French Quarter, New Orleans, 3 o'clock in the morning [NFB for distance]

[heroic_jawline]

Steve absolutely knew better than to be on a touristy neighborhood like this, which was part of why he'd chosen it as a safe place to meet the other Avengers who were still hiding from Ross and the fallout of the Sokovia Accords. Anyone who happened to catch sight of their faces, he hoped, would either be too drunk to remember or too focused on robbing those too drunk to remember to bother anyone about it. Steve was moving quickly despite the sweltering heat--he was not born to amble--and began to wonder if Sam had suggested a New Orleans meeting in August as some sort of payback for being taken to the Raft. He felt the sweat beading under his "don't notice me" ball cap (even super-serum had to work hard against Southern humidity) as he dodged around drunken, surprisingly handsy revelers and tried not to breathe in the unique blend of fried dough, pot, puke, seafood, and spilled Hurricanes too deeply. He was definitely not looking to see what was sticking to his sneakers. He was a city kid and there were some questions you never wanted the answer to.

He turned down St. Philip Street after passing the blacksmith bar and heard Sam's voice in his head warning him about not being a moron and staying on this side of the road and leaving the LaLaurie Mansion the "hell alone, I mean it, Steve." He was blaming watching the house for why the arm around his neck dragging him into a nearby darkened courtyard caught him by surprise.