part 2
The effects of the hypothermia are gone within another week, though you are still plagued by paranoia and disquiet. Though you have mended what frail, miniscule relationship you share with Steven, the rest of the camp is another story.
It seems that with your capture, you were expected to be flogged, your head paraded around on a spike and the rest of you burned to a crisp. To be fair, you had believed that, too; well, before you were tended to and fed and given a place here. Dressed in scratchy raiment and thick winter boots, you hobble to your new place of residence with Natalia’s help, face covered to protect both your skin and your identity.
It’s a smaller version of the Captain’s – Steven’s war tent, the one you had first been taken to almost a month before. Same dirty tarp and leather, but with less ornamentation – which says a lot, because Steven’s tent was already pushing bare minimum.
Two piles of furs have been set out for beds, and a pile of books is pressed against the far wall. A few satchels are littered around the small space, filled with trinkets and clothing and even a vial of hair oil.
It’s cozy and intimate – though you do miss your bedroom at home. A four-poster bed and a high ceiling, windows that overlooked the gardens, a vanity made from carved whale bone. You wince at the thought. While you had been reclining on silk, your people were lying on thin piles of fabric for comfort.
“It’s not much,” murmurs Natalia, “But it gets the job done. It’s hard to move around so often when you have a lot of belongings.”
“It’s perfect. We’ll be bedding alone?” You ask curiously, collapsing onto the nearest pile. “I thought there were larger communal tents.”
Natalia hums, sitting across from you. “Not safe.”
Of course. You’d find your heart punctured before the end of the night.
“Steven has started to spread the word, of course,” she continues. “About how you’ve been lied to and want to help. They’re coming around to the idea – even heard one of the cooks say they felt sorry for you!”
Ah, pity. Just what you needed. You’d moved swiftly from tyrannical princess to wounded puppy – though another part of you feels grateful that there are those empathic enough to look past their own circumstances to show concern for yours.
“For the time being you can accompany me on errands,” says Natalia. “Even a nomadic army has chores to be done. The extra hands will be appreciated.”
And although you know next to nothing about chores – having never worked a hard day in your life – you nod eagerly. Anything to be helpful.
And so begins your new life. The next morning you wake with the sun and follow Natalia to another tent for a breakfast of broth and a bruised apple. The cook, an old, hunching lady from a nearby village, smiles at you as you thank her for the food. Nobody’s said thank you to me in a long while, she tells you.
Afterwards you make rounds collecting dirtied, ripped garments that need washing and repair. Nose wrinkling, you wander after Natalia to the nearby river. A group of ladies have already made their place there, squatting low over cracks in the frozen-over body of water to rinse fabric. That day, you learn how to wash clothes, and although your fingers are numb by the end of the day and your teeth are sore from chattering so hard, you left the river with a newfound sense of purpose and a group of acquaintances.
It’s like that, some days. You spend hours in the cold by the river, washing and rinsing, before huddling into the nearby tent to dry and sew the garments. Other days, you forage for winter berries and pull up roots to eat. Natalia had once shot a few rabbits and wild turkeys for dinner, too.
It was strange to have to find your own food. Back in Azureal, there were vineyards and farms and special herb gardens specifically tended to by the best gardeners in the kingdom, and all for your family to eat. There were chefs trained by the greatest culinary artists this side of the Indigo Sea who lived to simply see your father chew and swallow their creations. And the food only grew more spectacular and melodramatic as time passed; cakes stacked so high they almost reached the ceiling, pies stuffed with live pigeons that were purely for show – once, for your 17th nameday just a few years ago, your likeness was carved from sugar.
Things were much simpler here.
“What do you think of them?” Natalia asks you one day, fingernails black with frozen mud. She pulls carrots from the ground easily while you flounder like an inexperienced child.
“Think of who?” You reply, nose wet from the cold. Your thighs are burning from squatting so low to the ground.
“The generals. Steven,” she says, casting you a look.
You shrug. “We get on well, all things considered…"
On rarer days, Steven and his generals find themselves in need of your assistance. Your knowledge of the capital and the palace is indomitable; of course, having studied maps and history for years and years will do that to a girl. You’re not quite sure what they’re planning – you aren’t told much, which is to be expected – but it involves hours hunched over that damned table, moving around wooden figurines and muttering between themselves.
Sometimes there’ll be visitors from villages and cities far and wide, offering their services and pledging allegiance and reciting reports of the outside world. It’s sometimes hard to believe that life has continued on when yours had been stopped in its tracks.
The generals are composed of Sirs James, Samuel, Anthony, Clinton, Thor and Rhodey (and Natalia, whose opinion is held in the highest esteem, and it’s generally accepted that she’d be able to overwhelm them all in combat). All smart, well-spoken men, all well-versed on the subject of war and loss and suffering. Every one of them have lost someone or something to your father. None of them hold it against you.
“They don’t treat me like a common criminal,” you say slowly. “I… suppose that is enough for me."
Quite sad, isn’t it? How lowly your standards have slipped. Back home you expected only respect and kindness to be shown to you – the proper titles and manners and etiquette. Here, you’re simply grateful to be treated like a human.
(Natalia stops for a moment. When you only continue to scrabble at carrots, she follows suit. You finish in silence.)
After your work is completed you have dinner with Natalia on the outskirts of camp. This time you brace yourself and don’t hide away in your quarters while you eat – you stay in the cooking tent with Natalia, albeit pressed to her side and eating as quickly as possible. You only get one or two dirty looks, which is favourable to the scowls and curses you used to attract. Word really is getting around, hm?
After the thin, flavourless stew, Natalia goes off to visit a friend while you retire to your tent. As the rest of the camp distract themselves with singing and ale, you stare at your ceiling and wish for sleep to come. It never truly does until Natalia finally slips into bed and you feel safe – and even then it is light and unsatisfying.
The entrance to the tent is pulled back roughly, and you stand to attention, heart in your throat. You wished you could kill this perpetual panic – wish you could stop looking over your shoulder and fearing that every corner you turned would bear your doom.
But it is just a soldier. He is young – far too young to be a fighter, and yet he stands tall and strong like he’s been born into it. Your heart sinks for him.
"The Captain requires your presence, miss,” he says quietly.
Miss. It isn’t the correct title, not by far, but the fact that he even bothers to address you respectfully makes your heart ache for this boy-soldier even more.
“Thank you,” you say, standing. “Thank you, Sir…?"
"P-Peter Parker,” he says, cheeks suddenly flushing. “Not Sir quite yet. I haven’t been knighted – I’m Sir Stark’s squire.”
“Ah, of course,” you say, and you’re surprised by how easily you slip back into your charming, diplomatic mindset. Too deeply ingrained to completely lose it, it seems. “I never would have guessed. You carry yourself like a true knight.”
His cheeks darken. “T-thank you, miss. Ah, this way, please."
You know the way to the tent. You’ve walked there many times by yourself, but never this late. Perhaps that’s why you have an escort – who you’re deeply grateful for, of course, because the night has left the grounds menacing; bonfires casting scar-like shadows across the frozen grass and howling winds so reminiscent of the ghoulish stories Natalia told you as a child.
"Thank you, Peter,” you say as you reach the tent.
“Anytime, miss.” And he departs with a toothy grin, and you’re reminded that innocence still has a place in this world.
Your soft smile slips off your face as you enter – and not because you wish for it to do so. The Captain sits alone, his cloak discarded on a chair behind him and his hair disheveled. The fire behind him surrounds him by a dangerous scarlet glow, and he looks every bit of the warrior he is made out to be. He looks angry.
He doesn’t spare you a greeting as you enter, you notice.
“This stretch of land,” he simply says, pointing to some region near Azureal. “What exactly is it?"
The Raft is what the people of the capital call it. A stretch of dense forest that stretches all across the southern border – said to be haunted by the malevolent spirits of witches wrongfully murdered by witch hunters back when magic still existed. You tell Steven as much.
"It’s patrolled quite lightly. The common people are too frightened to enter, so the Kingsguard spare the men,” you say, frowning down at the carved forest in front of you. “They say that those who go in don’t come out. And if they do, they’re not the same as they were before…"
You look up from the table at his glowering face, and you can’t help but feel concerned. "Steven, are you okay?"
He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, but he still manages a cold, amused smirk.
"I’m fine,” he says, and you know straight away that he’s not, “Your father has only quadrupled scouts since your disappearance and cut off supply drops to the furthest outlying villages. I’m trying to feed twice the amount of mouths that I usually do – but yes, princess. I’m fine.”
“T-there must be something I can do,” you say helplessly, ignoring the obvious jab in his words.
“Like what?” He retorts. “There’s nothing you can do that my men can’t.”
It’s the truth, but it still hurts. You’re still adjusting to the fact that all those years of etiquette and law making and languages and horse-riding that you slaved over were for nothing – that you are, in fact, useless. You recoil as gently as your emotions allow, but he still senses it somehow. Nothing slips past him.
“I – didn’t mean it in that way,” he says, sighing and beginning to stand. “_____–"
"No,” you say, stepping back. “I… quite understand, Captain. If you’ll excuse me.”
(You’re gone before he can run after you.)
You’re not crying. You’re not crying. You’re not crying. It’s a mantra you repeat in your head as you rush out of the tent and into the cool night air, cheeks flushed from the sudden frost and eyes stinging.
You know it’s such a small thing to be upset over – a simple slip of the tongue – but it seems that everything has built up and settled on your shoulders; the disgusted looks and curled lips, the hatred for things you hadn’t done but are still desperately trying to atone for – wondering if your mother and father missed you dearly, if they knew you were aware of their malpractices.
You walk for the first time in your life with your head bowed to the ground – in shame, in sadness, maybe simply to hide the tears meandering down your cheeks. So distracted by your own sorrow, the darkness of the night causes you no bother. You make your way back to your quarters – though, distracted as you are, it takes you longer than usual to realise that your things have been strewn angrily across the small space.
You gasp, rushing forward to inspect the damage to what little you now owned – most of your clothes shredded, parchment torn, little books Natalia had given you ripped from their spines. It’s all you have – and now it’s gone. Your bottom lip trembles, and you give a shuddering sob–
And then there’s this sudden jarring pressure around your neck and your lungs tighten and you’re being dragged back onto your bottom with a squeak – gods, it’s someone’s hands around your neck, and you’re clawing and slapping and desperately trying to remove them from your throat but they’re so strong.
You can’t scream, only manage a few gasps as you’re yanked back to someone’s chest. Your throat is bruising with each second spent with this person’s hands around your neck – you feel like your trachea could collapse and crumble and splinter just from the sheer strength they possess. Are you crying? You don’t know – you can’t recognize anything but panic and adrenaline and fear and this shaky, desperation-fueled need to survive – but you’re growing so weak, your vision tinged with black, and you’re just one second from slipping into the Great Beyond when–
Your fingers curl around a blade thrown on the floor. One of Natalia’s that she uses to shave – it’s sharp to the touch, but you barely feel the sting of it slashing into your palms as you grapple desperately at it. Clutching it in one shaking hand, you gather up the last of your strength to drive it behind you and into the attacker’s shoulder–
They grunt in pain, and you’re shoved onto the floor. Sweet, sweet air fills your lungs, and you blink as stars dance across your eyes. You back yourself against your bed, panting and sobbing in fear, holding the tiny blade in front of you as if would protect you – but they scarper. Face masked in black and wearing an even darker cloak, they stumble to their feet and sprint from your tent, clutching their shoulder and cursing under their breath.
You don’t know how much time passes after that. You see the glinting silver of the blade in your hands, you see the blood that has painted your flesh crimson – but you can’t feel anything, and your eyes can’t seem to focus on any one thing. Vaguely, like a whisper in the back of your head, you realise you should be terrified. Somebody just tried to kill you.
“____? Gods, ____–"
In a sudden jolt of fright you slash outwards, fearing the masked person has returned to finish what they’ve started – but it’s Steven, and he’s much stronger and more skilled than you are. He seizes the blade and flings it somewhere behind him, and as he cups your chin you realise quite suddenly that you’re sobbing.
"Your hands,” he says, cursing, and he takes them in his and brings them closer to inspect. They’re decorated with deep, gushing gashes, and it’s only when you stare at them for longer than a few seconds that your senses kick in; the painful, pulsing sting reverberating through your flesh, the smell of blood, the weakness and shakiness in your limbs. You suddenly want to get sick. “Gods, what happened? Dove, look at me – what happened–?"
He takes your chin in his hand, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks to calm you – and it works, because when you meet his eyes you find your thoughts have sort themselves out enough for you to form a few sentences.
"Someone was – was here,” you cry, “They – they tried to–"
He’s already lifting your head up slightly, inspecting the scratches and bruises left on your skin. He curses again, his jaw twitching angrily and nostrils flaring. If you weren’t so preoccupied with your bloodied hands and your convoluted thoughts you might be scared. Steven looks over his shoulder once more before rising to his full height.
"Come on, dove,” he orders, “It’s not safe here.”
And with no more to say, he simply bends down and scoops you up, holding you close to his chest as he slips out of your tent. I’m able to walk, you want to say. I don’t need you to carry me.
But there’s something about the hardness of his chest against you, the strength of his arms under your legs and around your back, the smell of cigars and ale that heats you from the inside out. You feel like nothing can hurt you, not while you’re in the arms of Captain Steven Rogers. You simply sniffle and rest your head against his chest. You ignore whatever discord your proximity might conjure and allow yourself this small comfort after your hellish night.
He takes hidden paths behind tents and thriving bonfires and rowdy crowds until he reaches his own personal tent. It’s larger than most, and flanked by two soldiers who stand to attention when their leader comes into view – and who gape quite openly at the state of you.
Steven dissolves them at once. “I want a perimeter ran around the camp – and gather my generals here.” But they don’t move, wide eyes fixed on your bleeding hands and bruised neck and ashy skin. You truly must be a sight to behold. “Now!"
He settles you on his bed once you’re inside, and you busy yourself with familiarising yourself with every nook and cranny of his tent, lest you lose your wits to the pain. It’s warm and cosy, lit by torches to combat the cold outside. There’s furs against the canvas floor and another pile stacked high as a bed, soft to the touch and marbled with different colours. He’s got a bedside table piled with books and trinkets, and a writing desk with inks and parchment but other than that his room is almost completely bare. You don’t suppose a nomadic rebel leader would have too many possessions.
"Come ‘ere,” he mutters gruffly, taking a hand in his. He’s got some sort of herbal salve, a bottle of whiskey, and a roll of bandages. “This’ll hurt, dove.”
(Where did dove come from? You don’t know, but you’d be lying if you said it doesn’t at least divert your attention to the gouges on the palms of your hand.)
And it does. He dabs at your cuts with the whiskey with a gentleness you didn’t know he possessed – though it still stings like bloody hell, and the sight of so much blood has you restraining gags. When you hiss, hand jerking back instinctively from the pain, he’s there with soothing words and a warm thumb smoothing over the back of your hand (“Only a little more, my dove. You’re doing amazingly.”) and when he finishes with the whiskey, he presses a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart leaps.
There’s a warmth in your chest that you have never quite felt before; it makes you feel like you’re weightless, like not even that masked intruder can pull you down from the clouds you’re so happily perched upon. It all feels like a dream, doesn’t it? Like you’ll close your eyes and it will simply be another night terror, and you’ll wake with your chest heaving and your heart racing like a horse.
But the heat of Steven’s breath against your face and the roughness of his hands cupping yours is real. That uncharacteristic softness in his eyes is real, that fearsome protectiveness and anger is real. As real as night is black.
“I–I didn’t see their face,” you mumble tearfully, sniffling as he applies the salve gently. He looks up at you and shakes his head, smiling faintly. “They – they were wearing a mask. I… I hurt their shoulder, I think, with the blade.”
He scoffs, albeit not unfondly, brushing a tear away from your cheek. “You’re all cut up and the only thing you’re worried about is whether you saw their face or not.”
“I don’t want it to happen again,” you say quietly. You almost wince; such raw vulnerability left in the open for him to pick apart, criticise, but Steven does nothing of the sort. He simply finishes bandaging your hands and holds them in his. “What… what were you doing at my tent?”
“…It’s not important,” he murmurs, a thumb smoothing over the back of your hand. He looks up again, and when you meet his eyes you’re almost taken aback by the intensity that they abruptly hold. “The person who did this will pay dearly. I promise you.”
“I don’t want any more people to die for me.”
“Crimes are crimes. They mustn’t go unpunished,” he says. “Especially when they concern those that I care about, dove.”
You’re about to open your mouth to say something, anything, your heart pounding in your chest – but the entrance to the tent is pulled back roughly and Steven’s generals hurry in, all in various states of panic. You suddenly realise just how close you and the Captain had gotten – noses almost touching and hands entwined – and you swallow, averting your eyes shamefully and clearing your throat as Steven stands to address his men.
Natalia rushes past him and takes his place on the ground by your knees, eyes glassy.
“My little doll,” whispers Natalia, running her thumbs over your cheeks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should have–"
She’s always been a mother hen when the time called for it and now is no exception; her voice full of worry and tears as she prods at your bruised neck and inspects the bloodied bandages on your hands. When she’s finally satisfied with your condition she leans back and takes your face between her hands, her bottom lip trembling.
(And, gods, you’ve never seen her quite so terrified for you – that is, perhaps, what makes it all the scarier. Had her blade not been on the floor…)
"It was nobody’s fault, Talia.”
"Is she alright?” James asks Steven, eyebrows furrowed and stance defensive. You don’t suppose any of them like knowing that someone had attempted murder under their noses.
“She will be,” Steven replies, voice hushed. He glances over at you again, as if to make sure that something hadn’t happened in the 10 seconds he had looked away. “They tried to strangle her, James.”
“Why are her hands bandaged?” Asks Clinton, stepping closer to inspect the expert wrappings on your palms.
“She stabbed them. Blade to the shoulder.”
“And you didn’t see their face?” Tony asks, standing over Natalia. He looks particularly troubled by the lax security of the camp. “Anything?"
"No,” you say. You clear your dry throat, shaking your head. “They had a mask. And a black cloak. I… I didn’t notice them at first. They were there when I came in; shredded everything I own.”
“Personal, then,” Thor notes.
“An injured shoulder won’t be hard to notice,” says Sam. “That is, if they’re even one of ours.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air for a few seconds before you catch on.
“My father wouldn’t try to kill me,” you say indignantly, disbelief clear in your voice. You couldn’t even wrap your head around the notion – though there’s a lot that you wouldn’t have been able to believe just a few months ago.
Your father wouldn’t succumb to any of the rebels wishes if you were offered in return for their fulfillment; that, you would admit. But killing you? He’d never…! “He – he wouldn’t!"
"Your father’s murdered women and children in cold blood,” Rhodey says blankly – and it still stings as much as it did the first time.
“Your father knows you’re in our hands,” Steven interjects, casting an unimpressed look towards Rhodey when he thinks you’re not looking. “And you know too much.”
“Is it really such an outlandish idea?” Tony says quietly, settling a hand on your shoulder.
Is it? Gods, you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t anymore. Just months ago you were so resolute in your beliefs – the very idea that your father was a tyrant would have made you laugh. Now you’re entertaining the idea that he sent an assassin to kill you.
The entrance to the tent is thrown open by a red-faced, panting soldier.
“Captain,” he says, gasping, “Four soldiers standing guard were attacked – they say it was Rumlow, sir.”
You take a shuddering breath – James curses, Rhodey inhales so sharply that you’re worried he’s winded himself. Tony simply stands, jaw set and eyes hard, and Thor snarls at the ground. Natalia stares right at you, her brows gathering closer to her eyes – but she’s not seeing you, no. If you know Natalia – and you do – you know she’s going over everything in her head, every instance where you were in close proximity with Rumlow and every hint of his hatred he had so innocently dropped. You have to stop yourself from doing the same. Now is not the time to fall into such a hole.
Steven inhales deeply, and when you look up at him he is no longer Steven – he is the Captain. Lines of his face sharp as stone and countenance pulled grim and cruel. He looks furious. You would be scared, but…
Crimes are crimes. They mustn’t go unpunished. Especially when they concern those that I care about, dove.
“Thor,” Steven says, face sour. “Scouts out in every direction. He couldn’t have gone far in the snow with no horse and an injured shoulder.”
The golden-haired man nods, before turning and slipping out into the night.
“Ask around about Rumlow,” he continues, looking between his generals. “There may be others prepared to finish what he started.”
“Of course,” Tony says. He pats your shoulder again– “And what of the princess?"
Steven folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed as if debating with himself. Finally he shakes his head. "She’s safest with me. I’m not taking any chances.”
There’s an unspoken tension in the room at his words; unsure glances exchanged, a shuffling of feet, a question begging to be asked. Your cheeks flush despite yourself; of course, what Steven said is true. He is the strongest and most powerful man in this camp, and there is a chance that somebody may try to harm you again – but the very idea of an unwed man and woman sharing a bedchamber has been nailed into your head as improper.
(You’d take it over being strangled again, though.)
“We’ll convene in the morning,” Steven says, sighing as he wipes a hand over his face. The tone of finality in his voice leaves no room for discussion; after a few seconds of hesitant glances, each of his generals begin to trickle out of the room one by one.
While Natalia gives her goodbyes, pressing kisses to your forehead and making sure you were completely and utterly okay, James lingers by Steven’s side, a hand on his shoulder. You know you shouldn’t listen in on what you’re sure is a private moment, but…
“Be careful, Steven,” he warns in a low voice, casting a badly-veiled look over at you. “After last time…”
“I know,” Steven says forcefully. “I know.”
He stands in the entranceway for a few minutes after the last of them are gone, arms folded and jaw set. It’s clear that he’s deep in thought. Whether he’s thinking about you or Rumlow or this last time that James had so cryptically reminded him of, you’re not sure. And you really are tired of not being sure.
“You need to rest,” Steven says. He’s looking at you, and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at him for – head still swimming with the aftermath of your raucous night. “Your wounds will heal better that way, dove.”
“I… don’t think I’ll be able to,” you confess, suddenly infatuated with the dirty canvas floor at your feet. There’s silence – then, a shuffling sound as he makes his way towards you. You see his knees touch the floor and then your hands are in his again.
“I’ll protect you, you know.”
You know he will, and it is that simple fact that makes you so damn confused. You tell him as much.
“I don’t understand,” you say, desperate. "I – you’re prepared to share your bed with me, Steven, and for what–?"
"Look at me,” he murmurs. “_____, look at me.”
So you do – straw coloured hair and cerulean eyes and a beard thicker than the snow outside. Three freckles below his right eye and the beginnings of crow’s feet sketched just at the corner of his eyes. Just a few months ago you wouldn’t have been able to hold eye contact with him for as long as you were. Just a few months ago, you would have rather slit your own throat rather than share his bed.
“My father would never show such kindness to a rebel soldier,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “I know you are not the same kind of man that he is – I just… I wonder why.”
After last time… What happened? What terrible tragedy had your father set in motion? What sadness had he inflicted on this man in front of you?
“What happened to you?” You whisper into the empty air between you. “I – you don’t have to tell me should you not want to. I just – I feel I need to take responsibility for my father’s actions.”
He stares at you for a long time after that. Not in a way that suggest he’s angry, but… He’s watching you. Looking for something in your eyes and you’re not sure if he’s found it or not when he smiles sadly, looking down.l
“My village was once on the other side of this forest. Should you try and find it now you will only be met with ash and soot.”
“Gods above, Steven. I…” Your apologies will mean nothing, but this sudden ache in your heart, this understanding of the profound sadness he must carry with him…
He nods, jaw set, before continuing. "I was out hunting when it happened. Saw smoke rising above the trees – I ran back, but it was too late. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything, anyways. I was only a boy, really, barely of my 18th nameday. My family was killed – for years I thought James perished too. And… I lost my beloved.”
His eyes cloud just the tiniest bit – and though he’s staring at you, he’s not seeing you. He has gone back in time, back to that time of pain and loss and helplessness. Back to the scared boy who had ran out of the forest and seen his home up in flames.
“Her name was Margaret,” he murmurs. He gives a short laugh– “I called her Peggy. She was strong and smart and brilliant. She did great things – she would’ve gone on to do greater things.”
“I’m – I’m so sorry, Steven,” you whisper, throat burning with the effort of withholding tears. “I – truly, I am. I know that means nothing, but–”
“You were barely a babe when it happened,” he retorts, swiping a knuckle against your cheek playfully – but there’s still that sadness there. “It wasn’t your fault.”
It wasn’t your fault. But you had willingly supported the man that had orchestrated it, and the guilt that settles in your stomach refuses to dissipate as a result.
“Look at me,” he says again, taking your chin in his hand. “You had no part in it, dove.”
“I should be consoling you,” you sniffle, laughing. “You never stop being the Captain, do you?"
He shrugs, eyes drifting most imperceptibly downwards. "It’s not a job that offers time away.”
“No?” You ask, suddenly all too aware of how close he was drifting – his nose almost touching yours, his eyes focused below your eyes. “No, I don’t suppose it would, all things considered–”
You break off, breathing shakily. The air between you is like the way the atmosphere feels before a storm – charged, electric, exciting.
“Tell me to stop and I will.”
You take a shuddering breath, licking your bottom lip nervously. “I won’t."
It is the first time you’ve felt the lips of a man. They’re rough and chapped but he presses them so softly to yours that you hardly notice. Your senses are set alight with him: his heady scent and the scratch of his beard against your chin. The drag of his lips against yours, the calluses on his hands against your chin, the arm that wraps around your waist and pulls you forward to the ground and onto his lap.
He tastes the way warmth feels, and he draws sounds from you that you had no idea a lady could make – and when he pulls away, breathing heavily, you’re cheeks are as hot as the fire that burns just a few feet away.
"Get some rest,” he murmurs against your lips – and you’re still speechless, still playing that kiss over and over in your mind, that you allow him to haul you into his arms again and settle you into his bed. The blankets smell like him, all spicy and musky and comforting. He sits on the edge of his bed, watching as your eyes blink sleepily.
“Will you not sleep?” You ask quietly.
“I will,” he promises. “Only once you do, dove of mine."
For a long, heart-stopping moment you forget about the bloody bandages wrapped around your hands and allow yourself to fall into a bittersweet fantasy; one where you aren’t stuck between two worlds, one where your Captain is your Prince Charming, your knight in shining armour, and not your father’s arch enemy. One where said father isn’t a murderer.
And you fall asleep like that; wrapped in his blankets and the flush of love still dotted across your cheeks, mind full of false realities and wishful thinking.
You’re awoken from your sleep by yells and the thudding of hooves against mud. It’s not quite unusual to hear shouting at this hour of the morning – it is of course, above all, a military camp – but when Steven slips out of the tent to face the commotion head on and doesn’t return straight away, you know something of importance must be happening.
You sit up, rubbing at your eyes and inspecting your bandages to the best of your ability. Your throat is bruised and swollen, hands sore and throbbing, your bottom tender from when you had been pushed onto the ground – but you’re alive, and you suppose that’s all that matters.
You stumble from his bed and stretch, eyes flitting about the tent. In the early morning light it looks different; softer, less daunting. Everything is bathed in soft golden light, so gentle that the noise outside seems almost rude.
You’ve perched yourself on the edge of the bed again when you’re suddenly hit by a particular memory that had been hiding away, waiting for the right moment to snap to attention and render you immobile. The kiss. The kiss that Steven had pressed to your lips – the one that you had reciprocated in equal measure.
(As if confusion is lacking in your life as is.)
(… Though you wouldn’t protest against another.)
”_____.“ Natalia bursts into the tent, hardly stopping to apologise when the early morning winter sun blinds you.
"What’s happening out there?” You ask, glancing over her shoulder. “Is something wrong–?"
She presses you down towards the bed again, hands warm against your shoulders. "Sit down, little doll–"
Your stomach turns, confusion and fear settling like stones in your gut. "Natalia, what’s happened?"
She kneels in front of you. "They’ve found Rumlow.”
“That’s – that’s good, isn’t it?” Hesitance finds its home in your voice.
“They…” She swallows, unsure. “They’ve taken him back. He’s tied up with the hounds, but…”
“Natalia, please.” You’re not quite sure what you’re begging for.
“They found a sigil on his arm, little doll,” she whispers, finally meeting your eyes. “Your family’s sigil.”