shieldretired

[shieldretired]

                              DOES SHE HAVE TO SAY IT LIKE THAT? Use simple past instead of simple present? As if she already knows what they're going to find? (Just a pile of ash, like with Bucky, with Sam, with almost everyone Steve cares about—) And does she have to remind him what they mean to each other? Steve white-knuckles the stick and clenches his teeth. 

                              "He wants to help people," he says simply, eyes on the sky in front and below and above them. The day is gray and dull. Like Steve's mood. "That's just his character. He can't stand idly by. And he knows more about those creatures than most others. You have enough grunts like me in the army, but you don't have enough Dean Winchesters out there fighting werewolves and vampires and whatever else goes bump in the night."

"It's one of SHIELD's, I just don't remember which one off-hand, Steve. I had to have an agent get access to the Comms logs for me since I'm not really SHIELD, and not really civilian," she explains softly.

"All very official-like. He's not the personable sort with Comms, by the way. He reserved that for the people he likes, like you."

She considers napping. She's sure it would make the time pass more quickly, but... insomnia has been an enemy for her as of late. She simply pulls one leg up to rest her chin on her knee, foot resting on the edge.

She'll pay for it later, but that's what painkillers are for.

"I never understood the hunting, did you? I always discussed it in-depth with him, but... it was hard to imagine committing myself to a lifestyle as dangerous as that. It felt riskier than anything in the military, or even in SHIELD."

[shieldretired]

                             STEVE GRINS BROADLY. He looks younger than he (biologically) is like that. "I never learned road signs," he declares, sounding carefree as he uses one hand to scratch Lucky behind the ear. "Actually, I learned how to drive in a warzone, not on the streets. Was way too poor back then to afford a car or anything like that. But," he adds, grin still firmly in place, "SHIELD never asked, and just handed me a modern driver's license. And they can pry that from my cold, dead hands." It's not Steve's fault that they just assumed he was already in possession of something like that before the war. Clint could tell them now, of course, but he doesn't seem like the type. He drives with a cast on his arm, after all.

                              Steve tries to imagine Clint with bow and arrow, shooting at — he doesn't know, some evil guys, perhaps? What does Clint do at SHIELD? But then Clint starts explaining what gay actually means these days, and he looks over Lucky's fluffy head at him.

                              "I'm most definitely not homophobic," he stresses, "and no, they didn't give me a list. Perhaps I should ask this Google thing. I don't want to accidentally insult people." Then he looks out of the window, mind spinning. Queer is probably still an insult. But is homosexual? Isn't that just a scientific term? Whatever; Steve can deal with using gay instead just fine. Actually, he loves it because it still has the connotation of merry to him. And people like him didn't have the merriest time with their sexuality back in his time.

His prickly annoyance is soothed just a smidge when Rogers apologizes, explains himself. While he’s right—it’s not fun driving with a broken arm, none of what Clint just said had been fun—Clint is still perfectly fine doing it. He does end up switching back to using his good hand to steer, though. Waits a few seconds before actually doing so, just to emphasize his point, but he does. It’s more comfortable, not to mention safer.

Never know when evasive measures might need to be taken. It’s best he’s prepared, just in case.

“S’fine.” He shrugs. “Probably better I drive, anyways. I dunno how much road laws have changed, since before you woke up, but Steve Rogers getting pulled over for something dumb, like not using a blinker, probably wouldn’t be great for optics. I don’t need Fury breathing down my neck about that shit.” Not that Clint cares very much about that—something that’s probably clear in his tone. Honestly, he might get Rogers to drive, at some point, so long as the guy’s figured out how the navigation system works, by then.

God, Clint wants to go back to bed. This sucks so bad.

“We’re gonna have to stop for coffee soon.” Is his giant thermos still full and steaming? Yes. Does he care? Absolutely not. He needs approximately forty gallons of liquid caffeine to get through this drive.

A brow lifts as he glances over at the good Captain. “Yup,” he pops the P. “Bow and arrow. You know, archery?” He gestures at himself with his free hand. “Master archer. Hawkeye. World’s Greatest Marksman. I got the posters saying so, and everything.” It’s not a lie—there are posters of him, back from his circus days, proclaiming him to be the World’s Greatest Marksman. His outfit back then was a lot more sparkly than it is now, but Clint still rocked it.

“…Yeah, no, don’t use gay like that, unless you wanna get cancelled. Gay is specifically for describing men that are only attracted to other men, and that’s the only thing you call them. No other terms.” A beat. “Unless you’re gay. Then I think you’re allowed.” Another beat. “Man, I hope they gave you the full rundown on what’s considered a slur, these days. Maybe a list, or something. God forbid Captain America come across as homophobic, or anything like that.”

[shieldretired]

                                   "YOU WILL KICK MY ASS AT POKER?" He barks a laugh as he wipes sweat off his forehead, then pushes the door to the men's locker room open. It's empty, luckily. "Boy, we'll see that. I played poker before you were even born." Well, he also cheated at poker before Dean was born, but he doesn't need to know this, right? Pulling open his locker, Steve grabs his gym bag with a smirk. "Alright, get some Chinese — but please, for the love of god, remember that I'm Irish white and will die if you get anything spicy — and I'll pick up some beer on my way home. Rendezvous at 7 PM?" he asks as he puts his leather jacket over his sweaty shirt. He'll shower at home. More privacy.

"She can seize this ass... wait, that came out wrong," he mutters to himself, ears burning at the misspoken grumble.

He does fully agree that Natasha is far more terrifying than anyone else he's ever met, and that includes Hill. Granted, she's not scarier than a demon, but that doesn't count. She's the scariest human and/or mutant, though.

He's frankly glad STRIKE pays him no mind. He's sure he could keep up with them easily, but he's also pretty sure his shrink would have to up his dosage to compensate.

"You are asking the wrong twenty-something for one. Two, bull fucking shit you'll obliterate me at poker. We are getting an obscene amount of Chinese takeout, and then I'm gonna kick your ass to San Francisco and back in Poker."

[shieldretired]

                                 "OH, SO WHAT I'M HEARING HERE IS that you want me to take you to New York a little before the party and go shopping with you there. Turn it into a mini vacation or something like that." His grin is audible in Steve's voice even though he's still staring at the screen and the passionate sex scene between Dr. Sexy and Dr. Poppolo. 

                                  "And I mean sure, why not. Haven't been to New York since punching aliens." Too many memories, too much whiplash from staring at something and expecting it to look different. It shouldn't be as bad if they stick to Manhattan, though, even if Steve thinks only haughty assholes (see: Tony Stark) live there. 

Dean barks a laugh at being denied bowler hat privileges, but really, he was not the right type for those hats. His face wasn't round enough and his head wasn't bald enough. He wasn't a villain, either. He was tempted to see about setting off one of those passionate speeches, though.

Maybe he was a bit of a villain.

Dean does enjoy the fact that Steve is snuggling into him, though. Even though the other man is bigger than him on all accounts, he happily wraps an arm around his shoulder, and thumb rubs small circle on the ball joint.

"It's New York, I'm sure there's a few excellent costume shops, probably movie or musical grade type shit. If not, we order online and hope for the best, or find someone on the West Coast to bother."

[shieldretired]

                              IF ANYONE EVER FINDS OUT ABOUT THEM DATING, Dean's fashion choices will be scrutinized and put under the microscope along with everything else he says or does because the world is crazy like that, and people treat Steve like he's a second Humphrey Bogart or something. This is the reason he's glad nobody is assuming anything right now. Let them explore this tender, new thing a little more before the vultures attack.

                               "I do have a washing machine, you know. I don't have to go to the river anymore to get clean clothes, I can just stick them in there and push a button. There's no need for a month's worth of flannels," he points out as he ushers Dean out of the apartment and down the staircase. 

"I assure you, Vogue is never going to do or say anything about me. I'm just a mutant and a grunt for SHIELD. My only claim to fame is being on the FBI's Most Wanted List," he snorts softly. He thinks he remembers seeing something about the article in question, but he also just wasn't paying attention at the time. Superheroes weren't even on his radar aside from comics until the Battle of New York.

There was enough in his life at the time aside from aliens.

"That sounds like a fantastic plan, actually. You'll run circles around my ass, eat half your body weight in breakfast foods and get you enough flannel for a month's worth of clothes."

[shieldretired]

// Steve once put pink hair dye in the shampoo bottles of all his STRIKE team, and when they came back from the shower looking horrified, he took a selfie with them and posted the pic on the SHIELD intranet with the caption “Captain Ken and his Barbies”

Why? Because they drew a dick (with sharpie) on him during their flight back from a mission and he was asleep. Petty revenge is something Steve will always enjoy

[shieldretired]

                                 "I DON'T THINK THAT FIGHT WOULD BE FAIR." Steve's way stronger than an ordinary human, after all, and even though he has learned by now how to control his super strength, he doesn't want to accidentally harm the only guy he sorta considers a friend, or at least an acquaintance in this century. 

                                  He kinda wants to reconsider this when Clint starts spewing nonsense about Steve being oh so innocent. "Golly gee!" Steve says, "Does this mean you have seen naked lady parts before marriage?" He reaches for his chest in mock shock before he looks around for another piece of paper he can use for a second sketch. He finally finds a pad with the SHIELD logo in the upper corner, and starts drawing with his ballpoint pen. "You realize I've spent a couple of months with two dozen USO girls, right? We traveled all across the country. Cramped spaces everywhere. I might have seen more naked boobs than you have," he adds as he pushes the hyper-detailed drawing of a female breast across the counter. There is even a small mole next to the nipple.

“Hey.” He’s not pouting. He’s not. “I’ll have you know, it’s been at least a month since I’ve had a concussion, thank you very much.” That may or may not be due to the fact that Clint’s been benched for a few weeks and is now stuck in this cabin with Rogers. “But, hey, if you wanna go a few rounds and try and give me a new one, I’m open to the idea.” Is it obvious that he’s going a little stir-crazy already? “We’ll have to let Coulson know if you manage it, though. He’s got a whiteboard counter for it and everything. ‘It’s been X-number of days since Clint’s last concussion’.” It’s said with a ridiculously pleased grin on his face, but Clint is actually serious about that. The whiteboard counter exists.

Sure, Clint’s the one that gave it to Coulson—more like stuck it in his office behind his desk when he wasn’t looking—but Coulson keeps it up. Looked Clint dead in the eye as he erased a twelve, one time, and replaced it with a big, fat zero. The disappointment and exasperation were palpable.

A brow raises at the additional doodle. “That is offensive. I am offended—my eyes are a completely different shade of blue. How dare you?” He then smiles innocently at the good captain. “You covered her boobs up because you don’t know what they look like in real life, huh? That’s alright, big guy. We’ll get you to second base one day.”

[shieldretired]

                               HE RAISES A BROW AT HER. "Some database, hu?" he repeats. "Sounds ominous… And a little illegal." Not that Steve minds, though Nora has always seemed eager to stay on the side of the law, while Steve has gladly dipped his toes into illegal ponds whenever he thought the rules or the law were stupid. 

                                His eyes flicker to the phone screen but dart away quickly after seeing the coordinates. He doesn't want to know what Dean wrote. He doesn't want to see the familiar way he has texted her. Punching in the numbers of the coordinates, he adjusts their path a little and then activates autopilot. "Four hours and 19 minutes," he tells Nora. "If you want some shuteye, now is the best time."

"Well, you did good at the time, and now you're better. I'll take it as a win," she replies, buckling in and taking a breath.

She's not the biggest fan of flying, and definitely not in the jets. She imagines the jets are smoother and quicker, but the fact remains. There were... a lot of plane crashes during that Moment.

Blip.

Snap.

Horror.

"Hm? Oh. Yes," she answers after they've risen into the air, holding out her phone with last known location.

"Here, this was the communication Dean sent once he arrived. I grabbed it from... some database."

[shieldretired]

                     "I THINK OUR SHRINK WOULD TELL US TO SEIZE THE DAY OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT. I'm under strict orders to leave the apartment at least once a week after work. Well, those were Natasha's orders, but she's even scarier than my shrink, so I comply. Survival instinct." He grabs his towel and heads toward the showers with Dean in tow. The STRIKE team is roughhousing when they walk past them, but they thankfully ignore the two men. Steve hopes the locker rooms will be quiet. He doesn't feel comfortable with star-struck baby agents around when he's in his underwear.

                     "We can go eat out or catch a movie somewhere. Or you pick up a movie from those rental stores on your way over, and we watch that. I can also obliterate you at poker," Steve adds with a grin. "I don't know, what else do twenty-somethings do in this century?"

"Well... no, you don't, but still. That shield is a fuckin' target. You blend in better without it," he counters. He'll let Steve bring it along, sure, but he'd rather it not be out in the open unless needed. This isn't the Battle of New York. Hunters aren't supposed to make a splash.

He glances over as STRIKE teams walk in, shoulders tensing up on reflex. Too many reminders of the military, of John and his endless drills and tests and training. He swallows down the ball of fear that twists in his throat and focuses back on Steve.

"Pff, nothing planned. Have you met SHIELD? I swear, they're intent on regimenting my off-time as well as when I'm on the clock. Much as they pay me... well, can't blame them. You're more interesting than the walls of my bedroom."

[shieldretired]

                     "NO, I DON'T WANT YOU IN A BOWLER, EITHER. Let's just stick to the cowboy gear, hat-wise. We'll call it artistic freedom, and if anyone dares to question that, I got a 30-minute speech about that ready for immediate distraction." And Steve's passionate speeches are feared, so he doubts they'll get into trouble for not showing up in a 100 % fitting costume.

                      Sliding down even lower on the couch until he can put his socked feet on the coffee table and his head on Dean's shoulder, Steve looks back at the screen. He kinda missed the last 10 minutes, but he's still pretty sure he knows what's going on with these doctors. "Is there a cowboy shop in town, or do we need to order this stuff online?" If someone knows this, it's Dean.

"Pff, you were in the military. I call bullshit," he grins back. He's not about to apologize.

Especially when Steve goes and squeezes his thigh like that doesn't make the whole thing worse. He has so little sympathy for his tummy troubles right now. Mostly.

He still feels sorry for the guy. He's sure that doesn't happen too often.

"Poor thing, having pizza belly like that. We'll fool around once you've digested at least one of those pizzas. Butch Cassidy did have a bowler hat, and yeah, allegedly they died together in a shootout. You'd look ridiculous in a bowler hat, and honestly, so will I, but if we're avoiding painful memories, I'll make the sacrifice like the good boyfriend I am."

[shieldretired]

                              STEVE'S HEAD SNAPS FORWARD WHEN BUCKY SUDDENLY LETS GO OF HIS HAIR, but he only has time to keep himself from smashing his nose against Bucky's jaw, and then he already feels a sharp, ugly pain radiating from his left hand, which only fuels the speed of his knee to get Bucky to fucking stop with this bullshit, but then inhuman strength rips Steve's hand off his throat, and then the world explodes. Steve has been hit by the metal arm before, of course, he has, but a) there has always been some sort of protective uniform that had dampened some of the power, and b) he'd been a super soldier then with super muscles and super stamina and super resistance, and right now, he has neither.

                               All the air leaves him as he involuntarily curls around the horrible pain to try and lessen it like that, and honestly, he doesn't even register the kick to his shoulder. Jesus fucking Christ. Steve coughs briefly because he at least gets air back into his lungs, even if each breath hurts like a son of a bitch. He needs to blink a couple of times to clear his vision from black spots and some tears of pain that automatically gather in the corners of his eyes. Then he rolls onto his back because the longer he stays curled up, the worse it will feel later, so he gets it over with quickly and stretches out. Holy mother of God, his torso feels like it's on fire. He can't wait to find out what color his stomach is going to have in a couple of hours. "Yeah," he wheezes, "I can give you a minute. But this means I won, just saying." He's not going to turn this into a big deal. Bucky kinda forgot or was triggered or something like that, but it's not his fault. Nobody died. 

yeah, he'd feel bad about all of this later, but bucky's reservations about really hurting steve are starting to rattle out of his head like fine grains through a sieve. something much more malignant and mean rouses through him, a livewire going taut, electricity; though he has the wherewithal to let the heat sensors disengage to avoid losing control of them, the winter soldier in him, a contained animal, lashes at it's chains. his training is instinctual, and as easy as flipping a switch.

it's still bucky, of course. the soldier wouldn't front to protect him unless he was well and truly threatened, and he could never perceive steve as a threat. but the need to survive is a well-fed beast, and some wires in his belly start balling up. it's not unlike a flinch reaction, a quick pivot and drop into icy, prickling panic.

he lets go of steve's hair. his wrist, too, very quickly. the prosthetic hand grabs the web of his hand wrapping around (budging into) his throat, pressing hard in synchroneity with the vice that sucks some of the air out of his lungs. too tight. way too tight. he feels the bones and joints under his digits, the sense of pressure, though not the heat of his skin or the weight of his hold, or he might've backed off and told steve that it was enough, that he was going to hurt him. fear wasn't something that played at bucky's tender spots, though, it didn't remember how much he loved steve, wouldn't let him.

his thighs seize around steve's leg, as tight as he can get them, trying to at least slow the encroaching thrust of his knee too close to his junk. the prosthetic tears steve's grip off his neck, and he's going too far (boy, is he going to feel like shit about it later)--instead of launching steve in some judo throw, he balls it into a dense fist and whacks him right in the gut with enough force he feels all his abdominal muscles clench into his own intestines.

this was--this was escalating, because of him. bucky lifts one leg (grunts when it lets steve's knee near his groin) far back, an idle demonstration of his elasticity, and punches his heel as hard as he can into steve's shoulder. when it creates space, he scrabbles back on the flats of his palms until his back nearly hits an opposite wall, and... stays there. rubs his hands over his brow, clenches his jaw, does his best to focus, breathes in and out, slow-like, the way sam taught him.

' i need a minute. '

[shieldretired]

                     STEVE MAKES A FACE. "Well, you didn't get called World's Worst Dressed Superhero by Vogue," he mutters. Steve doesn't even really care about fashion (except his firm stance on not wearing any pants with holes in them), but he got that 'award' approximately one month after being thawed out, so it had come at a very vulnerable time for him, and he just doesn't want a repeat of that. Or any more photoshopped images of him in questionable outfits glued to his locker.

                     "Okay, fine, fine," he relents. Now he almost has the urge to get out of the shirt again, but the fact is: he doesn't have anything else to wear. Steve's wardrobe isn't that extensive. There's still plenty of space (which is why making room to offer Dean an empty drawer won't be hard). "How about a run, then breakfast, and then you show me where you buy your comfy flannels so I can get some of my own?"

Dean snorts loudly at the declaration, and half wonders if there's not anyone spying on Steve. It'd make sense, really. If he was heading up a secret agency and had revived a superhero from seventy years ago, he'd have at least one agent in the building, if not on the floor.

He'll have to ask if Steve has considered the possibility, and maybe booby trap anything he wants kept private.

He pokes his head back out now that he's dressed, comparing their fits. He can see Steve's nipples through the shirt. Not that that's a bad thing, but damn, the chafing. Not comfortable in the slightest.

"Sure, it's fashionable, but it sure as hell ain't comfortable. Jesus, you're a superhero, not a model. A size up would be way more comfortable for you, and last longer besides. And you don't have to wear whatever they've issued you. God knows I don't, much to their grief. I hate those damned uniforms," he mutters in dismay, nose scrunching.

"Your uniform is tight enough all on its own. SHIELD does not need to add beefcake to your resume... no matter how hot you are."

[shieldretired]

                       STEVE JUST STARES AT BUCKY, hand outstretched, one brow raised in a very dad-like fashion, until Bucky finally hands the bottle over. Thank the Lord for small miracles; Steve won't have to buy an expensive cleaner for his upholstery. He leans sideways to put the mead on the coffee table and then wiggles under the blanket. Yeah, just one wrong move, and he'll drop off the sofa; he's already precariously lying right at the edge. At least the couch is long enough to stretch out completely, or his knee would have killed him, too.

                        "Hu?" A brief, bewildered look is directed at Bucky's arm. "Buck, that's your decision. If you feel more comfortable without it, then take it off. If you wanna keep it attached, then leave it on. I don't mind either way." It's Bucky's arm, after all, even if it's made of metal. Steve sees it as a part of his friend, but he can understand why Bucky would want to take it off now and then. It must be pretty heavy, and it's certainly not as soft as an arm made of flesh and blood. Steve doubts he'd ever use it as a pillow, but he wouldn't be opposed to having it wrapped around his body or something like that.

sue him, but at his most vulnerable like this (he wasn't even half as bare than he would've been if he'd been literally bleeding out, guts dashed open on the end of a fine knife), bucky wants closeness. he wants to feel like a kid again, like the only time he was ever happy in a way where he didn't feel like he was just treading a heightening waterline.

if it was someone else, someone not-steve, or if he hadn't ever bothered to expel all his old, bad blood, he would've sooner crowded off into a quiet room or leap out his fucking window. but it's steve. bucky is wholly soft for steve, painfully rent open, always.

he does as he's told, obediently shuffling all his weight over--which is really only cumbersome because of the arm, and he considers detaching it for steve's comfort, who wanted 90 pounds of cold, dense, impenetrable metal sprawled across them? the warmth of his body is more soothing than the blanket, and part of bucky wishes he had some penny comic or magazine to page over with him. he's snapped out of the thought when he requests the bottle.

bucky looks at him, then the mead, obviously considering his options. finally, he acquiesces, sighing indignantly about it all. his natal fingers move to the seam of his metal deltoid, where it connects to the plate affixed at his chest and shoulder. ' d'you want me t'take this off? '

[shieldretired]

                           "YEAH, I DID IT ON PURPOSE, but I had also never flown a plane before that, so chances are I would have crashed it even if I had tried to land it safely somewhere." He hits another couple of buttons, waiting for the engines to warm up enough to get them off the ground. Steve shoots Nora a look that might be encouraging. "Don't worry. SHIELD gave me extensive flight training after that. No need for puking." Even though Steve had no intention of going easy on her if they hit turbulence. Pulling the handle back, he slowly maneuvers the quinjet into the air above the Avengers compound. "Alright, do you have any coordinates whatsoever?"

She takes a seat and stares at him flatly.

"You also did that on purpose, so I know your flying is better than most. I tried to 'head-shrink' you because it was a traumatic event that removed you from everything and everyone you'd known," she counters with a fond sigh.

She'd kill to go back to things as simple as that. Everything would change now. Everything had changed and there were too many grieving people trying to figure out how to keep going. As far as she knew, not a single person had not lost someone so far. No one was spared, young or old, rich or poor. Parents lost children, children lost parents, and it was all so quiet because not even the animals were spared.

"C'mon, start doing that flying, and know I'm throwing up in your shoes if you do a barrel roll."

[shieldretired]

                         BUCKY TASTES OF BEER AND THE CHICKEN CUTLET HE HAS HAD AT THE RESTAURANT. That, and something else, probably himself. It's intoxicating. Steve wants more of it, so he carefully opens his mouth and grants Bucky's tongue entrance. It's hot and wet, and makes a sharp thrill shoot down his spine. What started as chaste soon turns into something more exciting and hot; Steve's hand remains on Bucky's face, cupping his cheek, his jaw, a thumb brushing over the corner of plush lips whenever Steve has to pull back a little to get some air into his lungs. The other hand stays in his own lap, clenching into a tight fist the longer they kiss, and the hotter he starts to feel all over.

                          When Steve becomes aware of his semi-erection (not that you can see terribly much with the way he's sitting with one bent leg on the couch), he pulls back with a little gasp. His face is flushed red like he's sporting a fever (his skin would definitely feel like it, too), and his pupils are blown and glassy. His lips tingle. Bucky looks absolutely snackable, and Steve would love nothing more than to keep kissing him, but if they don't stop now, he doesn't know what else will happen. And they kinda agreed to take things slow. "Okay," he says, pulling his hand from Bucky's face to run it through his hair and messing it up completely. "Uhhh, it's late already." Well, a little after 9 PM, but Steve is old and tired now and usually sleeps around 10. What? He's a morning person; he eats breakfast at 6, even on Sundays. "I have a guest room if you're more comfortable with that, but you're more than welcome to sleep in my room. It's got a memory foam mattress."

' whaddya mean? ' gripes barnes, just barely restraining another shit-eating, boyish grin. it presses into the corners of his face, wrinkles his eyes, lines two dimples in the hollows of his cheeks framing his soft lips. very few things brought him more joy than teasing steve--and in turn, being teased, he supposed. he could take most of what he dished out, a long-suffering skill garnered over the years of swinging his little fists at other kids, bullies. pa was always so disappointed. ' i'm adorable. '

if only steve knew what he really thought of himself. hell--he probably had an idea, and it was easier to simply ignore, because bucky would bristle if he cracked that eggshell.

the heat of steve's face so close to his, his soft breath fanning over his skin, runs a little chill down bucky's spine. suddenly, he's all pinpricks and needles, as terrified as he is eager. he reaches out, a little needy, tentatively restrained, thumbing the edge of one strong deltoid muscle. steve was still so solid, grounding; it kept bucky's head clear, feeling he was there and real beneath his fingers. they furl into the cloth of his shirt, but with no real insistence--just to hold. the first kiss is gentle and sweet and close to chaste, warm, but certainly taken with care. bucky's eyes shut, though he manages a surreptitious glance at steve's face before they close, determined to imprint him into memory. (like he didn't already know.)

the hungriest part of him wrests with the part that subsisted off fear. he wants more, and less, paradoxically. he balances somewhere between, and hope that'll keep him paced and measured. the second kiss lingers, draws a quiet little groan out of bucky, flared through his nose and muffled. he tentatively swipes the tip of his tongue at the part of steve's mouth, seeking gentle exploration.

[shieldretired]

                            "I DON'T THINK I HAVE TO FIGHT FAIR WHEN MY OPPONENT IS A WEREWOLF." Why does he even have to point that out? He also used the shield to fight aliens. That's just the same (except for the extraterrestrial part). "But fine, I'll leave the shield behind and use some fancy special bullets." But if Dean complains one time about him barging into a dangerous situation head-on –– well.

                            Noise near the door makes him look over; a group of men from another STRIKE team saunter in, probably wanting to use the gym for some workout. Steve's eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, then back to Dean. The sweat on his arms and back has dried during their little conversation. "Alright, let's hit the showers. You wanna come over after work, or do you have anything planned?"

Demons are not a first hunt type of bastard. More experienced hunters than Dean have taken on demons and ended up dead or worse. He doesn't care how resilient Steve is, he's not taking him on a demon hunt or willingly searching one out. Only suicidal hunters seek demon hunts. He's not suicidal right now.

"C'mon, we've all seen you with the shield, Rogers. It'd be an unfair fight," he retorts, flipping him the bird in response to being called 'Captain Supernatural'. Stupid nickname, and he will punch anyone other than Steve that calls him it.

"But yeah, you get bit, you become a werewolf. S'why you keep a gun on you with silver bullets to finish 'em off. Plus, that shield makes you a goddamn target. Everyone on this planet knows who that shield belongs to."

[shieldretired]

                               "UH-OH, WHAT ARE YOU—" The overexcited dog manages to wriggle through the two front seats and over the center console despite Steve's best efforts to keep him in the backseat (well, maybe not his best efforts, but he doesn't want to hurt Lucky), and then Steve has a dog paw in a very sensitive area and a wet tongue inside his ear. He shudders at the moisture, then manages to save his dick from further harm by wrapping a strong arm around the fluffy animal and pulling him onto his lap completely, making him sit down there. Steve can only see half of the street now (and taste a lot of dog fur), but Clint will be free to drive safely.

                                "Oh, I didn't mean—" He wipes his mouth to get dog hair from his lips and then reaches for the seatbelt, buckling himself in after some wriggling. Lucky's seatbelt consists of Steve's arms. "Sorry, I didn't mean to insult you. I just remember driving with a broken arm, and that was no fun at all." Especially because an SS tank division tried to tear them to shreds. "But yeah, I guess the cast helps." Steve wouldn't know; by the time they came back to HQ and the doctors wanted to put a real cast on his arm, the bone was already healed.

                                Steve then does a double-take. "Did you say bow? Like, um… You know, bow and arrow? Or did that word change meaning during the last seventy years, too? I was told that I couldn't use gay for merry anymore."

Once Rogers starts scratching at Lucky’s ears, Clint gives up on trying to hold the dog back. If Mr. American Dream wants a lapful of dog, he’s more than welcome to it. Lucky loves meeting new people, and he’s a great judge of character, despite only having approximately two braincells to rub together. So long as the dog doesn’t go liking Cap better than Clint, and Rogers doesn’t let Lucky block his view while he’s driving, the guy can give the dog all the loving he wants.

He snorts at all the cooing, but doesn’t comment more than a quiet, “Damn straight.” Because he’s right—Lucky is the bestest of boys, and everyone should know it.

“Yeah, they can do a lot, nowadays.” Whether or not there will be Wi-Fi at the cabin in the middle of nowhere is something that’ll absolutely effect how useful said phone will be, because Clint doubts SHIELD has shelled out enough money to give the good Captain enough data to last however long they’ll be there.

He won’t burst that bubble just yet, though.

Rolling his eyes, he takes another long drink of his coffee as he pulls away from the building, pointedly steering with the arm in a cast. “Got myself here, didn’t I?” It’s a smidge on the snippy side, Clint’s annoyance about the entire situation—the cabin, the babysitting of a national icon, waking up early, and now the doubting of his capabilities—leaking into his voice.

“You don’t gotta worry about me, Cap. If I managed to use my bow,” with a 200 pound draw weight, thank you very much, “hit my marks, and finish my mission without the cast, I can definitely drive us to the murder cabin in the woods with it.” He knows that’s not where the cabin actually is, he just feels like framing it like that gets his point across better. “…Seatbelt.”