“Yeah,” the voice on the couch across from him says. He sees a perfectly manicured foot peek out from the bottom of the pile of fuzzy blankets, sees the glinting of a glittery phone case at the other end. “2,900 dollars.”
His jaw ticks.
_____ is the newest – and youngest – addition to the Avengers team. Rich, important parents, incredibly smart. Trained in gymnastics, martial arts, acrobatics and more. Got a face that she knows will get her anything she wants; the long lashes, the doe eyes and lips that she just has to pout to get her way.
She’s a brat – and everyone knows that Steve thinks so because he’s constantly reprimanding her as if she’s the toddler she throws tantrums like.
You’re stretched out over one couch in the common area while Bucky, Sam and Steve squash together on another. Your phone is pressed to your ear, those acrylic nails that are far too long to be practical twirling a lock of hair between your fingers.
“I dunno,” you continue, and you stretch so far that the blankets peel off your abdomen and your shirt rides up just the tiniest bit.
Steve’s jaw ticks again. Harder. He tries to focus on whatever movie Sam’s popped in – something from the 90s with much too much blood to be realistic, but it’s enjoyable nonetheless.
“It’s for a mission or somethin’,” you mutter, rolling onto your stomach then. “It’s Zuhair Murad, I think–”
“_____,” Steve says sharply. “Discussing confidential material with unqualified personnel and over an unsecured phone is a bad decision. Even for you.”
Your eyebrows knit together – and then, dragging annoyed eyes away from the centurion, you exhale through your nose and rolls your eyes so vigorously he fears that you will actually hurt yourself.
“Right,” you mutter, and he wouldn’t have heard if not for the serum flowing through his veins, “Because the entire mission will flop if I tell my friend what my dress looks like.”
You roll over on your side and go on to talking about something else. Sam elbows his ribs and shakes his head in that way that means let it go, man, and Bucky simply huffs a laugh and shakes his head.
Steve clenches his jaw and focuses back on the movie.
A brat.
The mission you were so stupidly babbling about is one of thosehidden-in-plain-sight types. The team will attend the opening night of a new exhibition in the Louvre – the type of opening night that calls for a $2,900 dress, apparently.
While examining the exhibition, they’d also be able to gather intelligence on an upcoming arms trade happening just somewhere west of Paris on the coast. It was your classic run-of-the-mill aristocrat with too much money and too many fingers in too many pies. Steve didn’t think it’d be particularly trying–
A giggle sounds in his comms, and his hand tightens around his crystalline glass of champagne.
Steve didn’t think it’d be particularly trying, and then you waltzed down onto the quinjet in this gauzy, embroidered dress that shone in shades of gold and peachy pink. ($2,900 well-spent, perhaps, but he won’t admit that.)
“What are you doing, _____?” he mutters through grit teeth, nodding diplomatically and smiling at passing patrons of the museum. The anger in his voice doesn’t go unheard. “The target is Marchand, not–” He makes a vague noise of irritated displeasure– “Whoever that is.”
You don’t pause in your flirtatious French – he didn’t even know you could speak French, though he knows enough from his WW2 days to know that you’re laying the charm on heavy, and the golden-haired, blue eyed boy who looks like a younger version of himself is eating it up. Of course he would; a beautiful, interesting girl waltzes up to him, he’s not gonna turn up his nose.
Steve inhales deeply, spotting Natasha across the room. At least she’s doing her job, he thinks, and turns his head to comb through the crowd with his eyes again. He’d have to have a talk with you afterwards – goofing off on a mission isn’t the standard that needed to be upheld for an Avenger.
Marchand is a short, tubby man with greasy brown hair and blue eyes. He smiles sleazily at the women present, lingers too long on their chests, shakes hands with the men and carries the same glass of champagne but acts slightly tipsy so as to not arouse suspicion. Steve has his eyes on him – as does Natasha, Sam, Bucky, Tony, Bruce, literally everyone except you, who is now, by the sound of it, talking about the boy’s vacation home in Rouen.
“He’s making a break for the bathroom,” Bucky murmurs. “No doubt he’ll use the employee stairs to get to the upper levels.”
“Someone’s tailing him,” Natasha notes. She looks over to Steve across the room and nods towards the slim, model-like woman that follows after him. “Possible buyer?”
“Maybe,” Steve says. “I’ll follow behind.”
He downs the rest of his champagne that really wasn’t doing anything for him in the first place and does up the button of his suit jacket. The route Marchand takes is crowded and loud with chatter, but it was also the most secure when you took into consideration the amount of alcohol people were drinking. Nobody would take notice of or remember Marchand coming through, and Steve is once again struck with just how smart this weedy little man is.
The main exhibition breaks off into multiple darkened hallways, and Steve sees Marchand slip into the nearest one. The mysterious woman follows, and Steve is just about to do the same when he catches sight of you again, just a few metres in front of him.
“Come with me outside?” Pierre is saying – or, at least, he thinks he’s saying. “We can have fun, beautiful.”
Steve won’t tell anyone in that moment what went through his head – the sickly anger the welled up in his chest or the slimy feeling of jealousy that followed when he saw how you hung onto the boy’s arm. It was wrong to feel the way he did in those few seconds, and so he pushed it down and told himself that what he was about to do was for the sake of the mission – the only thing that seemed appropriate in that moment–
“Steve!” You exclaim angrily as he grabs your arm and yanks you off of Pierre. You’re given no warning before he takes off walking, face set hard and stoic. Pierre watches in confusion as you disappear in the crowd. “What – are – you – doing?”
He doesn’t let go of you until he’s pulled you up the employee stairs and ascended to the next floor, into another dark hallway covered in No Entry signs and warnings. You stumble as he releases your arm, though he only continues to walk in the direction Marchand headed, that same unexplainable fury clawing at his throat.
“Think you could do your job now?” He asks gruffly. The heavy oak doors Marchand had snuck into lay just ahead. He has no doubt that they’re soundproof, but he makes an effort to keep his voice level all the same.
“I was–”
“Our job is to keep tabs on Marchand,” he snaps, suddenly turning on his heel. You come to a screeching halt, chest heaving with annoyance and irritation and anger very visibly painted on your face and Steve knows he’s brought it upon himself but his own anger swells in response anyway. “And while you were cozying up to Frenchie he slipped away with a potential buyer–”
“She’s not a potential buyer,” you interrupt, puffing your chest out and folding your arms and God, had you always been standing this close? He can see that you’re challenging his leadership, see that you’re challenging his authority. It’s all in the clenching of your jaw and the way your left eyebrow raises, the way you raise your chin up towards him despite the fact that you barely reach over his shoulders.
“Yeah? Then what is she?” He can hear Tony scoffing in his ear, Bucky telling him to let it go, pal, Natasha sighing. Sam groans and says this isn’t the time, asshole, but Steve simply reaches a hand up and turns off his comms. In the back of his head there’s a voice screaming at him – what are you doing? This is a mission, Steve, don’t jeopardise the fucking mission but he’s too far gone–
You grit your teeth and follow his lead, switching off the tiny comm hidden behind a pair of Cartier earrings, more out of sheer pettiness than anything else. “She’s a prostitute, Captain Idiot.”
“A prostitute?” He echoes, unimpressed.
“A prostitute.” You step closer, jabbing one glittery acrylic nail against his chest. “You may be a 100 year old supersoldier but you didn’t grow up around this shit–”
He bristles at your crude language, nostrils flaring, but you don’t seem to notice or care–
“I guess you didn’t notice the message on the bottom of her shoes,” you continue, visibly seething as you begin to work yourself up, “Or the price list written on her napkin–!”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t pose a threat–!”
You surge forward, nose just inches from his–
“You go in there, Captain,” you say lowly, “and I can promise you the only thing you’ll find is her on her knees with her lips wrapped around his– agh!”
Faster than you can process, you’ve been hastily pinned against the wall, the Captain’s forearm against your neck and his other arm pressing your abdomen to his. His breathing is heavy and you realise with a start that you’ve never seen him look so… so… animalistic. Jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed, yes, but the look in his eye actually has the tiniest bit of fear striking your chest.
“Watch your mouth,” he grunts, chest heaving.
Through your uncertainty, you manage to raise a brow and smirk – and maybe your eyes drift down to his lips for a millisecond or two…
…
“Or what?”
In the moments after you spoke you have never been quite so aware of your inability to gauge situations appropriately or shut up – because Steve, for a moment, looks like he would rather kill you than deal with you, and you can’t help but smile because you know you get on his nerves and you like getting on his nerves–
He surges forward, and you brace yourself for a round of shouts or even a hit against the wall next to your face–
And then he’s – well, he’s kissing you. Steve Rogers, Captain America, centurion and supersoldier, America’s Golden Man and Moral Icon is kissing you like his life depends on it – his forearm foregoing its place against your throat so he can grasp your jaw between strong fingers. It occurs to you that he is – well, as shameful as it is to take note of – a really good kisser. The kind you only think exist in movies and erotica; but no, here he is, and you can feel his chest heaving as his tongue drifts over your lips and into your mouth. He’s so large and imposing, towering over you, and you’ve never felt quite so… small, and in the best way.
He stops, then. Breathes hot and heavy against you, eyebrows still furrowed and jaw still clenched but something more within those stupid sapphire eyes. Vulnerability? Fear?
You realise that he’s giving you a chance to back away. To push him off.
You also realise that you don’t care, and pull him back towards you. His enthusiasm resumes tenfold.
Hesitantly, your hand snakes up to rest on his broad shoulder, and you won’t admit it but when Steve’s arm scoops under your butt and hikes you up to rest against him you actually whimper into his mouth, tightening your hold around his shoulders and crossing your ankles behind him – and when he breaks away to kiss your cheeks and your nose you can’t help but seize the moment and knot your fingers in his perfect blond hair (hair that on many occasions you’d wanted to muss up and dishevel). You grow impatient quickly, though, and pull him back towards your lips.
It seems like hours pass before there’s a disturbance a few meters to your right, and you break away just in time to spot Marchand stumbling out of the closed off exhibit, obviously disheveled, and the woman behind him sporting a classic case of smeared red lipstick. They jump as they spot you and Steve in such a compromising position – legs around his waist and lipgloss smeared to your nose, probably. Steve’s hand tightens at your hip and you jump into action, unravelling yourself from around him and giggling in what you hoped would be perceived as drunken stupor.
“Sorry, good sir,” you say, grinning bashfully and applying the French accent thickly. “We did not know there was anyone around–!”
“It’s quite alright,” Marchand says, coughing, and he hurries passed with a nod in Steve’s direction. His mysterious red-lipped mistress follows, albeit much more confidently. You watch them disappear around the corner, and suddenly the air feels a lot heavier. A lot darker. You’re suddenly struck with the realisation that you – and Steve – you… you…
“Mission’s over,” Steve says gruffly from behind you. And then he storms passed you, and as he leaves you in that beautifully desolate hallway all he can think about is how you look like you’ve been made to stand among art.
×
The ride on the quinjet is painfully slow. Steve hunkers onto the ship and practically locks himself in the flight deck with Tony – who must blame Steve’s generally displeased aura on his little spat with you because when the quinjet lands he claps his shoulder and says, “Hey, pal, give her a break, okay?”
Steve grunts a vague agreement and is the first to the showers, hoping that a shower of either boiling hot or freezing cold water will distract him from his intrusive thoughts.
(It doesn’t.)
Because all he can think about is how your perfume smelled and how your dress looked hiked up around his waist – how you tugged on his hair and how your lips tasted like butterscotch, and the way the embroidery sparkled against your skin and God, when you whimpered into his mouth–
Fuck.
He’s a hypocrite. Simply put, right? He’s a hypocrite. He boasts 100 years of service to his country, service to his morals and ideals and everything else that came with being Captain America. He’s the epitome of good-doing and justice, and yet here he stands, lusting and pining over a fucking 19 year old like the creeps he locks up for a living.
Steve releases a shaky breath and runs a hand over his wet face. He is well and truly fucked.
×
“Well,” Tony says, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table, “We didn’t exactly get… anything.”
The team gather in meeting room 3 an hour and a half after they landed. Most have showered and eaten something, all except for Tony who’s still in his slacks and button up and looks like the last time he ate was the waffles Scott made two days ago.
“The woman we thought to be a potential buyer turned out to be a prostitute by the name of Chloé Lambert,” Tony continued, pulling up a picture of the woman who had followed Manchard. “Thanks to _____ we were able to avoid any unnecessary complications, though the mission was most certainly a bust.”
“Not quite,” you spoke up. Steve’s eyes immediately fell to the table, his fists clenching in an unwilling response.
Tony gestures to the computer behind him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Uh, be my guest, kid.”
You stand – and no, Steve doesn’t take notice of your velvet lounge set or your cute fuzzy Pusheen socks or – fuck–
You take Tony’s place as he sits among the rest of the team, and after typing for a few seconds you pull up a picture of… the boy you had been talking to?
“This,” you say, standing aside, “Is Pierre Manchard. Manchard’s son, obviously. Before the mission I did some of my own research and found that he was on the guest list. Decided to seek him out at the opening and see if I could do some snooping.”
Something slimy and dark and all-consuming like crude oil spill slips over his shoulders and down his chest. The way he had acted was juvenile and – and stupid. He had let his emotions compromise a mission in a way that it never had before, and for a reason that was completely unsolicited.
“I buttered him up a bit–”
Steve inhales sharply at the memory–
“Yeah,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair, “We heard–”
“Ha ha,” you say, glaring back at him. “Well, turns out he has a vacation house in Rouen, and then he started blabbing about how his dad has business in the docks. And, well, turns out there’s a undocumented slot in the docks timetable a few weeks from now–”
“How do you know that?” Scott asks, looking around the table. “How does she know that?”
“I have my ways,” you say shortly. “Anyway, I don’t know how accurate this may be, but it’s a place to start.”
Tony whistles lowly in his throat. “Damn, okay. Good work, kid.”
“So you decided to go off on your own without informing the team?” Steve asks, tapping the table rhythmically in an effort to stem off the unexplainable fury welling up inside him, burning from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. “What if he knew what you were doing, huh?”
“Steve, c’mon–” Bucky starts.
“No,” Steve starts, leaning forward. “First and foremost, we’re a team. Every choice we make has to be unanimous. There’s no place here for running off and doing your own thing–!”
The look in your eyes can only be described as venomous.
“Oh, because you know so much about that,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes and leaning forward so that you’re eye level with him across the table. (Steve ignores the leap in his chest when you do.) “Hey, weren’t you, like, a war criminal two years ago–?”
“You little–”
“Stop!” Natasha asserts. “Jesus Christ. Steve, you’re acting like a fucking child. _____… you’re almost a fucking child, but if you want a place on this team you’ll at least have to tell us about your plans next time.”
“…Whatever,” you mutter to yourself, shooting daggers at him. You fold your arms, looking like you could say something else – something much more hurtful, more acidic, more incriminating – but you settle for huffing once more and turning on your heel, cursing underneath your breath as the automated doors open and close behind you.
“Hey, c’mon,” Tony calls. “Kid, come back.”
But you’re gone, and Steve can only ignore the look Sam shoots him and the way Bucky shakes his head in favour of continuing on with the mission report. He’d beat himself up later for it. He had already been planning to, anyway.
×
“Right, that’s it.”
It is a month after what Steve has started to refer to as The Incident, and Bucky storms into the gym like a man on a mission. There’s a terrifying sort of determination alight in his eyes, and Steve would be glad to see it if he wasn’t on the receiving end. Bucky grabs the punching bag Steve had been using with his metal arm, face clear of strain even as Steve takes one last punch at it.
“What?” Steve says shortly, avoiding his eyes and fiddling with the bandages around his bloody knuckles as if he didn’t know what his 100-year best friend was talking about – and he did, oh, he did.
Steve Rogers had been brooding around the compound for 31 days straight, and nobody knew why except maybe the bratty 19 year old who was the source of his problems. Said problems were mostly his fault, and were no closer to being solved because he’d been avoiding _____ during the entire month.
The truth is that Steve is well aware of how wrong it was for him to feel the way he did – how wrong it was to imagine you cuddled up beside him or giggling against his skin or playing with his hair the way you had when you were pinned up against the wall in the Louvre–
He takes to spending as much time in the gym as possible. Running, boxing, lifting, stretching, sparring. Scott had joked that Steve would be able to power the entire Compound with the amount of time he spent on a treadmill, but the supersoldier would rather run until his legs gave out instead of possibly making his relationship with you even worse – and he knows your schedule well enough to know that you don’t make it to the gym until 3 or 4PM, so Steve went early in the morning or late at night.
It is 11PM now. Bucky looks – is – pissed off. Steve guesses it’s not from the fact that he’s used most of the punching bags up over the course of four weeks and three days and more because of his generally negative disposition that’s been unwillingly flipping the team on its axis.
“Get over here,” Bucky asserts, arms folded and back pin straight. The hard look in his eyes has Steve restraining his questions, begrudgingly stepping away from the punching bag and picking up his discarded roll of bandages as he went to stand before him.
“What?” Steve asks, eyes on his bandaged knuckles, spotted with ruby and vermillion. “’m busy.”
“Yeah,” Bucky scoffs, ripping the roll of bandages from his hands. “I’m sure you are. Look at me, punk–”
“Whaddya want, Buck?” Steve snaps, and he doesn’t mean to but as soon as he rolls his shoulders back and tilts his jaw up he knows he’s revealed how irritated he really is. Bucky is painfully aware of Steve’s tells, which is quite literally the worst when Steve is trying to tell himself that he isn’t pissed off to hell and back.
“I want you to stop moping around like a hormonal teenager–”
Steve bristles at his wording–
“–and tell me what’s wrong! It’s not good for the team and it’s not good for you.”
Steve’s fists clench. The sting of broken skin doesn’t faze him much – amidst broken ribs and shattered bones and 5-inch knife wounds he welcomes something as small as it. Rather, it grounds him; gives him something to focus on as he turns on his heel, unable to face his friend of 100 years. Unable to see the disappointment, the disgust, that would surely cloud his face.
“I made a mistake, Buck,” Steve says quietly, jaw clenching.
Bucky stays quiet as Steve rifles needlessly through his gym bag, before collapsing on the bench next to it with a deep exhale. He presses his hands to his face, wiping his hands over his skin and up into his straw-coloured locks.
“Made a mistake,” he repeats.
“This got somethin’ to do with the kid?” Bucky asks cautiously. Steve stiffens – he’s on the right track, then. “I… know you haven’t been talking since Paris. She’s not angry at you for shouting at her, pal – I actually think she might be upset–”
“I kissed her, Bucky.”
Bucky’s words die in his throat, fizzing out like some firecracker that was lit with the promise of comfort and awe and instead only served to worsen spirits. Steve clenches his jaw, wound tight and stiff, tension bubbling and growing beneath his skin.
“Did she – did you–?”
“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” Steve says, appalled at what he was insinuating. “I didn’t – I mean, I–”
“So you did force yourself on her–?”
“No!” Steve reiterates. “I – we were goin’ after Marchand and she started pissing me off – got real mouthy and disrespectful – and I got angry and then she was pinned up against the wall… and then she was looking at my lips and–”
“For God’s sake, Stevie–”
“I gave her a chance to leave,” Steve says, once again tugging at his own hair in exasperation. “Gave her a chance to stop. She pulled me back to her.”
“And then what?” Bucky snorts, folding his arms. “You lock yourself in the flight deck during the flight home and then give her shit for doin’ her job?”
Bucky sighs in the way that he’s sighed since they were kids – the way he sighed when Steve did something particularly idiotic – like taking on guys 3 times his size, or faking his enlistment forms for the 4th time.
“… I got jealous, Buck.”
“… I know, pal.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
Bucky steps forward, grabs his shoulders like he uses to do when Steve was below 6 feet.
“You gonna take care of her?” He asks. “For real, I mean?”
“Don’t wanna do anything else,” Steve replies. “She deserves it.”
“Go get your girl, then, doofus.”
×
Steve’s only been in your room once before, and it had been to scold you.
(He’s never been quite so aware of how unsavoury your relationship was.)
He remembers the colour scheme – pink and gold, suitably princessy for someone as princessy as you are. There was a glitter lamp and a bookshelf with rows and rows of books upon it; a series of photos of the team pinned to the wall. He never saw pictures of your parents or close friends, bar that one friend of yours that you were always chattering away over the phone to. It was curious, but he never pressed.
He stands outside your door, more nervous than he had been when he was being strapped into the machine that made him a supersoldier, more nervous than he had been when the Chitauri were flooding through a portal above New York. Your name is on the door in cheap pink rhinestones, and the hallway is silent. It’s like something out of his nightmares (because yes, he does dream about you, and no, he won’t divulge anymore on the matter.).
He clears his throat, knocks once, twice, three times.
There’s a shuffling inside, and then– “Come in!”
He steels his nerves and pushes the door open, eyes flickering back and forth until they find you. Your back is to the door, and there’s a movie playing on the TV in front of you. You don’t even move as he closes the door behind him and continues into the apartment-sized bedroom, seemingly focused on the movie you were watching (Mean Girls, he remembers, because Sam, Natasha, Tony and Scott all know the script off by heart) – that’s not what makes Steve stop, though – it’s the tiny, tiny, barely noticeable sniffle that follows. His heart sinks.
“_____.”
And just like that, you whip around. He can tell you’re taken aback, even with all the training you’ve had to school your features. You put on that unimpressed face that you make when someone annoys you but he can tell it has no substance – because God, your eyes are bloodshot, lashes wet and clinging together. You’ve been crying, that much is obvious – if not from your appearance, then from your voice, still thick with tears. You stand instinctively from your bed as he nears, folding your arms.
“Steve,” you say. “Come to lecture me again–?”
“____–”
“–because I’ll have to check my schedule. I have a lot of people to piss off and this could really cause a rift in my time management–”
“_____,” he says firmly.
“What?” You snap, chest heaving, and he realises with a start that it’s because your eyes have gotten watery again and you’re trying your hardest to control it. “What do you want, Steve?”
He looks down momentarily. “I want to… fix whatever this is between us.”
“‘Fix this’,” you scoff. “Of course, ever the do-gooder.”
“This isn’t the time for sass, _____. Look, I messed up. I want to make things right–”
“Oh, didn’t you?” You snap. “You wanna know what’s messed up, Steve? I came here from a family where my parents used to cane me for forgetting French grammar, or starve me for missing my target during archery. I found a new family here – and I… I annoy them because I want to test how far I can push them before they get sick of me and throw me out – and for some reason they haven’t yet, you know?
“And then I saw you and I started to like you and you treat me like a toddler with attitude issues – and when you kissed me I thought I was finally getting somewhere, until you stormed off and acted like I was the antichrist because I tried to make you proud during a stupid fucking mission–!”
There are tears running down your face, but you don’t notice. There are tears running down his face, too. He notices them. He doesn’t wipe them away.
“_____,” he whispers. “_____–”
“–and then after a month,” you say, laughing humorlessly, “You knock on my door and say you want to fix things. And by fix I suppose you mean act like they never happened, right? But I can’t, because I – I–”
Your words get lost in the rising sobs that had crawled up your throat, making your bottom lip tremble and your fingernails dig crescents into your palms – and he swears to every god (Asgardian or otherwise) that his heart sinks to his stomach.
Steve had come for here one reason – to sort things out. To do it calmly and professionally. Whether it would lead to a mutual agreement to never talk about it again or the exact opposite he didn’t know, but he had been planning to keep his distance, at least until it was solved. In hindsight, he should’ve known that his resolve would crumble from simply being in your presence.
“Oh, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Fuck, c'mere, sweetheart. ’m sorry.’ m sorry.”
The fight is gone from you. You take four steps forward and then you’re in his arms, and it’s as if the stress just rolls off of both of your shoulders. You fit against him like a jigsaw piece, perfectly molded to his torso, and he can’t help but notice that the comforting trek of his hand over your back feels like muscle memory.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “So sorry, darlin’. Didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know what to do.”
Your arms tighten around his chest in response. He can hear your shaky breathing and the wet sniffle of your nose each time you inhale. He pets your hair and presses his lips to your forehead, hoping that this is enough, that he’s enough. Because he wants to be enough for you, and if standing in the middle of the room for 20 minutes with your arms around his abdomen and your head against his heart is the way to be that, then he’ll gladly do it.
And he does. When those 20 minutes have passed and your tears have almost completely dried, you lift your head from his chest and stare up at him.
“Steve,” you say wetly, “Please, I… I won’t be able to handle it if you’re just gonna cut me out again–”
“Never,” he says, heart plummeting, “Never again, you hear? I just – I didn’t know how to deal with this. With us. Didn’t want to… force you into anything.”
“Force me?” You echo, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Steve Rogers, if I wanted you to get off of me that night, there were more than 30 ways I could’ve done it.”
“I know, but…”
“I’m not a child, you know. Most children don’t know five languages and 17 ways to kill a man with a dessert spoon.”
“I know that, sweetheart,” he says, and he cups your face and gives you that stupid, dopey smile that – unbeknownst to him – had your heart doing flips for the passed year. “I just wanna be careful with you.”
And you smile back at him, all flushed and cute and full of life, cheeks still shiny and wet. You point at your TV. “Watch Mean Girlswith me?”
(Steve has watched this movie so many times that he almost completely knows every single word, so he spends more time marvelling over the fact that you’re laying on his chest, letting him play with your hair, letting him press kisses to your forehead and cheeks and lips.)
((…It’s been 100 years since Steve has felt like this. Let him be sappy.))