eyes, stunned, and saw you there…" I paused, smiling—at 2010's Stark Expo, Tony's HAMMER drones went rogue; shielding young Peter Parker, a drone's bullet hit me. Hospitalized, Steve secretly gave me his blood, then left. "After you went, I saw my body in the mirror—something changed. I healed fast, got stronger. Remember that day, love?" Natasha's green eyes widened, thinking, "He was near death, then miraculously recovered—what happened in that hospital?" Her hand grazed her chin, spy instincts humming—she had no clue about the system, just reasoning. "Sweetheart," I said, taking her hand, "Your boyfriend's tougher than you think." Steve knew—hospital night, he'd transfused his blood, then slipped out; my Mortal Divine Body (Epic), fused with his blood, made me this—but he raised his brows, acting surprised, thinking, "My blood sparked that strength in Ali," a faint proud smile forming. Sam nearly dropped his mug, "Man… all that power… and you're still a vendor?" he gaped—I laughed, "Gotta eat, Sam!" slapping his shoulder, "Döner slicing, lahmacun wrapping—that's my peace!"
Night deepened; Sam gave Steve the guest room, "Rest, Cap," he said, "Big day tomorrow." Natasha and I took a small bedroom—everyone drained, but this moment was ours. The room was simple, warm; single bed, blue blanket, streetlight's glow seeping through the window. Natasha had changed into Sam's gray tee and baggy sweats—red hair messy, arm's bandage faintly bloody, yet stunning as ever. Worry etched her face; eyes locked on me, "I'm scared of seeing you like that night, bleeding, shot," she said, voice trembling—Red Room taught her to bury emotions, she'd never cried for a man, but now tears welled, one sliding down her cheek. I sat beside her, took her hand, "I get your fear, love," I said, stroking her hair, breathing her scent—salty air, floral trace, Natasha's unique essence. "But if I won't protect my red-haired angel, whose beauty's worth worlds, whose grace I adore, what's the point of this strength?" I kissed her forehead, then our lips met—soft, warm, passionate; Natasha's breath quickened, arms around my neck, clutching my shirt. "What'll I do with you?" she said, happy yet anxious—a smile, but fear lingered; fear of losing me. "Just love me," I grinned—holding her tight, I whispered, "For you, I'd face death," in her ear—her worry melted to peace, head resting on my chest.
Next morning, we gathered around Sam's kitchen table—Sam served toast and coffee, "Team's set," he grinned, "Falcon's stepping up!" Sam's EXO-7 Falcon wings, Air Force relics, sat locked in Fort Meade. Steve slammed a fist on the table, "We're taking them back," he said firmly, "A little borrowing op—Sam gets his wings." Natasha raised a brow, "Stealing, you mean," smirking—Espionage & Assassination Mastery (Epic) was her turf; "I'll handle it," she added, sipping coffee. We leaned in, plotting against Hydra—crushing their head, Alexander Pierce, was key; Pierce, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secretary and Hydra's shadow leader, planned Project Insight to launch three Helicarriers, targeting millions. Steve had another fight—saving his old friend Bucky, the Winter Soldier. "I saw Bucky," Steve said, voice grave, eyes on the table, "He's still in there, somewhere. Hydra brainwashed him, but I'll bring him back." Natasha nodded, "Stop Pierce, we stop Insight," she said, "Hydra falls—but we tread carefully; no Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s all enemy." Sam, biting toast, "Get my wings, I've got air support." I clenched my fists, Close Combat Mastery (Epic) humming, "If that metal-arm bastard shows again, no escape," I grinned, "Bruce Lee's waving!"
In Sam's kitchen, coffee's scent filled the air as plans took shape—a four-person squad against Hydra: Captain America, Black Widow, Falcon, and me, once a vendor, now Diabolic. I looked at Natasha, held her hand—as long as she was safe, I'd risk it all; we pored over a map, scheming to steal Sam's wings—Natasha's stealth, Steve's lead, Sam's air, my fists… "For you, I'd face death," I thought, squeezing her hand—masks gone, secrets out, but we had each other in this war; that made it worth it. In D.C.'s quiet morning, we braced for a storm—to topple Hydra, save Bucky, we'd gamble everything.