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Ah. He knows Natasha.

Most importantly, Max uses his own experiences to try and suss out why Stark would be hurt — Barnes did terrible things, the worst things perhaps, if 'dirtiest work' was anything to go by. Immortan Joe used the warboys to pillage and give their lives, to kill, to destroy. He imagines what someone like Barnes could do under someone's control.

"You don't know what he did? To make Stark angry."

He bites his cheek.

"... Maybe you should know. Should ask."

She watches him with care. Sounds out the depth of how willing Max is to becoming involved in this conversation. Months ago, he wouldn't have bothered offering advice -- let alone advice that suggested she ought to get even more tangled up in it all.

"I could," Peggy admits. "But there's no guarantee they'd tell me. Even Steve can be choosy about which parts of the future he 'spoils' in telling. Not even Stark is willing to say it to me. Which, ironically enough, tells me all I need to know."

I'll say. Max hardly sees the progress, but at least Peggy's perceptive. As always.

"... They should tell you. Shouldn't even be a choice for them," he says, quite sure of himself. "Gonna involve you in some way whether they mean to or not f'they haven't already; only fair you know why you're playing, hmm, referee." He glances over it her, cocking his head to the side, studying her carefully. "... R'you nervous about what they'll say?"

"A little," she admits. Just to him, maybe. There's a certain brave face about the contents of the future that she must maintain and meet. Should she prove herself fragile, they'll never tell her anything again. But Max is removed from all of that.

"Whatever happens, it's serious enough to drive a wedge between their teammates. Serious enough to risk being labeled a criminal and fugitive. I know for certain that Steve would always take that risk for his best friend. For Barnes. But Tony Stark -- I haven't figured out his motives. Maybe I shouldn't try. I'm not certain I want another reason to be uneasy around Barnes."

Max sits, patient and listening. He really has no stake in this, in the end, but he knows this is one of Peggy's greatest concerns in the fleet - keeping things in line, keeping people from home relatively on good terms. Bucky's rampage had only proven to him that she was willing to quite literally throw herself into the fray. So he considers what he says with more care than usual from the likes of him.

"It's better to know what you're dealing with. What if something happens and you're... uninformed? Could cost you,hmm... reaction speed."

If someone or something showed up, or if relationships grow especially sour.

He looks at her for a moment.

"You're an agent, aren't you? Information's... priceless."

"Priceless, maybe, but not costless."

She cards her fingers stiffly through her hair. It's difficult, now, to juggle an agent's instincts with the rest of the muck flying about. Sentiment. A sensitivity to timelines. An understanding that none of it will mean diddlysquat once she leaves the fleet.

"Take you, for example. I could work a lot harder at getting information out of you, couldn't I? But I don't. It's a cost I'm not willing to pay."

Something similar could be said for Steve Rogers.

He huffs something almost a laugh.

"Sure. But my information's not worth a damn."

The costs are much, much higher in this, aren't they?

Higher than some sob story from a desert wanderer in some other world he thinks, anyway.

Peggy shakes her head. She understands why he might think so -- and, in some very basic ways, it's true. The intel she might glean from him has no impact on larger world events in her lifetime. The realms and scales are markedly different. And yet!

"It's worth something to you. Or you wouldn't guard it."

He quiets at that, unsettled by the thought. He doesn't want that sort of thing to hold any value - but it does. And the idea of someone looking at him and seeing potential secrets to break into doesn't do his asocial behavior any favors. It's only lucky that Peggy has already sunk her fingers into his head a little, that he doesn't grow somber and surly at her.

Besides, she does attempt some level of space for him, to let him pace himself.

He could appreciate that, even if he has his gripes.

"That why you don't talk about yourself?" He looks at her, cocking his chin slightly. "There's a big cost?"

Peggy nearly lies. It's so easy to lie -- especially with someone like Max, who might begrudge her a bit of artifice but would rarely call her on it so long as it didn't threaten him. But in the end, that's just enough of a reason to tell the truth as it is to lie.

"Many of my secrets aren't actually my own. I signed a -- an oath, of sorts. Not to disclose anything that might somehow harm King and Country." But now, even back home, that oath felt hollower and hollower every day. "Beyond that, I don't like telling anyone anything they might use against me."

It's hard enough to keep her job as it is.

He studies her for a moment, thoughtful.

"That's not all of it."

Leaning back, he studies her, almost uncomfortably, the silence holding the space together.

"I think you're scared of a different kind of cost."

He's hardly one to sugarcoat, least of all to Peggy.

"I haven't any idea what you could mean."

Except (of course) she knew exactly what he meant. And had it been anyone else who'd insinuated the same, she might have been leagues more abrupt and dismissive. But punishing Max for showing interest -- any interest -- would run counter to her agenda. So instead, she lies without any real attempt to pass it off as truth.

He hardly looks swayed. In fact, he hmph's.

"M'not completely oblivious. No king and country here. No oaths. But you like to learn about everyone else — y'like getting under people's skin and knowing how they wear it. But you don't want anyone to get under yours and know how you work."

He shrugs.

"... Not like I'm unfamiliar with the idea."

Well, he isn't wrong. And that puts a considerable vein of tension through her body. Not unpleasant; after all, she's given herself over to trusting this man. It makes sense that he should be disassembling her as thoroughly as she disassembles him. His behaviour. His aversions.

"Old habits die hard. You don't live long in my line of work if you let others under your skin."

His eyebrow raises ever so high on his forehead.

"Y'know I'm the choir, right?"

The thing you're speaking to, that is.

"You're a person. Not a job. It's... okay to... hn." He waves a hand, looking unsure how to even verbalize it. His work desk sure looks nice right about now; he could be repairing that receiver he found in the junkyards a while back. "Nevermind. Just — dunno. Kind of miss my old habits right about now."

AKA being an asocial asshole who evades Peggy and the others like they're the plague.

He feels like some half-assed therapist.

Oh. Peggy watches him struggle and try to do the decent thing. As attempts go, it's one of the better ones. She softens. And stops herself from explaining that there comes a point when the person becomes the job. Doubly so in spycraft and intelligence work, where her career is built on the back of her temperament.

She touches his elbow. Only for a moment.

"You're right. Partially, at least. But you know how it is, don't you?" She frowns. "Even good counsel can be hard to follow."

He glances at her, not reaching back as usual but allowing the touch.

A sign of good faith and some semblance of comfort. A grunt of agreement follows.

"Should try to practice it. This place might - be the only place to get that, um. Freedom."

This is your chance to be different, right? Like it's his.

Even if he thinks it's probably a grave mistake in the makings.

"Careful. You're starting to sound like Romanoff."

Making comments about opportunities and freedom. And this place. Peggy resists the urge to jab him in his ribs.

He cocks his head to the side.

"The redhead who sneaks in n' out?"

She's very shifty, that one. He also guesses she could kill a man with her hands.

She seems the type, anyway.

"Exactly her -- despite appearances, she's got a very hopeful outlook. For others, at least. Less so herself."

So no bloody wonder she draws a comparison between the two.

He gives her such a Look.

For others and less themselves. He sees what you're poking at, same as usual. Someone else aboard the ship had given him that same sort of look, that same nudge, when he had denied himself capable of healing. Repairing.

He shrugs.

"... Romanoff's smart. Can't always have the same hope for yourself."

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