#all things go

[alicedopey]

Oh my…I think this story is going to breaks my heart. It already is, actually. Steve is so lost, he doesn’t feel like he belongs here and he has nobody to reach out to, nobody that can understand him and what he is going through. He truly needed this support omega in his life, even if he has not realized it yet.

But he is trying…and I am happy that she understands that. She doesn’t judge him and she just patiently listens. The last scene brought tears to my eyes. She pays attention, she is worried about him and she is trying everything to get him to feel better.

Now I admit I am scared because they are probably gonna fall for each other. Problem is, she is very professional and will fight against it. Then there’s Steve who just wants one thing: go back when he came from and it might be a problem at some point. Unless she is enough for him…and I hope she will be.

Thanks for the update, it was great 😊

All Things Go 2

Pairing: Alpha Steve Rogers x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~3.3k

Summary: It's been a few months since Steve was pulled out of the ice and immediately had to fight aliens with the newly formed Avengers. He is doing fine with all that, all things considered. Which is why he's so upset when he's suddenly benched from missions and forced to welcome a support omega into his home. He's fine!

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending), Steve actually having to deal with the PTSD and depression and anxiety he would so clearly have if he'd been through everything in the MCU, this one really focuses on the depression, patterns of disassociation, pretty troubling self-talk, use of a derogatory term for sex-workers, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, possible slow burn - we'll see. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Oh boy. This one might officially be my angstiest story. I know the competition is stiff, but Steve is really going through it here. Please be sure to read the warnings and take care of yourselves, my friends!

Thanks to @bigtreefest for doing a gut-check on the parts I wasn't sure about and always being a great cheerleader in general.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

The rhythmic slaps of his feet hitting the pavement were helping drown out all the noise in Steve’s head. He felt the air fill and leave his lungs as he pushed himself forward. His arms pumped at his sides, his hands curled into tight fists. He could go faster. He would. He needed to.

He wasn't sure what exactly had happened. One moment he'd been sitting across from you, the next he was on the floor. A moment later, he was on the street in front of his building, dressed in his running gear.

He’d reacted strongly to the news he was being benched for at least three months; he knew that much. It was embarrassing, losing it like that in front of a complete stranger. He was better than that. Stronger than that. He had no excuse to be that weak anymore.

He pushed his body harder, faster, needing the burn, the ache to be louder than everything else going on in his head. The scenery blurred beside him as he just focused on going further further further. Harder harder harder. He felt the never-ending cycle of pain and healing in his feet, his shins, his quads. The skin cells of his palms trying to grow back as his fingernails bit in. He hadn’t been able to decide if it was a good thing or not that nothing he did to himself ever left any marks.

He stopped short when the asphalt in front of him suddenly disappeared, wrought-iron guard rails standing in his way. Oh. He’d made it to the bay. He hadn’t realized he’d gone that far. He took a breath. Then another. He should turn around. He should go home. That’s what he should do. But he just couldn’t make himself turn around, head in the right direction. He briefly contemplated leaping into the bay, swimming to Staten Island so he could keep going, keep running. But the idea of the icy water engulfing him was too much to bear. 

“Holy shit! Is that Cap?!”

He grimaced, and the urge to take his chances in the water grew stronger. But only for a moment. Then he pasted a friendly smile on his face and turned around, waving at the onlookers. He posed for ten pictures before he felt like it wouldn’t be rude to pull away, his skin crawling the whole time, desperate to hide from the attention. He still couldn’t wrap his head around everyone having cameras in their pockets. Wanting to remember every moment like that was terrifying.

After waving goodbye to the growing crowd, there wasn’t really anything else to do but run back to the apartment. He dragged his feet as he turned around. It would be fine. He would be fine. He always was.

Not long after everything, S.H.E.I.L.D. had set him up in an apartment that occupied the entire 2nd floor of a brownstone in BedStuy. Agents lived in the units above and below him, although he wasn’t supposed to know that. He’d thought a few times about telling Fury that he might want to invest in a more subtle form of surveillance, but what would be the point? Nothing he said really mattered. To anyone.

He’d requested it when they first moved him out of HQ, a place in his beloved Brooklyn. But now, as he did his best not to look at the city as he ran past it—the skyscrapers, the neon signs, the national chains—he thought for the thousandth time how foolish that had been. The Brooklyn he loved was gone. And he would never get it back.

Too soon, he was slowing down in front of his stoop. He reminded himself to breathe. And again. And again. It would be fine. It was his home now. It was ridiculous to feel like he was scared of a place. It was just a series of rooms. It couldn’t hurt him. Not much could. Not in a way that mattered, anyway.

He pushed himself into the building, then up the single flight of stairs that brought him to his apartment. One last deep breath gave him the strength to open the door and walk into his home. Or, at least, the place where he lived.

“Oh, thank goodness!” 

Your exclamation brought his attention across his open-plan living room to where you were in his small kitchen. All of the cabinets were open, and there was a notebook lying open on the counter with a pen beside it. He quickly walked over to you. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?” you asked, looking around like you were seeing all of it for the first time. “Oh. I’m taking an inventory of your food and making a grocery list.” And then you didn’t pause long enough for him to follow up. “I know we haven’t had a chance to set up guidelines and establish boundaries, but while we’re working together, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t storm out of here without your phone. Especially when you’re in such a vulnerable state.” You took a deep breath. “I was very concerned.”

He looked at you, confused, the tension in your shoulders, the furrow in your brow. You’d changed, he noticed for the first time. You were no longer in the professional attire he’d greeted you in, but now stretchy leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that slipped off your shoulder. His gaze settled on your soft skin and the empty space at the juncture of your neck and shoulders where a bite mark would g– His gaze jumped back up to your face. “I wasn’t in a vulnerable state. I was running. For exercise.”

Your lips turned down into a thin line. You held his gaze in a way that made him both want to look away and somehow unable to. “Right,” you finally said with a sigh. “Well, in any case, I’d appreciate it if you brought your phone with you when you go out. Just in case.”

He nodded, mostly to placate you. It wasn’t that he left it on purpose. He just… never thought to bring it, hardly thought of it at all. He wasn’t used to having a phone in his home, let alone his pocket, so the idea of feeling lost without it was completely foreign to him. But everyone looked at him like he had two heads when he tried to explain that, so now he kept it to himself. It was just one of an ever-growing list of things he kept to himself.

But his nod seemed to be enough for you. You let out a sigh of relief and said, “Okay. Thank you.” 

He just nodded again. He didn’t know what else to do. 

You gave him a long, serious look. It made him want to run again. But he didn’t. “How are you feeling now?” you finally asked.

“Oh, uh.” Embarrassed. Ashamed. Anxious. On fire. Ready to bolt. “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.” 

You hummed in consideration and tilted your head in thought. “You know,” you started, your tone too even, “I’m actually not a big fan of that word. Fine. It’s a cover-up word. I think we can do better, don’t you? While we’re working together, describe our feelings in a different way.”

He swallowed the scoff, just dying to crawl out of his throat. We. Sure. He’d been brought in front of a gaggle of therapists after he’d come out of the ice. They’d said nonsense like that, too. It was all useless. “I honestly don’t know how else to say it,” he said with a shrug.

“Can you try? Today got pretty intense, you must have some feelings about it.” 

He sighed. The only thing that made him talk was the way you were looking at him, your face shockingly free of judgment. “I feel silly,” he said quietly, “to have made such a big deal over nothing. This is just the way my life is now. There’s nothing for me to do but accept it.”

You let out another thoughtful hum. “I’m not going to argue any of those points with you for now. But. I do want to say that I will never think you’re silly for having strong feelings about what’s happened to you and the way your life’s turned out. I can promise you that.” 

He felt something move inside his chest at that. His fingers drummed against his leg. That wasn't the reaction he was expecting. Everyone expected him to adjust and move on. But the look on your face was so sincere, so accepting, that all he could do was nod once, and then look away while clearing his throat. He glanced around again at all the open cabinets in his kitchen. “Why are you taking inventory of my kitchen?”

For the briefest moment, you looked sheepish, but it was gone in a flash, replaced by the determination he was already coming to associate with you. “Well,” you said, “I started it to give myself something to do while you were gone, but then I discovered that you don’t have any food, Steve.”

“I have food,” he said, purposely not looking at all of the bare cabinets and shelves. “It’s all in the refrigerator.”

He was surprised when you rolled your eyes. Not because it felt judgmental, but because it was casual. Comfortable. It’d been a long time since someone felt comfortable with him. “Yeah,” you said, “I found the protein shakes in the fridge. That isn’t food, that’s–” you paused to find the right word. When you did, it was dripping with disdain, “sustenance.”

He took a step back, suddenly self-conscious. “I need a lot of calories a day. The protein shakes are just easier.”

You looked at him thoughtfully. “Okay,” you said. “Noted on the calorie intake. And–” you paused as your gaze softened, “I understand things like meals and such feeling too hard, but, Steve, you’re allowed to enjoy things, that’s what makes a good life.”

He swallowed around a lump in his throat, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t—couldn’t—tell you that he was pretty sure that ship had sailed for him. Even if that was the truth. 

After a long moment of silence, you spoke again. “Listen, I’m not going to make you get rid of the protein shakes. But I am going to put in a grocery order,” you held up your small notebook, the page filled with your neat handwriting, “just so we both have some other options. And” you added, glancing at the time on your phone, “I think we should order in for dinner. What do you think about some Thai food?”

He cleared his throat as heat flooded his face. “I, uh– I don’t really know what I think about Thai food.” He braced himself for your inevitable reaction. Oh my god, seriously?? Or how have you never had Thai food???

But you didn’t ask either of those questions. You didn’t act appalled or scandalized or even surprised. You just cocked your head to the side and asked, “Do you trust me?”

He just stood and stared at you, his mouth wide open as he tried to find any words that might answer that question, even though he had no idea what that answer would even be.

Before he got any closer to figuring that out, you gave an embarrassed laugh, shaking your head. “Oh my god, why did I ask that? Of course, you don’t yet. It’s only been, what? Three hours since I barged into your house? Sorry. Let me ask this instead: Would you be okay with me ordering a bunch of different dishes, and you can try any of them that look good and see what you like?”

Your phone was already in your hand, swiping across the screen. “Sure,” he said, even as dread filled him. This had happened countless times since he’d woken up in this century. He’d be presented with something new to him that was apparently commonplace now, and then whoever it was (usually Tony) would watch him like a hawk to see how he reacted. To make sure he had the right reaction. It was so much pressure. He hated it.

“Okay,” you said, with an easy smile. “I’ll let you know when it’s almost here.” And then you went back to working on the grocery list.

Surprised at being seemingly dismissed, Steve realized it was probably time for a post-run shower.

After unpacking what looked like an actual mountain of food, you must have caught Steve’s deer-in-the-headlights expression because you quickly offered to make him a plate. You explained each dish to him as you added it to the plate, then handed it over with much less of a to-do than he was expecting. You turned your full attention to your own food and mostly left him alone. It was a relief not to have to put on a show of trying new things. It was almost a new experience to just be able to taste the food and form his own opinions.

But he still felt uncomfortable with you in his home, just eating silently next to you. What would Sarah Rogers have to say about his hosting abilities? “So, uh,” he tried, in between bites, “you said you’ve done this for three other SHIELD agents?”

You nodded as you swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve been called into SHIELD three different times, usually after missions gone wrong. To help the agents at the center of it process what happened and reset. And give them a safe space to do so.”

Steve mulled that over for a moment. He wasn’t sure what exactly there was to process. Bad things happened. The wrong people survived. And everyone ended up alone. What was there to reset? “Do you work exclusively with agents?”

“Oh no,” you said, shaking your head. “The majority of alphas I’ve worked with have been civilians. I’ve had long-term assignments with eight alphas in total, so far. You’re my ninth. I do other short-term work in between. But the long-term assignments are my favorite.” It had to be the exhausting nature of the day he’d had that was the reason he couldn’t hide his shock at that number. You furrowed your brow at him. “What’s so surprising about that?”

“Oh,” he ducked his head, trying to school his expression. “I just– My understanding was that part of the point of all this for you, for omegas, was to find a mate. I thought the long-term ones often ended up that way. I was just surprised you’ve done this so many times and are still…” he trailed off at the look on your face. The only word that came to mind was thunderous.

And that’s all you did for a very long moment, just stare at him silently. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, you said, “The point of all this is to help alphas, even the most bone-headed ones. I do this because I believe that everyone, no matter their designation, deserves to feel safe and happy and have access to the mental health care that will serve them best. So, no, I’m not just doing this as a way to get someone to mark me.” And then you took a large bite of food and chewed it so very angrily. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone do that before.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking down. He was fucking everything up, everywhere he went. He never tried to offend, but that was all he seemed to do. And it didn’t help that no one seemed willing to ever give him the benefit of the doubt. He’d been immediately branded as old-fashioned upon waking up, and he’d quickly gathered that that was thought to be not just bad, but malicious. But no one bothered to explain things to him without judgment. If given the chance, he would swear not to cross any lines. He just needed to know where the lines were first.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, “I didn’t mean– the omegas I used to know, they wanted different things, I guess. And maybe I’m not doing a good job of catching up, but I’m trying.”

He could feel your eyes on him for a moment that just stretched on. He didn’t dare look up to see what your face was doing. Then, he heard the air rush from your lungs, and you said, “And I probably reacted too harshly, so I’m sorry for that. There’s just– there’s a lot of cultural baggage around support omegas. Some people call us ‘hookers with advanced degrees,’ or other things that are a lot worse. But I really am just here because I want to help people. Steve, I want to help you.”

He let himself look up at you and found that your anger was completely gone, replaced only by sincerity. He nodded as he moved some food around his plate with his fork.

You let the silence last for a minute, then asked, “So, what’d you think? You like any of the food?”

He took the olive branch for what it was. “It’s good. Different, but good.” He pointed to a noodle dish, “I really liked that one.”

You smiled, and it lit up your whole face. “Pad Thai. That’s a good one. A classic.”

He smiled back at you, and it didn't feel entirely fake.

When it came time for bed, he went through the motions. He changed into sleep pants and a t-shirt. He brushed his teeth. He washed his face. He said goodnight to you and watched you go into the guest room. He even went so far as to sit on his bed for several long minutes. But he didn’t lie down. He couldn’t do that.

If he lay down, then he risked falling asleep. And if he slept, then he was pretty much guaranteed to have nightmares. And after the sort of day he’d had, they were sure to be especially horrific. No. He didn’t need sleep. He’d be fine.

So he sat. And he stared at the wall. And he listened and he waited. The house settled, and everything got quiet. When things had been so quiet that you must have been asleep for several minutes, he moved into the living room as quietly as he could. Not that this room was much better, but it was bigger and he felt less hemmed in. Now all he needed to do was kill time until the sun started to come up. Then he could go for a run, and if you caught him, he could just act like he was an early riser.

But the night stretched on in front of him. He tried to read, but he couldn’t focus. He had a TV, but he never really knew what to do with that, and he didn’t want to risk waking you up. Before, he may have passed the time drawing in his sketchbook. But he couldn’t stomach it now. So he settled in for a long night of staring at the clock.

He must have been so in his own head that he was startled by a noise in the hallway. He looked up to see you walking into the living room, dressed in soft-looking PJs, trailing a blanket he’d just purchased behind you. He gaped at you for a moment. “Oh, uh– I was just–”

You shook your head. “It’s okay,” you said, gently. “We can just sit, if you want.” You settled yourself on his couch before giving him the softest look he’d been on the receiving end of since his mother died. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

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[music]

Did you know…

[22luckybunny]

barricade for @mothercain 🤍

📸: me

[allthingsgofestival]

PEACH PIT BROUGHT EVERYTHING

[youngexwivesclub]

Reneé and Towa sharing a kiss at the end of Tummy Hurts at the all things go music festival

Via rmjroan on X

[twinsfawn]

ETHEL CAIN SHOT BY THE RESPECTIVE COLLECTIVE FOR ALL THINGS GO FESTIVAL

[astrangetorpedo]

LUCY DACUS performs “silk chiffon” at atg nyc 9/28/24

[paintinganangel]

Ethel Cain performing A House in Nebraska at All Things Go

[usersyd]

All Things Go | Cool About It

[elles-art26]

💕Chappell Roan💕 Almost got tickets to all things go but alas no live Chappell for me 😔

Here’s the reference image:

[krirebr]

All Things Go 1

Pairing: Alpha Steve Rogers x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~2.9k

Summary: It's been a few months since Steve was pulled out of the ice and immediately had to fight aliens with the newly formed Avengers. He is doing fine with all that, all things considered. Which is why he's so upset when he's suddenly benched from missions and forced to welcome a support omega into his home. He's fine!

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending), panic attack, disassociation flashback, Steve actually having to deal with the PTSD and depression and anxiety he would so clearly have if he'd been through everything in the MCU, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, possible slow burn - we'll see All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Oh boy. Here I am. Back on my angsty bullshit. This story was kickstarted by this ask. It's an inverse of the program at the center of Still Life, but not in the same universe.

This idea was helped along a ton by @stellar-solar-flare who helped me overcome my fear of writing a mostly canon compliant Steve and dipping my toes into an Avengers AU.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Steve checked his watch for a third time as he paced around his apartment. It was bad enough that he had to indulge this ridiculous idea, but she was late on top of it. Four minutes, now. He’d been pacing for the last fifteen. He’d tried to sit down while he waited, but the buzz of the adrenaline just under his skin had been too strong. 

It was the disrespect, that’s what it was, that really bothered him in her tardiness. That was going around lately. A whole team that refused to listen to him. And then had the gall to go to Fury behind his back after what happened during the last mission. And yes, of course, it was all couched in concern. But he saw it for what it was: a mutiny. And he’d been benched because of it. From all missions for the foreseeable future. So what was he supposed to do now? Thawed out 70 years in the future just to be stranded without a purpose.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst part was now six minutes late. A support omega. He’d scoffed right in Fury’s face when he’d “suggested” it. Of all the stupid, 21st-century things he’d encountered, this took the cake. Like there could possibly be some base alpha part of him that was so broken it could only be soothed by an omega with a degree in psychology. Ridiculous. He was fine!

But it’d been the kind of suggestion that didn’t come with the option to say no. Not if he ever wanted to get back on the team. So fine. He’d play nice, show her there was nothing wrong, and get her to sign off on him going back into the field. He’d be back in action in just a few days. And then he might be able to breathe again.

As he was about to start another lap of his living room, the doorbell finally chimed. He took a moment, so as not to seem like he’d been standing right next to it. Then he took a deep breath, pasted on that Captain America smile, and opened the door. “Hi,” he said, immediately stepping aside to give you room. “Come on in.”

“Captain Rogers,” you said with your own big smile as you introduced yourself, then picked up your valise from the ground beside you and stepped into his apartment. You were sharply dressed, professional. In how you held yourself, too. But your eyes were warm. And you were beautiful. It reminded him of some of the nicer omegas Buck used to go out with. There was a sharp pang in his chest. Like always, he ignored it. 

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home.” you continued. As if he’d had any sort of choice. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The security checks took longer than I’d expected.”

“No problem at all,” he said. Ten whole minutes. “I hadn’t even noticed. Here, let me put your bag in the room I set aside for you.”

“Oh, a guest room?” you asked. He stopped at your question, a little confused. Where else would you sleep? “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll definitely appreciate having my own space. But, sleeping arrangements are something we can discuss and customize to fit our goals. Sharing a bed can be really helpful if sleep is something you’re struggling with.”

Absolutely not. No. Definitely not. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he demurred. “With the serum, I really don’t require much sleep,” he called down to you as he quickly took your bag to the small guest room he’d finally furnished because he had to have somewhere to put you. It’d never occurred to him you’d want to share his bed. Did people really do that?

When he came back into the living room, you were still hovering by the door, your messenger bag slung over your shoulder and your hands clasped in front of you. You were looking around, taking in the blank walls, spartan furniture. Judging him probably. Well, it’s not like he’d had much time to decorate in between saving the world. What did any of that matter? “Can I get you anything to drink? Eat?” he asked.

“No, I’m fine,” you said, with a benign smile that seemed aggressively professional. “If you don’t mind, I’d love if we could sit and chat for a few minutes before we move on to anything else.” 

“Of course,” he said, with his own benign smile, as he gestured to the two couches that had come with the apartment. He waited for you to sit in one and then took a seat in the other, a mass-produced coffee table covering the chasm between you.

“First,” you said, your hands resting neatly in your lap, “I just wanted to make sure that my scent is one you’re comfortable having in your home on a long-term basis. I know that the real thing can sometimes be a little different than the sample you based your choice off of.”

Steve had just randomly grabbed one from the box he’d been presented with. He’d thrown it at Fury with a grumbled, “That one’s fine,” as he left the small room they’d given him to make his choice. He’d never even opened it.

He only got a vague hint of it now, sitting across the room from you. Floral maybe. He didn’t bother to take a deep breath, to catalogue it. You’d only be here for a few days max. Not enough time for your scent to permeate. So, it didn’t really matter what he thought about it.

“Yes, it’s fine,” he nodded at you.

“Good,” you said, your smile becoming slightly more genuine. “Well, first I can take a few minutes to talk through what it is we’re going to be doing here. I'm sure you've already gotten the whole spiel, but it might be helpful to hear it from my perspective. Get a feel for how I do things.”

You paused like you were waiting for a response so he nodded along. “Sure, sounds great.” He already knew what the program was. He already knew he didn’t need it. This was a waste of time.

“Mostly, I’m just here to help you as an alpha get back to feeling like your most grounded, best self. Stability and comfort are mainly what I’m here to provide. Listening and guidance too, if that’s what you want. This is fully customizable, very collaborative. I’m not a therapist, but I do have my masters in behavioral psychology. And I’ve been doing this for a while now. So whatever you throw at me, I can handle it. Basically, this arrangement can look like whatever the two of us want it to look like. The biggest requirement, on both sides, is honesty.”

He leaned forward. This was the in he’d been waiting for. “I really appreciate that. And I do want to be completely honest with you. I don’t want to waste your time. The truth is, this is unnecessary. I think people expect me not to adjust well, so they’re treating me like I’m not. But really, I’m fine. I’m doing fine. And I just don’t think I’m going to get much from this.” 

You didn’t say anything for a long moment, just looked at him curiously with your lips pursed. At one point, your eyes flicked down to where his hand was resting on his knee. Could you see the way it shook? His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d come out of the ice. He straightened it out so it laid flat on the denim of his jeans, willing it to be still. That didn’t mean anything.

Finally, your eyes left him as you turned to your messenger bag, pulling out a thin file. “Do you mind,” you asked, “if we talk about some of the concerns your team has for you?”

Steve’s jaw ticked. Not for. About. Fury had already done this. “I know their concerns. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

You shrugged casually, like it didn’t much matter to you either way. “I think it could be instructive to what we’re trying to do here.”

“Fine,” he ground out, but you didn’t react to his tone. You just opened the file. Before you had a chance to say anything, he leaned forward and spat out, “Listen, I know what’s in there. They think I don’t listen to anyone. That I’m a bad leader. That my plans are too risky. That I can’t keep anyone safe. Did I get everything?”

You bobbed your head a little, your expression impassive, your voice soft. “Not exactly. They did say that you refuse to listen to people. But they never said anything about you being a bad leader. Or not keeping them safe. They said the thing you’re most likely to risk on these missions is yourself. They’re worried about you.” He couldn’t hold in his scoff and you paused to look him in the eye. “Do you really jump out of planes without a parachute?”

He felt his eyes go a little wide like he’d been caught, doing what exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. He shook his head. “No, that’s not– You know what’s in my veins. If I were a normal man, sure, that’d be suicidal. But I have more strength, better reflexes, I heal faster. It’s not a big deal. It’s fine.”

Your brow furrowed as you leaned forward too. “But, you still get injured, don’t you? Even if it doesn’t last as long. You still feel all that pain. Steve,” and the way you said his name, for the first time, different somehow than the way any omega had ever said it before, he felt it like a knife to the heart, “why would you want to put yourself through feeling all that if you didn’t have to?”

He was up off the couch before he even realized it. The room was suddenly smaller than it’d been a minute ago. His mind was racing and he didn’t know why or how to make it stop.

“Captain Rogers.” You were standing right in front of him, holding your hands up at your chest, your palms out. “I’m sorry Captain, I didn’t mean to push. Are you alright?” All he could do for the moment was blink at you. “Hey, how ‘bout you take a deep breath with me, ok? A slow breath in through your nose.” 

He followed your lead and took a deep breath in. And, oh. He was struck by the scent of you. Lilacs and oranges. You smelled like spring.

“And out through your mouth,” you said quietly and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and you smiled. “Do you want to take a break?” you asked softly. “I have a few more questions, but I don’t need to ask them right now.”

He shook himself out of whatever daze he’d been in. “No,” he said, standing up straighter. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” 

He sat back down on the couch, but you hadn’t moved yet. “Are you sure?” you asked.

“Yes. I’m fine. Let’s go.” It was only at the look on your face, that he realized how short he’d been. He took a breath. “Sorry,” he said, forcing some calm into his tone. “I’d like to keep going.”

“Okay,” you nodded and finally sat back down across from him. You opened your folder again. “You were a little… vague in your intake questionnaire. So, if you're able, I’d appreciate it if you could just tell me a little about what you’ve been going through, how you’ve been feeling.”

He fidgeted a little in his seat and he saw you clock it. He stilled himself, then said, with as casual an air as he could muster, “If I was vague, it’s only because there really isn’t much to report. I’ve been fine.” He was using that word too much. He knew it. But he didn’t know how else to say it.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry.” You shook your head. “It’s just, on paper? You’ve been through a lot in what must feel like a very short amount of time. And that’s just the widely reported stuff. What’s in the history books and on the news. It would be understandable if you were struggling. Anyone would be.”

“Well, I’m not anyone, am I?” he snapped. 

“No, you’re not,” you said slowly, calmly, and he hated how unflappable you were. “You’re a hero.” He just barely stopped his lip from curling up into a snarl at that. He’d had enough. “But–”

“Listen, I just need to get back in the field, okay? I just need another mission. That’s all I need. We don’t have to– None of this will be necessary if I can just get back out there. I understand that you’re a professional and you’ll want to seem thorough, so we can wait a few days. But I’m fine and that’s what I need you to tell Fury. If the team doesn’t want to work with me right now, that’s– that’s okay. I’ll do solo missions. Whatever they want. I just need to get back out there.” He was pleading by the end of it. He could hear it in his voice. But this was important. He needed you to understand.

You just sat there for a moment, staring at him, your brow furrowed. “I–” you started. “I think there may have been a misunderstanding, Captain Rogers.”

“Steve,” he corrected, “please.”

“Steve, I–” you paused, your lips pursed. “I’m sorry, whether or not you eventually get back on the team, that doesn’t have anything to do with me. I don’t work for SHIELD. I can’t make that decision.”

“What? No. Yes, you do. You can tell Fury that I’m fit for duty.”

“Steve. I work for a support omega agency. I’ve helped a few agents before, but I don’t know Commander Fury. I’m not here to report back to anyone. I’m just here to help you.”

All he could do was shake his head. No, this wasn’t right. There had to be a way to get back to work. You had to be the key.

“I’ve been contracted for a three month period, with the option to extend as needed. I thought this had all been explained to you. I–” You looked at him, pained, like you were willing him to understand 

  ‘Three months to start’ had been said to him at some point in this whole process, but he hadn’t thought that’d been serious. He’d been sure there was a way around it. Sure that you were the way.

He wouldn’t be able to survive three months. That he was sure of. Not without something to do. Not without a purpose. Not without something to fight. The room was getting smaller again. Closing in on him. All of that time stretching out ahead of him, without any purpose, without any point to him. It was all closing in on him.

He tried to take a deep breath, but it didn’t do any good. It didn’t do anything. Didn’t get him any air. There wasn’t any air. He was pinned down. Under all the water. Under all that ice. He was so cold and he couldn’t breathe.

“Steve!”

He was distantly aware of someone calling his name, but no one would be able to get to him. He was too far under. There was too much ice. He’d done too much.

“Steve. Hey, Steve! I’m here with you. I’m right here, okay? I’m right here.”

No, that couldn’t be right. He was alone. All alone and–

Lilacs. How was he smelling lilacs? And oranges. Fresh and bright. Spring.

He blinked his eyes open. He didn’t know when he’d shut them. He was huddled on the floor in front of the couch. In the living room. You were kneeling in front of him, your hands held out in front of you, not making contact, but one of your wrists was extended. Right under his nose. 

When he made eye contact with you, you exhaled, like maybe you’d been holding your breath. “Hi,” you said, relieved. “You back with me?”

All he could do was blink at you, at first. Then he looked around. The blank walls. The prefab furniture. The apartment. He hated this place. He looked back at you. “Yeah.” It came out in a croak. “I– Yeah.”

“Is it alright if I touch you?” you asked, inching closer. “You can say no.”

He shook his head without even thinking. “Please.”

As you reached out to touch him, hug him, maybe, he collapsed into you. You let out a little “oof” but didn’t pull away. You just wrapped your arms around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched, really touched, like this. Not just in passing. Not in battle. Before the ice. Decades. Everything had been decades. 

His eyes were wet and he was so so tired. He felt wrenched open. Emptied out like there was nothing left. He exhaled in your arms and with it came a whisper, completely out of his control. “I just want to go home.”

You didn't say anything, but your grip on him tightened.

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Update from Chappell re: All Things Go NYC + DC

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