Captain O' My Captain

The pain is blinding. He’s been shot before, back during the War, of course, but never from a high powered sniper rifle. This is something entirely different. He has no way of knowing exactly where he’s been hit, but he is fairly certain it has been straight through his heart. Maybe ricocheted off some bone and tearing some holes in his lungs. All he knows is that every moment his heart tries to beat, it sends white hot pain rushing through his body. And every attempt to breathe is met with a horrific tightness and a stomach churning, gurgling sound.

He’s heard that sound before. Never from his own lips, but certainly from those men who had been casualties of the War. Men who had been shot, dying, struggling to form words, but all that emanated from their bodies was the warm gush of blood, bright red against the green and grey of the European winter. The metallic scent of their blood sharp against his nose. It had made his stomach churn then too.

But he had been braver then. Less tired. More naïve.

“Steve!”

He’s fairly certain that it’s Sharon’s voice, but he sees a flash of metal above him. Bucky. His mind comprehends that he is being tilted upward as Bucky takes him in his arms, but he realizes with a grim certainty that he cannot actually feel Bucky’s arms around him.

He is cold. So cold. Colder than he’s ever been in his life. And this is a man who had spent seventy years of his life encased in ice. Still, Schmitt’s plane was nothing compared to the iciness that is quickly overtaking him. Each breathe becoming harder and harder to take as blood oozes from his chest, soaking into his uniform.

“Steve, ya gotta hold on, kid,” Bucky says thickly. He figures Bucky is crying, but his vison is so blurry that it’s impossible to confirm. “We’ll fix you up.”

He wants to tell Bucky that it’s fine. He wants to go. Really. He wants to explain how tired he is. How all he wants to do is go back to sleep. If he could sleep off another seventy years, or an eternity, then maybe none of this would matter anymore. Or maybe he’d be able to see his ma and dad again? How long had it been? Close to eighty years?

And Peg. Jesus, to see her...

Steve. Steve. Steve. His name shifts into nothing more than a high pitched sound, echoing around in his skull. He is no longer Captain America. He isn’t even Steve Rogers. He is simply ceasing to exist all together.

It is time.

XXXXXXXXX

He feels her before anything else. He feels her body against his, her hands across his skin, her presence around him. And it brings him such a sense of calm, of release, that he can’t remember having since he was pulled from the ice.

And it is so comforting that for several long moments, he just lays there, warm and content and loved. He listens to the sound of her breathing, feels the warm air from her lungs against his skin; he hears the steady, strong thrum of her heartbeat and he thinks that it is the most glorious sound he’s ever heard in his life—her  heartbeat.

But it is her lips against his neck that finally urge him to open his eyes, the light blinding him for a moment. Turning his head slightly, he catching his first glimpse of her. She is so beautiful that, for a second, he forgets to breathe.

“I was wondering when you’d be waking up, Captain,” she teases him, her smile lazy as she leans back in to kiss his shoulder.

This cannot be real. He slides his hand gently under her chin, pulling her face up to meet his.

“How is this possible?” he whispers, his thumb grazing lightly against her cheek, willing the touch of his thumb to ensure that she remains right where she is.

“We’re naked in a bed together, and you’re questioning it?” she cocks an eye brow at him. He mentally kicks himself. “You haven’t gotten any better at talking to women, I see.”

He blushes slightly and looks away, his eyes catching her perfect lips. His gaze flickers back up for a moment, her expression having softened, before she pushes forward and lands her mouth against his. There is a moment, where he’s not exactly sure what to do, his mind having gone completely blank. But the taste of her brings everything back in a flood and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s pulled her on top of him, his fingers tangling in her dark curls, their mouths battling for dominance and neither one willing to give an inch.

He hears her gasp as his hips involuntarily buck against her. One hand moves to cradle her head as he trails kisses down her neck, while the other slowly glides across her, memorizing every inch of skin and every curve he can reach.

“I buried you,” and his voice is so small against her skin, that he’s not even sure she heard him say it at first. But she sighs, littering his face with feather-light kisses, her nails pulling faintly across his skin.

“I buried you, too,” she finally breathes, pulling away, looking at him, examining him, her gaze shadowed with a sadness.

“Then, is this Heaven?” His hands settle on her hips as she sits up, straddling him and baring herself to him. It takes the wind out of him for a moment, how breathtaking she looks. This must be Heaven. He’s finally died and this is what the other side looks like.

“Not quite, I’m afraid. Somewhere in between,” she runs her hands across his chest, seeming to soak in every hard peak and soft curve of muscle.

“Between what?” He sits up, shifting her so that she is sitting in his lap, her legs wrapped around him. It does not escape him how satisfying it feels to be locked between her thighs.

“Between life and death, my darling.” She cards a hand through his hair, pulling him closer.

“But I died.”

“Not yet. It’s not your time.” There is a pause, as they let that settle between them. She captures his face in her hands, pulling his gaze to meet hers. “One day you will come back to me here, but for now, you must go back.”

In that instant, he feels all of his ninety-six years.

“I’m so tired, Peg. I’m just so damned tired.”

“I know, darling,” she sighs, pulling him against her. He tucks his head into her neck, breathing her in. In his entire life, he’s never forgotten exactly what she smelled like—a memory of floral perfume, a touch of musk from her skin, and crisp hint of soap. It’s the only thing he’s ever found both completely relaxing and completely intoxicating at the same time. “But the world still needs you.”

Yes, the world. Well, fuck the world.

His entire life had been spent saving the world. And apparently he wasn’t even able to escape that responsibility in death. Why wasn’t he ever allowed to be selfish? Well, he could be selfish with one thing—

He presses his lips against her shoulder, pulling, marring her perfect skin. He tilts her back, dipping his head lower to suck lightly at her breasts. One hand supports her back while the other slides easily between them, moving just the way he remembers she likes. He is instantly rewarded by her sharp gasp and her nails digging into his shoulders so deeply that he almost flinches at the pain. But he continues on, working her up until she’s groaning, whining, clawing at his skin as he pushes her closer and closer to the edge.  

He feels her body coiling, readying for the release, and just like that, he stops. Her eyes snap open, burning brightly with lust and frustration, questioning.

“Tell me you need me,” he demands, moving his fingers against her and eliciting another low groan, her hips rolling against him in such a way that he’s amazed that he is still holding it together.

Her hands grasp at the sides of his face harshly, holding him steady as her focus directs entirely to him.

“I need you, Steve.” He growls, fighting the urge to just come right there. He inhales sharply as he feels her slowly move herself onto him. “I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

She moves, rolling herself against him, his hand still pressed against her.

“I need you,” she continues, as he remembers to move his hand again. But every move is a struggle to maintain control. “And I love you.”

“I love you so much, Peg,” he croaks against her skin as he continues to try to pull her closer, push himself deeper.

“I need you to come back to me,” she gasps, speeding up the pace, knowing they’re both teetering on the edge.

“I will.” He can’t breathe. Every cell in his body is focused on her, feeling her, tasting her, memorizing her. His muscles tense, desperate for every inch of her.

“Promise me you won’t be late.” It is a demand, not a request, as she clenches around him.

“I promise,” he cries, releasing everything he is into her.

Every muscle in his body is twitching. Tension and release. Tension and release. He still cannot breath and everything is blurring together; her scent, her voice, her body, all beginning to flow together.

“I love you.”

It echoes through his body, reverberating through his bones.

The pain. The burning pain. Every muscle in his body is tight, on fire. He cannot breathe.

XXXXXXXX

“Steve!”

He bolts upright, spitting and coughing. His chest feels like it’s on fire, his brain spinning from the lack of oxygen.

“She’s gone,” he says harshly, still trying to catch his breath. “She’s gone.”

It’s like his brain is stuck on repeat. It’s the only sentence he can manage to form.

Bucky steps into his line of sight.

“She’s gone.”

“We need to knock him back out. He’s too unstable.” He recognizes Sam’s voice coming from somewhere in the room.

She’s gone.

He moves to get off the metal medical table, but Bucky’s on him in a second, his metal harm holing him down to the table.

His eyes are wide, his breathing iritic and heavy. The pain in his chest is excruciating. Bucky’s eyes are fixated on him, his jaw set and his nerve unyielding.

“Where the hell’s that needle?” Bucky yells.

“She’s gone,” he growls, fighting against Bucky with everything he has.

He feels a light prick on his arm before everything starts to get blurry again. Maybe it’ll take him back to her. Maybe he’ll finally be able to rest.

“We’ll take care of ya, kid. Don’t worry.”