“Are you staring at my forehead?”
Steve is in the room next to you and he can practically hear you spacing out – it’d almost be amusing if you weren’t getting chewed out for something that grew from his own decision.
The self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist in the next room scoffs. “You’re seriously staring at my forehead when I’m disciplining you? When I’m laying it down?"
"Well, first of all,” you say, sighing, “It’s not my fault you have a network of frustration-veins the shape of Texas on your forehead. Second of all, I don’t need you to ’lay it down‘–"
"Oh yeah you do,” Tony interrupts, and the sudden sound of metal against metal is enough to let Steve know that Tony’s tinkering with something again. “Because Cap has gone all soft on your ass for some reason even though you’ve been a pain in his, and the rest don’t know how to be firm with you.”
(He hadn’t gone soft. It simply turns out that his constant irritation stemmed from the denial of his own feelings – and he found it pretty impossible to stay angry with you when you knew all you needed to do was pout a bit and cosy up to him and he’d melt.)
Tony casts a pointed look over your shoulder at the broad-shouldered super soldier who’s pretending to pour over blueprints – and Steve feels it burning into the back of his neck, searing his skin and frying his nerves. He can’t help but glance shortly over his shoulder and meet your gaze – and just like you have all week, you roll your eyes and turn away.
He sighs. Tony begins to talk again.
“Look, I’m just asking you to stop moping, kid. Cap made the decision he thought was best.”
He doesn’t need to see you to know that your brow ticks, those too-long acrylic nails tapping incessantly against the fibreglass table you sit at. (They’re yellow, not that it’s important. He had chosen the colour.)
“I’m not moping. I’m in a great mood. I just got my eyebrows threaded and there’s a new pair of Louboutins upstairs with my name on them.”
“Don’t try that with me. I was a neglected rich kid too, you know.”
“And you turned out great!” you exclaim, arms spread out wide. “Being taken off a mission is life. It didn’t and doesn’t upset me–”
Even Tony doesn’t believe that, if his short laugh is anything to go by. Steve plays the last week over in his head – the slamming of fridges and haughty huffs and refusals to sit in his vicinity. Ignoring his calls and knocks on your door, even when he sighed in that disappointed way you hated and called you sweetheart through your door. It was torture, and you knew it. He could only hope that you were warming up to the idea of putting it behind you–
“–Steve did what he thought was right, and I agree with and respect that. I mean, personally, I don’t think I’m complete trash, but–"
Damn it.
"Hey, hey,” Tony calls. “He did not say that.”
He didn’t. The very fact that you’d even insinuate that he did makes him frown. Is that really why you think he did it? He didn’t doubt your skill for one minute. It’d be stupid to.
“I’m sure it’s what he meant, but it’s whatever,” you say, and Steve inhales, running a hand over his face.
When he had elected to remove you from the roster of an upcoming mission he had only one thing in mind – your safety. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you could protect yourself – you’re well capable of taking on even Natasha in combat, but you’ve never been on an extraction before and this one could be dangerous.
There’d be no casinos or clubs or bars or museums or sleazy old men to seduce and take out; the HYDRA base was cold and bleak, tucked away in the middle of nowhere in Siberia, and presumably teeming with soldiers with orders to shoot on sight.
So, yeah. He took you off the roster, and he’d do it again. When you’d asked him – quite furiously – why you were no longer going, he had prepared himself for maybe a day or two of the silent treatment. He had obviously gotten a lot more than he was expecting. (Because yeah, you were bratty. He could live with that.)
“It’s not safe.”
“You’ve got to be fucking with me.”
“Language!” He had snapped instinctively, before glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of his chattering teammates were within earshot. “Sweetheart, look–"
The very idea of being taken off the mission hadn’t seemed to sink in yet – because you looked up at him with half-lidded, deadpan eyes that truly are the epitome of sass.
"Steve,” you said, placing your hands on his shoulders, “I knocked out a man with a dessert spoon last month."
And he knew you’d keep trying to convince him – list off past missions and training exercises and combos and whatever you thought would sway him – but his mind had been made. Your safety over… whatever sense of productivity you would’ve gotten from taking out bad guys in snowy Siberia.
"This is different,” he had insisted, tone final, and your hands had dropped from his shoulders. “You’re one of the youngest on the team and you’ve never done something like this before–”
“Peter is going!” You hissed, eyes wide. “Peter, Steve! He’s 16!”
He could practically feel your anger growing; it was as if it would burst from your skin and engulf him whole – but then it mellowed, and left in its shadow was a trembling bottom lip and glassy eyes. And his heart clenched – really, it did. For a moment he was overwhelmed by guilt, an apology and solution worming its way up his throat.
But he caught sight of Natasha cleaning one of many guns over your shoulder, and he thought about the men halfway across the world doing the exact same. His words died in his throat, and in its stead–
He deflated, hand twitching towards yours– “Darlin’, look–"
"Piss off, Steve,” you huffed, turning on your Balenciaga covered heels and storming out of sight – and God almighty, that’s not how he hoped it would go.
Every bone in his body wanted him to run after you and make you see sense, even if it took a few kisses to make it happen – just like the movies you loved that Sam constantly bashed but secretly had a strong affinity for.
He didn’t think it would bode well, though – considering there was one person who knew you were together and the rest of the team was still under the impression that he was only getting over his unreasonable hatred for you.
(And he wasn’t quite sure how they’d react to finding out their original centurion was dating the team baby – especially by catching you both red-handed in the hallway.)
He’d had to simply turn and go back to work with an irritated sigh, listening to Sam poke fun at how furious you were with him.
Once the blueprints start to fade into one another and the mission’s beginning starts to creep forward, he decides he’ll take another crack at it – and he doesn’t expect much, to be honest, but there’s that nudging at the back of his mind, the constant need to make sure you’re okay, and it’s relentless.
“FRIDAY,” he calls as the elevator doors close behind him. “Could you tell me where ______ is?"
The AI’s Irish lilt fills the air as he presses the button to the residential floor. "Ms. ______ is in her room, Captain Rogers, though she has specifically asked to be left undisturbed; especially by – and I quote – the star-spangled ding-dong we call captain.”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Do you still want to proceed to the residential floor, Captain Rogers?"
×
"I know you’re in there,” he says, leaning his back against your door. In truth, he had only knocked once – he knew you weren’t going to open the door, but the mission is due to start in three hours and he has to suit up and have a team briefing. He doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he says, chest puffing out. “And I can’t stop that. It’s just, we leave in–” He takes a glance at his watch– “Two hours and 54 minutes, and I didn’t want to go without saying something.”
Silence. He inhales, looking quickly over each shoulder. “I love you, okay?"
He waits for a few seconds – but nothing. And he expected it, of course, but he still can’t stop the swell of disappointment chest. He huffs, stepping away.
"Okay. I’ll be back soon.”
×
The journey to Siberia is long. With the Quinjet cloaked and on auto-pilot, the team each find their own way to preoccupy and gas themselves up for what is sure to be an intense fight; Tony blares ACDC in a pair of fancy wireless earphones; Bucky methodically sharpens his knives. Sam listens to a whole Sam Cooke album, and Natasha translates her favourite book into different languages. Peter plays a game about a little blonde adventurer from a mystical land on a console he calls a Nintendo Switch, and Wanda meditates in the back.
Usually Steve would be among them, listening to Billie Holiday or Cab Calloway. Sometimes, if you were on the same mission, he’d share your earphones and you’d try catch him up on your favourite stuff. But you weren’t here – and if you were, you’d probably sit opposite him with folded arms and glare at him for the duration of the flight. All 10 hours and 37 minutes.
After filling the first 9 and a half hours with writing up reports and another 30 minutes with trying to understand just what in the world Zelda is, Steve finally stands and makes his way to table just outside the cockpit.
Holograms of the floor plan are projected in blue and profiles of employed scientists and soldiers are lined up at the side. He’d gone over the plan hundreds of times at this point – studied the hallways and air vents and secret passageways that Natasha would sneak through while the rest distracted the enemy – but what’s another hundred? Maybe he’d stop thinking about you shooting daggers at him every second.
“You good?” Bucky looks up from polishing his favourite knife, twirling it in the low, hazy light of the Quinjet. His eyes drift over his teammates in that lazy yet sharp way that he had perfected, spying the earphones in their ears and the distraction that shielded their conversation. “Trouble in paradise, huh?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve says gruffly.
“Of course,” Bucky agrees. “I mean, I only saw her storm out and slam the kitchen door the second you walked in – and sit on the floor instead of taking the last seat beside you. But she’s always like that, right?"
Steve hums. He doesn’t want to talk about it, especially not – he checks his watch – just over an hour before a mission starts. He’s distracted enough as it is.
"Alright, then,” Bucky says carefully, and Steve doesn’t mention how he’s taken on that voice that his therapist speaks with. “You don’t gotta talk about it now, punk. But I’m here.”
Steve is about to answer when FRIDAY calls over the intercom– “Entering Siberian airspace. E.T.A. 32 minutes.”
“Leave it alone, Buck,” Steve says, swinging his shield out of his back holster. “Just… rather leave it alone, you know?"
And Bucky, for all his years of memories that had vanished into thin air, knows exactly how Steve plans to leave it alone. It most definitely has something to do with the 190 soldiers doing their rounds below them.
×
And Bucky was right, of course; the second the Quinjet is hovering above the base Steve leaps out and into the snow. Without a parachute, of course.
He lands just outside the base and takes out the perimeter guards easily – even in the snow and cold he’s swift and quick. He hears the team land softly behind him a good few yards behind, but he doesn’t stop. There’s a strength in his bones, a need to succeed and apprehend that pushes him straight into the middle of a group of soldiers who’d been alerted.
Snow and night sky melt into one inferno of ice and blood – his shield becomes an extension of himself; his team becomes an extension of himself. Hit, swipe, dodge, kick, help Wanda, help Peter, dodge, swipe, borrow Bucky’s knife, jab, jab disarm.
The base towers menacingly above them as they push the forces of HYDRA back – grey and as cold as the landscape it inhabits. Natasha is in there with no back-up – the biggest threats should’ve been drawn out by the rest of the team – but his eyes catch those of a passing soldier who sprints passed him and into a hidden door in the side of the building. She’d most definitely be able to handle it by herself, but the thought of letting the man sneak off makes him itch. Before he can think twice, he gives chase.
The door leads into a plain, grimy hallway. Concrete walls, concrete floors. The emergency lights have been turned on, bathing it in an eerie red light. He barely registers it – keeps following the footsteps until he breaks into a wide, open-plan room. Concrete pillars obscure his vision, and for a second he stops, panting. The man either disappeared into thin air or is hiding.
Holding his shield up, he begins to alternate between the pillars. He can hear breathing; shallow, tired. He can hear the steady thrumming of a heartbeat, increasing with every step forward he takes – and just as he goes to turn the corner he realises that he was hearing two hearts.
It happens so fast – not like those scenes in the movies where you can see each move before it happens. The backs of his legs are kicked in, and as he topples the ground his shield slips from his grasp and spirals across the floor, quickly picked up by the first man and taken out of the room – and as he recoils, prepared to retaliate with one of hundreds of combos he’d learned over the years, the click of a gun stops him in his tracks.
Too far away to disarm, too close to dodge, his mind supplies. Shield’s gone. C'mon, Rogers. C'mon.
In hindsight, he’s gotten out of worse. Much worse. Aliens and corruption and more aliens. But there’s something in him that freezes him in place–
A flash of fuzzy socks against his leg and a giggle against his chest, an unfamiliar melody in his ears that he really only likes because you do. And then, an older memory – red lipstick and curled hair, the flash of those old cameras he never had enough time to have. That memory had ended in catastrophe – would this one be the same?
Had he fallen in love with you only for it to be taken away so quickly?
The man in front of him smiles coldly. "And to think,” he says, accent thick. “When I woke up this morning I didn’t know I would kill Captain America.”
Steve closes his eyes. He wonders if he should have a last thought; he thinks about Peggy, with her British twang and deadly aim; he thinks about Bucky, his brother with the stupid jokes and love for the Coney Island Fair. He thinks about his old family; his ma, and the Howling Commandos. He thinks about his new one. And then he thinks about the girl waiting for him back home – the one with the too-long nails and proclivity for expensive items and galas. He couldn’t go. Not like this.
“Get back!” And then there’s red; a vibrant, bloody red cloud that swarms the man’s limbs – shaking, the gun clatters to the ground. His mouth opens in a silent, desperate gape, and the red pours from there as well. The man’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and as he collapses to his knees Steve sees who it is that saved him. Wanda. Obviously.
She smiles, breathless as she holds up the red, white and blue he so proudly wielded. “I believe this is yours, Captain.”
×
He sits with his back flush against the wall, lip stinging and shoulder throbbing with pain to hell and back. His heart still thuds with that rush of adrenaline and anxiety – and he doesn’t want to linger on the feeling of fear and helplessness that had set up shop in his chest when that man had a gun to his head. It’s the type of feeling that he hadn’t felt since he was still a scrawny boy in Brooklyn with too many health conditions to count and a penchant for finding trouble; and he hadn’t expected to ever feel it again. But here he is, with about a thousand bruises that he isn’t feeling because he’s too busy thinking about the girl he’s got at home.
(Another girl he could’ve left with too many regrets.)
There’s a shuffling beside him, and when he opens his eyes he’s faced with a smiling Wanda. Her jacket is wet with melted snow, cheeks flushed and eyes tired – and he shoots her a small smile of his own, automatically brushing off his fatigue.
“Doing good?” He asks. “Never got to thank you properly for what you did back there."
She laughs tiredly, waving a hand. "You would’ve done the same.”
She clears her throat then, sitting up straighter, and he gets the feeling that she’s not here for idle chit-chat.
“I…” She trails off uncertainly, “I – you know I can’t control what I see sometimes, Steve.”
Oh, no.
“When that man had the gun at your head, I… I didn’t mean to, I just–”
“You saw us,” he says quietly. He looks over at the cockpit, where the rest have gathered to discuss the intel Natasha had collected. “Wanda, look–”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” she interrupts, smiling gently. “She cares a lot about you, and it’s obvious you care a lot about her, and… well, I know you’re fighting, but… that type of love always perseveres, you know?”
And, God, that shouldn’t make him as emotional as it does but his throat closes up and he has to take a deep breath to stop his eyes from stinging, because in his heart he knows he hasn’t felt this way since Peggy – maybe he hasn’t felt this way ever. Not with Sharon or whatever agents he’d talk up at parties, not with the crushes he had back in the 40s or the dates Bucky would set him up on. Waking up 70 years in the future, he hadn’t thought that love was in the books for him.
“Thanks, kid,” he mutters, smiling over at her. “Thanks.”
×
It’s hitting midnight by time the Quinjet settles in the hangar at the Compound – and he’s once again reminded of the concrete jungle of New York City, how the stars were replaced by glowing billboards and the sparkling A of Avengers Tower.
He doesn’t even bother removing his tactical gear – he drops the shield and earpiece in his locker to be put away later and jogs ahead of the rest of the team, promising a report by the morning that he knows will be half-assed. Wanda shoots him an encouraging smile that hangs over his head like a blessing – that type of love always perseveres.
FRIDAY is already alert when he steps into the elevator – and he should be worried at how much the AI notices, but he finds he doesn’t care when she teases: “Looking for Ms. ______, Captain Rogers?"
He shakes his head, looking down at the floor bashfully. "You know me too well.”
The elevator begins to ascend, and a quick glance at the screen above the door tells him they’re rising past the residential area, past the labs, past the conference rooms on the very top floor. The roof, then, and he has an inkling of a suspicion as to what you’re getting up to.
The door to the roof swings open silently. It’s almost pitch black save for the bright blue of the pool reflecting off the walls – though with the super-soldier serum pumping through his veins he can still manage to make out the grounds that can be seen over the surrounding railing.
You notice him the second he steps foot into the cool air – and he doesn’t let it show, but he’s almost rendered breathless by the sight of you. Your hair is slicked back and dripping wet, and beneath the water you’re wrapped in the soft pink two-piece you love to wear when the temperature peeks over 100°. In this soft lighting he can’t help but liken you to art – like you’re Venus, rising from the sea foam to bless the earth with love and light (and Fendi). He wishes he could find the words to tell you how deeply he feels that – how deeply it permeates his heart.
“It’s late,” he says instead.
You keep your eyes on him as you leisurely kick your legs back and forth, floating through the water like you were born to. Eyes watching as he pulls a deck chair closer to the edge, settles with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his right hand, eyes never drifting too far from you as you cut through the blue.
There’s nothing said for what feels like forever. A part of him wants to keep the silence, to bask in the peace after a hectic night. Another part of him wants to sort out this tension so that he can finally take you in his arms like he’s wanted to for the past week and a bit, because lord knows he’s been aching to kiss you – but he can sense that you’re building up to saying something, gaining the confidence to put aside your pride.
You sigh, brushing your hair back and wiping pool water from your eyes. You look up at the sky, head tilted back (and no, he won’t keep going on about how beautiful you are, but you must stop giving him the opportunity to do so).
“I know why you did it,” you say glumly, rolling your eyes more at yourself than him. “I’m not… stupid, even if I act like it.”
“Wasn’t stupid,” he murmurs, watching you closely. “You were looking forward to it, sweetheart.”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice breaking as you suddenly look over at him – and your eyes are watering, God help him– “It – I know I don’t talk to you about them much, but… It just – it reminded me of my parents.”
He hasn’t heard about them since you revealed your harsh upbringing – the high expectations and the punishments for less than perfection. Some part of him had tried to forget, because he knows there’s minimal security over your file and he’d easily be able to make a house call to Mr. and Mrs. _____. Seeing you begin to cry in that pool makes him rethink ever forgetting them.
“Steve – what are you–”
And he’s slipping into the pool, clothes and all, and he doesn’t care really, because you’ve begun to laugh through the tears, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “What are you doing, you idiot?“
"C'mere,” he simply mutters, grinning as you begin to giggle. “C'mere, doll.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist – and he doesn’t suppose that the leather and kevlar is particularly comfortable against your bare skin, but you happily press your face into the crook of his neck, sniffling as he begins to spin you tranquilly.
“They used to, um,” you begin, “They used to stop me from going to tournaments or classes because I wasn’t… good enough. They’d lock me in my room and tell me that I would never amount to anything, that I was talentless and a waste of money. Scream at me through the doors–”
You take a shuddering breath, and he cups the back of your head like he can cradle you and keep you from the world. He hadn’t meant to – never would mean to trigger you. To make you feel less than.
“’m sorry,” he murmurs against your neck, pecking your skin as if it would heal the scars they cut inside you. “Sweet girl, ’m sorry.”
“I know,” you say, sniffling wetly. “I know you didn’t, Stevie. I just panicked – and then I saw Peter on the roster and freaked out, I guess. God, I haven’t lived with them for two years and they’ve still got this hold on me.”
“That’s not your fault,” Steve says. “They’re – they’re terrible, darlin’.”
“I know,” you repeat, lifting your head from his shoulder. With a wet hand on his cheek and the other wound around his neck, you nudge your nose against his – and then your lips are pressing to his own, and it’s like finally drinking water after traipsing the desert. The stress that had been pressing against his shoulders dissipates into the night air, all thoughts of bruises and scrapes gone from his mind with the slip of your tongue against his.
And he could stay like that forever, really; the night is cold but the water’s warm, and you’re even warmer, all soft and pliable in his hands. His gear is weighing him down and sticking to his skin but he’ll take it if you stay this close.
Eventually, though, you pull back for air, gasping and panting against him. He savours the slight burn in his lungs, chest heaving and lips as bruised as the rest of him – though they’re sweeter, softer bruises, the kind that he wants.
“Earlier,” you pant, lips barely touching, “Well, yesterday. I – I heard you, outside my room, and – I love you too, Stevie. I’m sorry for not saying it sooner.”
And the only thing the centurion super-soldier can do is press you back against him – it’s the sloppiest, most confusing kiss he’s ever given or taken but he doesn’t care. Not like this.
×
After a while he realises that it’s best that you both leave before the shivering begins – and so you both drag yourselves out of the pool and into the elevator, both sopping wet and dripping onto Tony’s expensive flooring because neither of you had thought to grab a towel before taking a dip.
And yeah, his gear is heavy and sticking very irritatingly to his skin – but he takes a glance at you and sees that the sadness is gone. Your eyes are closed and you’re leaning against him, the ghost of a content smile on your lips. You’re adorable. There’s no other way to describe you.
(He’d do it again.)
(…And again.)
(“What the fuck happened?” Bucky asks Sam, eyebrows furrowed as you both step out of the elevator. His eyes move between you both, and you can only imagine what you must look like – Steve, dressed in soaked combat gear; you, wearing your prized two-piece at 1 AM.
Sam shakes his head from beside him, dropping another piece of popcorn in his mouth. “I don’t wanna know.”)