#i blame the one mutual who got REALLY into soap and ghost a while back

[meanderfall]

thinking of causing psychic damage to everyone who follows me by reblogging call of duty posts

[icarus-does-fall]

The actual cod fic I've been meaning to write 💪

Aka I wrote the first paragraph like... two weeks ago, then did other things and then wrote the rest of it in two hours ^_^

Anyway it's a poly fic, Ghost, Roach and Soap- it's also fluffy as hell an super sweet

Please enjoy <3

.𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤..𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤.

Ghost, a cold man, un-emotional, harsh, hostile, a killer. Those that saw him walking the halls moved out of his way, people walked on eggshells around him.

Simon, a warm man, a man kept hidden from everyone except a select few. One who smiled, laughed, had a home and melted at his lovers’ touches. Simon who carried in all the groceries and demanded morning cuddles even if it made him and others late.

So how did a man as harsh as Ghost, find the people that broke past his walls, to make his two sides collide?

.𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤. .𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤.

“MacTavish!” Price shouted, and it was in that moment Soap knew he fucked up.

Soap wasn’t stupid by any means, he was the 141s demolitions expert, a little bit of a maths genius and he knew multiple languages. Yet he was also a child at heart and he couldn’t resist the occasional prank.

“Capt'n! Is a pleasure, whit kin I do ye fur?”

Price scowled. “Ya bloody nearly blew half of the barracks, an’ now the other half is covered in glitter- What exactly were you trying to achieve there?”

“Jist a wee bit o’fun Cap’ naethin’ too serious… Ah might've gaen a bit o’erborard but naebody ‘round here seems to ken how to lighten up- ‘cept maybe Gaz an’ Roach. Place jist needed some colour is aw Cap.”

Price's scowl deepened before he simply shook his head and sighed. “You're on clean up duty till the barracks are back to normal- Ghost is supervising you and the rest of ya muppets to make sure nothing else breaks.”

“Shite- Ghost? Why can't… uh… literally anyone else keep an eye oan us? Swear that man hates our guts, he’d raither shoot us than listen tae us talk.”

At that Price let out a gruff laugh and clapped Soap on the shoulder before sending him on his way towards the rest of the so-called detention group. “That's the exact reason, Ghost will keep ya muppets in line cause I got other stuff to take care of instead of babysittin’.”

Soap merely sighed he knew there was no getting out of the punishment that Price had set up for him and the rest of the “troublemakers” on base. He marched his way towards the barracks, as he ran into Gaz, Nikolai and Alex all marching towards their doom as well.

“How’d ye lot pish off Price tae end up wae Ghost in detention?”

Nik simply rolled his eyes as Soap joined in with the little group walking towards the barracks for clean up. “It's all your fault that we’re in this mess MacTavish.”

Soap baulked, “My fault? Whit gies ye that idea?”

“Because we were helping cover your ass- And now John is pissed at me so I’ve been kicked out of bed-”

Gaz cut in before Nik could keep talking. “I'm here cause I was stupid enough to think we wouldn’t get found out, so not really on ya, its more of uh mutual screw up but still, we could’ve done better we’re stuck with fuckin Ghost of all people now… I know he's on our team ‘n all but he scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

Alex however just rolled his eyes and continued on walking, while he loved his team and the occasional chaos they all could get up to, he knew the punishment they were facing was all their faults in the same faction or another and there wasn't any true reason to argue (or blame) it all on Soap. No matter how much Nikolai wanted to simply cause Price kicked the poor guy out of bed.

Soap tsked and walked ahead of the group, slinging his arm around Gazs shoulders with a grin. “You lot worry tae much, surely a wee Ghosty can't be tae harsh.”

The rest of them exchanged glances and laughed at how optimistic Soap was, for an intelligent guy, sometimes he was kinda stupid. But of course that's what made him ever so loveable, by the lads and the ladies.

Not long after their short chat in the hall they made it to the barracks and there was Ghost, standing at the entrance clad in his uniform and mask. The group immediately sobered up and waited for Ghost to speak. He didn't. He merely grunted with a nod and made sure each of the four walked into the barracks. “Price put in charge. You lot are gonna clean, and there won't be any games- Get to it.”

The four grumbled up, picked up the brooms and dustpans that had been laid out and began to clean. Ghost leaned against a nearby wall and supervised the clean up. Soap would make an odd joke here or there causing Gaz or Alex to throw something in his direction leading Ghost to bark orders in their direction to knock it off- For the most part Nikolai kept his head down and did what he was told, merely grumbling about how it was unfair and was a rookies job, not for him.

And the four cleaned until well past dusk, other soldiers on the base working their way around them to make their way towards their beds, all casting pitiful glances in their directions as the rest of base headed off to bed. At one point even Price stopped by to collect Nik, leaving just three left to keep cleaning.

“Aye Ghost, keep them muppets on task till this place is spotless- but I am taking Nik back, beds getting lonely. Kicked ‘em out for nearly a week now.”

Ghost nodded at the order. If nothing else the man was loyal and followed orders like a well trained dog- Which Soap of course made a comment on.

“Like a dog aren't ye Ghost? Trained for on an’ aff the field are ye?”

Ghost scowled underneath his mask and in a low grumble, one that spent shivers down people's spines as he spoke. “You think you're any better ‘cause ya make noise? You're just as much of a bloody dog as I am MacTavish, so quit your yapping ‘for we muzzle ya.”

Soap flushed and chuckled nervously as he for once did as he was told and stopped talking. He went back to cleaning and Gaz and Alex exchanged semi-nervous glances, it was suddenly very tense and heated where they all stood.

At least it was until Gaz spoke up. “Sooo- If we muzzle Soap that mean he gets a leash too? Cause the pet store has these ones with bells on ‘em, got one for my cat cause I kept losing her in all the pillows back home.”

Alex laughed and shook his head, “Nah mate Soap looks more like the type of guy to wear the muzzle and still keep growling… Unless of course he’s secretly into that sort of that thing~”

Soap huffed and with his cheeks still a slight red threw his arms over the twos shoulders, turning his growl into a cheeky grin and playful wink. “Ye ken ye just have tae dae is ask if ye wanna find oot whit kinda beastie I am in bed~”

Gaz scowled playfully and lightly shoved Soap off of him with a laugh. “Yeah right, my girl would have my ass if I took you to bed Soap and we both know it- My ass and your dick would be hanging on her wall for trying to mess with her.”

Soap grinned and then poked Alex in the cheek. “Sooo whit’s that saying aboot ye then?”

Alex shook his head as he chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Yaknow for being so smart, you're a terrible flirt sometimes Soap, honestly I’ve heard my abuela do better than that and she's almost 95.”

Soap pouted and his eyes flickered towards Ghost before he laughed and shook his head, sure he was goofing off but he wasn't going to try and test his luck that much- Not while the mans already pissed off at them all anyway. He knew Ghost could have a laugh every once and a while but it was a hard achievement to get.

.𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤. .𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙���๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤.

It was nearly 4 in the morning by the time the four- turned tree of them finished cleaning while under the supervision of Ghost who stood as still a stone the entire time. A couple times it was brought into question if he was still awake, or was blinking. In which he scared them with a response and coincidentally shut them up at the same time.

Once they were allowed to depart they were nearly sleep deprived for all the cleaning. Staying up 48, even 72 hours for a mission was no problem but to make them clean and they were whipped out after just a few hours of work.

Gaz and Alex went to bed almost immediately, but Soap in his sleepy and ever intelligent state decided to be a menace to Ghost just a bit longer. So as Ghost was turning to walk away Soap caught up with him and swung his arm over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “Aye Ghosty! Ye never answered the question of seein’ me in bed ye ken.”

Ghost scowled slightly and shoved Soap off of him with a growl. “Because it was a stupid question. How can you be so smart and yet so bloody stupid all at once?”

Soap rolled his eyes as he kept pace with Ghost and huffed slightly. “Not stupid, just know how to have fun unlike some people around here- I might need a muzzle but I’m not kept on a leash like you are.”

Ghost stopped walking. Dead in the middle of the hallway he stopped walking and turned to Soap with a glare, it was a dangerous and deadly look. “On a leash? What, want me to prove I think for myself?”

Soaps grin came back in a flash and he laughed, “obviously.”

It was almost sunrise, but for now the base was quiet, it was just the two of them in the halls and so Ghost did something unexpected. He pinned Soap up against a nearby wall, one hand on his waist and the other tugging up his mask just slightly so it sat on the bridge of his nose before his lips crashed down onto Soaps leaving him in shock as a slight gasp and whine slipped past his lips.

The kiss only lasted for a moment, less than a second even before he pulled away and tugged his mask back down but not before Soap caught a glance of a grin playing on Ghost's lips. “How’s that for thinkin’ for myself eh Johnny?”

And then he began to walk away.

Soap was left agape and blushing redder than a firetruck when Ghost walked away from him. “Bloody hell- Naeb’dys luck that that just happened right? Fuck meh.”

Ghost grinned from underneath his mask, the crinkle by his eyes gave that away as he looked over his shoulder and back towards Soap for a moment. “Ask nicely and I might.” And with that Ghost turned the corner and disappeared from Soap's sight, leaving the Scotsman more flustered than he was to begin with.

So of course once Soap was able to calm down and gather his thoughts he rushed into the nearest room- He simply needed someone to tell all of this to and at this point he didn't care who it was.

It was Roaches room that he ended up barging into at dark thirty in the morning, not that Soap cared what time it was anymore either. He was wide awake now and there wasn’t any chance that he was going to go to bed any time soon either.

Soaps accept was thicker than it had ever been as he took a spot on Roches bed and shook him awake. “Roach- Roach mate- Mo ghràidh!! gie yirsel a shake, bloody hell! I need somebody tae gab wi here mate, ah might juist explode otherwise! Come oan, please.”

Groggily Roach woke up after Soap shook him awake. His voice raspy and hair all a mess from just having been woken up as well. The sight caused another blush to rise to Soap's face but he quickly pushed it aside. “Fuckin hell man, what is it? People are still trying to sleep, not getting caught up in your schemes.”

Soap pouted and rolled his eyes. “Nae, nae that, nae schemes either- The lieutenant, thon wee bawbag kissed meh!”

At that Roach was sitting up in bed and seemed a lot more interested in what Soap was saying. “Wait- wait… You're talking crazy Johnny, I can barely understand ya mate… You're saying Ghost kissed ya?”

“Aye!!”

Roach chuckled, and shook his head as the sleep began to leave his body. “Well I’ll be damned- Is he any good?”

Soap openly blushed at that, which Roach noticed. “Aww the mighty MacTavish is blushing~ You like him then huh?”

“Oh shut ii Roach! I’m being serious here, the man kissed me! I didn't know he could do that-”

“What kiss people? He might be a killin’ machine but he’s still human, he’s still a guy.”

“Bloody hell, Gary! That's not the ficken point, I'm in crisis over here and you're having a laugh about it.”

“Course I am, you freaked out like this when I kissed ya drunk on new years- You're a decent kisser Johnny, expect the guy to come round for another one.”

Soap once again flushed red and then playfully pushed Roach away with a light glare and a huff. “You're an arse sometimes Roach, hope ye ken that.”

“Course I know that, I gotta be if i wanna be friends with you.”

Soap raised a teasing and mischievous eyebrow as he spoke next. “With all we do an’ we’re only friends? Here I thought we had something more going on than that~”

This time it was Roaches turn to blush, “Oh shut up! We can be friends and still something more at the same time- Now go chase after that lieutenant for us ye hear me?~ Somebody has to make the guy loosen up a bit and who better and a loose cannon and his boyfriend.”

A loud chuckle burst out of Soap's chest as he stole a quick kiss from Roach before moving to walk out of the room. “Aye sounds like the perfect plan.”

Yet as Soap moved to leave Roach pulled him back into his bed and it was obvious the two weren't going anywhere for quite awhile.

.𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤. .𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤.

While Soap was having his time with Roach, Ghost on the other hand was having a slight breakdown. He kissed someone- Furthermore he kissed a guy, and not just any guy, a guy with a known boyfriend. Man did he have problems.

Yes, it was also known around base that Soap and Roach weren't in a closed relationship and Ghost never thought he was that type of guy. But damn him and damn Soap, the lad was a good kisser.

With a sigh he collapsed onto his bed, throwing his mask off onto his bedside table and tried for at least a few minutes of shuteye before it was time to be back on duty and training the rookies. Until it was time to be Ghost again. That short exchange in the hall with Soap was the most relaxed he’d been in months since his last leave and he was almost aching for it again.

Before he knew it though the sun was rising and it was time to be awake, it felt like he barely got any sleep as he dragged himself out of bed and pulled his mask back on before heading into the mess hall. He found a spot tucked away into a corner by himself with just a simple cuppa coffee before Johnny bound into the mess hall with his usual grin, his neck covered in illy hidden hickies.

The sight caused an unusual heat to rise to Ghosts face which caused him to scowl and tuck away further into his corner, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch something or drag Soap down by his collar and make him go dumb around him like he'd done with a few of his one night stands.

With a low growl he sipped on his coffee and sighed, he was at war with himself and didn't want to do anything to fix it.- Well that's not entirely true, he wanted to fix it, he just wasn't entirely sure how to, or even if the how was possible.

Yey of course as the fates would have it, Soap noticed him tucked away in his corner of solitude. So Soap and his ever boyish attitude he made his way over to Ghost and took the seat across from him, grinning mischievously and propped his head onto his hands, his elbows resting on the table. “Hey there lover boy”

Ghost blue screened for a moment and nearly choked on his coffee mid sip causing Soap to burst out into laughter.. “I- what??”

“Naethin but a joke, just thought it’d be fun to see your reaction after that stunt ye played earlier.”

Ghost blinked. And then blinked again before trying to focus his attention back onto his coffee. “I was out of line for that- Shouldn't have done it, was just tryin’ to prove a point, more than a dog on a leash an’ all.”

Soap merely shrugged, unbothered by Ghost's dismissal. “Ye got naethin tae worry aboot, been tryin to egg ye on fur ages now an’ Roach dinnae mind any about it no aen, lad was all jokes aboot it when I was freaking out this mornin’, want to compare note an’ what nae.”

A slight blush rose to Ghost face no matter how hard he tried to fight it as he simply stared at Soap, words almost failing to form. “You- Roach wanted to do what? Wait… You talked about me kissin ya? Didn’t think it was that big of a deal, wasn’t even my best work.”

Soap chuckled and shook his head slightly, “Nae naethin like that- Well, kinda actually… ye terrifying and if ye didnt already know it everybody thinks ye attractive juist naebody has the balls to make a move on ye.”

Ghost sat there mouth agape, and his blush darkened to the point it was finally noticeable and before he could respond Soap spoke up once more. “Meh and Roach are havin a movie night tonight, naething serious, just a bit o’fun, time to relax an’ all- ye mair than welcome to join us”

Ghost paused and swirled his coffee around in his mug for a moment or so, the two simply sat in silence for a couple minutes as Ghost thought before he spoke up. “What movie did you two pick?”

Soap grinned, “The Princess Bride, it's a timeless classic that ye cannae go wrong with- Got a projector fur the room an’ everything.”

Ghost nodded, placing down a now empty mug and then nugging down his mask once again. “We’ll see about it.” And with that he stood and quickly vanished from view, being the ghost he was known to be.

Soap rolled his eyes at the dramatics but he was giddy at the thought of Ghost possibly, maybe, showing up for movie night. He knew there was a slim chance that something would actually happen between him, Ghost and Roach but there was always that one percent of possibility and that's what Soap decided to focus on. He loved Roach but damn was Ghost enthralling.

.𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤. .𝆤࿙࿙࿚๋࿙࿚ ⊱♡⊰ ࿙࿚๋࿙࿚࿚𝆤.

The hours passed and the day went by as usual, Ghost was outside working the recruits half to death, terrorising another generation of soldiers. Soap wasn’t being a menace for once, he was working with Price on the logistics of certain types of explosions and trying to explain the maths of how each of them worked. And Roach, Roach was tucked away somewhere doing who knows what but at least everyone was staying out of trouble.

As the sun began to set on the day Soap ended up back in Roaches bed, tucked into his side (so sue the man if he liked being the little spoon on occasion) and the movie played on the wall. About 30 minutes or 45, neither were sure there was a slight knock on the door.

“Doors open!”

There was a pause, it seemed like a moment of hesitation but then the door opened and there stood Ghost. Instead of being dressed in his usual tactical gear he was wearing a black hoodie and a matching pair of sweatpants. Even his mask was more casual, this one only covered about half his face, showing off his hair- which was a dirty blonde and messier than you'd think possible.

“I’m still invited, yeah? Not too late am I? Couldn’t decide if I should show up or not-”

“Aye! Of course Ghosty! Plenty of room in the bed, come on in.”

Roach laughed softly at his boyfriend's excitement yet shifted slightly to accommodate for another person joining in their not so large bed. Ghost ended up nestled in between the two, Soaps legs were draped over his and Roach was nestled into the crook of his arm. It was… warm, comfortable even and the movie held a nice ambiance to the background.

The movie played and the three laid there cuddled together, a few teases and jabs here and there were exchanged but overall everything was peaceful and Ghost felt context for the first time in a very long time. As the credits began to roll Roach was falling asleep on Ghost, and Ghost had found himself absentmindedly playing with Soaps hair- No one dared mention that in case he’d stop upon being called out for being soft.

“Simon”

The other two looked up at Ghost as he spoke, the rumble of his chest when he talked rosing Roach enough to light a confused spark in their eyes. “Huh?”

“My name- It’s Simon… Don't use it too much though- Or in front of the rest of the team, but my name's Simon.”

Soap grinned, and Roach simply nestled back into Ghost's side but that didn't mean he didn't kiss Ghost's cheek first. “Pleasure tae meet ye then Simon~”

[direwombat]

🥀 🍁 🐇🔥☔️ + Charlie x Paola and Ghost x Tuck?

;lkjfa;lfjdk thank you so much for indulging me amanda <3

🥀 - Do they both get jealous? 

charlie x paola: paola does find herself getting a little jealous (and a little insecure) sometimes about charlie going all around the world, gallivanting (and probably meeting mysterious and sexy women), while she stays put in italy (in her oversized cardigans being very not mysterious and inexperienced at sexy). LDRs are hard like that. and i think that maybe occasionally charlie might get jealous if paola starts talking about a male coworker a lot, but 9 times out of 10 she's telling him about the guy to complain, so that jealousy is done away with pretty quickly. there was one time where paola met another scholar in her field while at a conference and they got drinks and talked late into the night about their areas of interest and kept in touch afterwards. she told charlie about it because she likes telling him about her life, and that did stroke some jealous fires in him, but there really was nothing romantic happening between the two. it was all purely academic.

ghost x tuck (x soap): tuck is fairly cavalier when it comes to relationships, but she's also never really been in a committed one before. generally, she's not terribly jealous, and while she herself considers soap a really good friend (who she sometimes also fucks), she's got no problem with the fact that ghost is also sleeping with him. as for ghost...it's less jealousy and more possessiveness. they're his, and the only other people he trusts to touch one of them is the other. it works for them lol.

🍁 - How was their first kiss? 

charlie x paola: oh charlie had a whole thing planned. he'd take her to dinner, have a wonderful night out, and he'd kiss her in front of the trevi fountain. something romantic, y'know? what he didn't account for was the weather. there he is with his leather jacket pulled over his head to shield him from the rain after the sky opened up while paola (who read the weather report) is awkwardly trying to help by holding her umbrella straight in the air. they both end up drenched and they call the evening out short to return to paola's apartment to get dry. and it's after charlie is wrapped in as many blankets paola could scrounge together for him (since she had ZERO articles of clothing that would even remotely fit him), watching some movie that paola, very quietly asks if it would be ok if she could kiss him.

ghost x tuck: more tender than one would think. i think it's one of those things where they both narrowly escaped/fought through an onslaught of enemies after realizing it was just the two of them against a small army. it's in the safehouse afterwards where they're doing that ritual of mutually sewing each others wounds. they're bantering and passing a bottle of some very strong alcohol back and forth to numb the pain. ghost has his balaclava pulled up enough to allow him to drink, and there's a moment where in the intimacy of the moment, they make eye contact, and like two stars caught in each other's gravity, they collide

🐇 - Who wants to cuddle the other longer in the morning? 

charlie x paola: usually charlie. he strikes me as more of a night owl and not a Morning Person, so dragging him out of bed before noon is hard sometimes. also paola is really soft and she smells nice, so who could blame him for wanting to hold her close to his chest and bury his nose in her hair for just five more minutes. he usually relents when she tells him that she's overheating because he's a big boy and sometimes it feels like she's pressed up against a furnace.

ghost x tuck: neither, really, but if i had to say, it'd be tuck. kind of for the same reason why paola isn't. tuck will take unbearable heat over the cold any day, and ghost is also a big boy who radiates an absurd amount of body heat. tho i gotta say the idea of her clinging to him like a girlfriend backpack after he gets up is very funny to me because they're both strong enough to maintain that for a long time.

🔥 - Who realized they were interested in who first? 

charlie x paola: charlie. it was pretty much love at first sight for him.

ghost x tuck: fld;akdjfa;lfdkja soap. ghost and tuck are uh...a little emotionally dense, and it took tuck saying something like "he makes me feel like a person [rather than a tool]" and ghost admitting something as equally fucked up for soap to be like "guys..."

☔️ - How do they make up after a fight? 

charlie x paola: aldfkjadf depends on who realizes they were in the wrong/being hurtful, but charlie will do some combo of chocolate/flowers/coffee/her favorite takeout as an apology and paola, will apologize verbally, and while she does it in a way that might sound cold and disingenuous to most people, charlie knows how carefully she chooses her words and how difficult it is for her to verbalize her emotions.

ghost x tuck: i mean...usually they spar it out (typically with someone reffing to keep either of them (usually tuck) from fighting dirty), working out whatever anger and/or aggression they have until there's none of it left. it's a lot harder to argue when they've actively exhausted each other, and they realize that most of the time the things they were fighting about really didn't matter (of coure this is with the exception of tuck's occasional insubordination, but that's usually solved with a, uh...different kind of sparring)

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: mentions of character death, cursing, haunting, spooky stuff, angst

Word count: 7.1k

Summary: Steve Rogers is a man out of time. He knows more ghosts than people. One of his ghosts has come home. 

A/N: This is waaaay longer than I normally write, but I just wanted to do it justice. This is my submission for @barnesrogersvstheworld​ AYAOTD writing challenge! Sort of an Endgame AU, also features an appearance from a rather obscure Marvel comics character. The prompt I had was “Don’t look behind you.” - it’s highlighted in bold. This is also really sad. I’m sorry for that...but please let me know what you think! 

His tastes have changed.

Most people wouldn’t have known that - wouldn’t have seen anything abnormal about a 100+ year old man reaching for minute oatmeal and Folgers at the grocery store. There had been a few articles, before, in health or men’s interest magazines, about the ‘Super Soldier Diet’. They were much more colorful than this - full of sugary cereals and peanut butter and seasonal frappuccinos. The articles always ended with reminders that a normal human should reach for more nutritious foods.

Steve pulls his oats - plain, made with water, no sweetener - from the microwave, and stirs just a little. Not thick enough; he replaces the bowl and adds another 30 seconds to the microwave timer. On the counter, the Mr. Coffee drips away, slowly filling the pot.

He eats quietly, perched on a stool at the island; he never uses the table anymore. A few news highlights appear in the notifications on his phone, and he scrolls through them, eyes scanning as he spoons his tasteless breakfast into his mouth.

New York Nears Completion of Relocation Program he reads, letting his thumb swipe down to read more of the article.

“Almost three years after the globally devastating event in which Earth’s population was reduced by half, the people of New York City are finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel in their relocation efforts for residents whose homes were damaged or destroyed in the aftermath of the Decimation. The project, one of the last proposals by Tony Stark before his retirement from the Department of Damage Control, is expected to end-”

He closes his phone.

**********

There are three support group meetings that he attends each week - two as a leader, one as a participant.

“You should come, Nat.” He’s a broken record, but he just keeps spinning. Like the planet, like the solar system. If he falls out of orbit- “Just once. You might be surprised…”

“Some of us still have jobs, Steve.” She raises a still perfect eyebrow, now back to its natural red. He finds a little comfort in that.

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Maybe not. But don’t wait up for me.”

The Tuesday meeting is the hardest, though it was the first one he ever lead. It caters to a specific group, a group that looks to him because...well, because he lost what they lost. He wonders if they know, if they realize, that it’s all his fault.

“Jackie was...she was my rock, you know?” The new woman, Elsie, sniffs as she continues. “We went through a lot together, and I remember thinking all that time ‘God, what would I do without her?’ And now I know the answer - spiral and-and become an alcoholic.”

“You can’t blame yourself for all of that.” Steve shakes his head. “There was so much more going on - the world was practically in flames, and you were trying to cope. What matters is that you’re here now, trying to get better.”

Elsie is nodding, accepting a tissue from the man sitting next to her. She gives a shaky little smile and settles back in her chair, done sharing for now. Steve glances around the circle, waiting for someone else to speak up.

It was such an odd reversal for him, especially at first. When he first wandered into one of Sam’s support group meetings, he had felt out of place and alone - and that feeling was exactly why he belonged in a place like that. Sam could see it. It was one of his gifts; he was better at reading people than anyone Steve knew, except maybe Natasha. Even when Bucky came along, and Sam played the tough act, he could see all of that fear and pain, and knew exactly what to do with it. Over the years they were in hiding, Sam would secretly reach out to Bucky - during their visits in Wakanda, Steve found the two of them sitting at the lake behind Bucky’s hut and talking, low and intense.

“You know, sometimes-” It’s a man on the opposite side of the circle, dark-skinned with a greying beard. “I don’t know about all of you, but sometimes...I wonder if they can see us. If they know what we’re doing. Does that make any sense?”

He gets a few nods and murmurs from the group, so he goes on.

“I mean, after my old man died, my mom used to say he was watching over me.” He swallows thickly. “She was on her own, tucking a 9-year-old boy in at night, and telling me that Daddy could see me from heaven, that he was looking out for me. And I just think....well, I wanna know - where are they? Are they in heaven? Is that even possible?”

He turns to Steve, several of the people in the circle do. It’s always like this - whenever the sessions turn to specific questions or musings about what happened, they look to him. Because shouldn’t he know? He had lead them, he failed them, he was there when their lives went up in dust.

“Well, I don’t think I’m qualified to offer religious advice,” he starts with a rueful smile. “And, from everything I’ve seen, I don’t think we even know what’s possible. All I know is, we can’t live in the past...even if they see us, wherever they are, we have to accept that they’re really...gone.” He crossed his arms. “They’re not here with us anymore.”

The group has gone quiet, reflective. Most are staring at their hands rather than him, each lost in their own haze of memory and ashes. He wishes he could offer them more, but he knows grief like this, and Steve Rogers is honest to a fault - he won’t lie, even for the sake of comfort.

“We’re on our own now.”

**********

He goes for runs alone now.

No Bucky to keep up with him, pushing the pace and trying to trip him. No Sam to complain about his hamstrings and insist on coffee afterwards. Not even music on those weird tiny headphones she had gotten him. Just his sneakers and pavement and the sound of his own breath. Sometimes he hated that - how he never got winded anymore, never sounded hurt and tired, the way he would wheeze through his asthma attacks with Bucky holding him up and reminding him how to pull in air. The machine of his body was too efficient for that.

In his apartment, he takes short showers, cold and fast, like in the Army. The soap is blue, with a generic smell that is clean and reminds him of nothing. He turns and tilts his head back under the spray, allowing a few more seconds to rinse and-

He nearly jumps when a burst of heat runs down his back.

The water has suddenly turned hot, a steamy, balmy, sultry hot that turns his soft Irish skin pink. He had never had this problem with his showers before - never run out of cold water certainly. Maybe something was wrong with the…

When he turned around, he saw the hot water knob turning slowly clockwise, centimeter by centimeter, untouched.

He shut off the water and got out.

**********

“I’m gonna have to call a plumber sometime.”

“Oh yeah? I thought all you old guys were handymen.”

“Ha ha.” He watches Nat scoop some spaghetti into bowls for the two of them. “I was the artist type. Not really handy around the house.”

“Guess that means Barnes was wearing the pants?” She’s smirking, and he feels like he’s seeing the real Nat again, so he goes along with the joke.

“How could he not? Who’s gonna let a 90-pound asthmatic wear the pants?”

“So what’s wrong with your plumbing?” Nat peeks over the fridge door as she grabs some parmesan and a bottle of wine. Steve, under strict orders not to help, is watching from the kitchen table.

“It’s my shower, something happened the other day. The water turned hot while I was in the middle of showering, even though I had it turned cold.”

“Hm. Weird.”

Steve comes out here at least once a month, or as often as he can. He sees the way that Natasha would rather slip into her work, lose herself in the business of holding the pieces of the world together, let go of her own life. The pantry, open and visible from where he’s sitting, is stocked with the bare minimum dry goods and canned foods; the fridge isn’t much better. He’s seen her on missions, seen her at home in her mismatched socks; he knows that she’d barely feed herself, surviving on a sandwich a day, if the thought or the hunger struck her. So he comes and threatens to cook and she saves the compound from being burned down by making a meal for the two of them.

It’s a far cry from normal. From pizza nights with Sam and Wanda at the compound, the two of them taking turns introducing Steve to movies he missed - all the “classics” he hadn’t heard of. They were missing their monthly family dinners, too; Tony always made room in his schedule to attend, dragging Pepper along from the office, and Steve sat at the head of their long dining table watching this strange, funny little family he had share and eat and laugh with each other.

Now he sits across from Natasha at a table otherwise occupied by her scattered files and reports, a pair of pointe shoes laying in the chair next to her. He didn’t come often enough to expect her to clean for him. She had enough on her plate.

“You know, I was talking to Carol last week,” Nat says, twirling her pasta around her fork. “And she said she might make it to visit us next month. It’ll depend on that trafficking case she was working in the Pegasus galaxy.” She shrugs a little.

“That’s good.” Steve chews, sips his wine. “It would be nice to see her.”

They don’t talk much throughout their meal; there isn’t much new to share. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall of the compound, Steve watches the early sunset fall over the grounds, shadows reaching and reaching, as quiet as it was empty.

**********

Sometimes, sometimes, when he’s feeling more stupid than usual, he opens the drawer.

That drawer. The lower one in his bedside table. With her box inside.

The box isn’t really anything special - just plain black, with her name written on the top. He got it at the suggestion of the team’s - his - therapist, Dr. Rajan. She recommended that putting some things away, rather than leaving them around his room, might help him move on, realize that his life had changed. He thought about putting the compass in the box, too, but it felt wrong. She wouldn’t want that in there. Somehow it mostly ends up in his pocket, and he stares at it from time to time, at the picture inside, thinking about words like should have and what if.

He’s staring at the drawer now, remembering the night before, when he thought about getting the box after he shuffled in from support group. When he was halfway through his flask of that Asgardian shit he kept under the bed. Steve had shuffled out of his clothes and fallen asleep in his underwear instead, flask still clutched in his hand, just sober enough to turn down the bad idea.

So why was the drawer open?

**********

“Have you thought about getting back out there? Dating again?”

His laugh is humorless.

“Doc, come on. I think we both know I’m not the type.”

“All we know is that you’re a serial monogamist.” She smiles. “And a very eligible one.”

“Sure, but…” Steve pauses, rubbing his palms against his jeans. He looks around the office, trying to find something to focus on. “I feel lucky...really lucky, to have had the kind of love I got. I mean, I never really expected to have it, not after I woke up in this century. And then, with her, it just sort of happened so naturally...well, lightning never strikes twice, as the saying goes.”

“It seems like, for you at least, it did,” Dr. Rajan raises her brows. “Two great loves in one lifetime? More rare than lightning.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still long on the top.

“I-I guess so. But it won’t strike a third time.”

“Because you’re not going to give it a chance?”

“You know me too well, doc.” His smile is apologetic, kind.

**********

At night, he sweats through dreams of her. His legs tangle in sheets where they used to twist and curl around her. The pillows smell only of him, his blue generic soap, but in his mind, locked somewhere far and sweet, her scent fills the air. Fills him up until he tastes it.

He tastes her, too, in dreams; under him, around him, pressed close in that intimate haze only lovers can know. Her lips chase his and smile into his mouth, following the curve of his jaw as he tucks his own face into her neck. It’s in his veins now, her smell and taste, ripe and alive on his tongue and oh, he’s swimming in it. She sighs, blissful, and sinks her teeth into that spot at the base of his throat-

Bedsheets fly off him as he bolts upright in bed, chest heaving, the sweat rolling in little beads down his temple. The smell is fading, drifting away from the room even as he tries to hold on to it; she was here, right here, and it had all felt so real, having her in his arms again. But now he’s wading back to consciousness, unwillingly, the tide of his dream pulling away from the shore and tugging at his ankles, carrying her with it. He wants to drift out to sea on it, drown in it, never resurface in this half-empty world.

Always so dramatic, Rogers.

Something nags at the corner of his eye, and he turns to the bedside table. In the pre-dawn light of the window, he can see the second drawer open. Her box is pulled forward to the front of the drawer with its lid propped up, asking, begging to be seen. He feels himself almost chasing the tide, diving back in as he leans over the side of his bed…

He slams the drawer shut.

Steve blows a harsh breath past his lips and swings his legs out of bed, tugging the sheet from between his thighs. His bare feet brush the cold wood and he arches up on his toes, tight muscles protesting the stretch. Palms scrub at his heavy eyes, brushing away what he can of his sleep. He has no plans to go back to bed, not now. He’ll just get an early start on his run. Maybe put in a few extra miles. He runs a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching absently at his scalp.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he turns the cold water tap in the sink and splashes his face a few times, feeling the two-day stubble on his cheeks. The shave can wait until after his run, he thinks. He stands straighter and reaches for the towel next to the sink, patting his face dry - he leaves his eyes closed, buried in the cotton for a moment before meeting his own gaze in the mirror. Immediately his eyes are drawn down to - what the hell is that?

At the base of his neck, just where it meets his shoulder, is a small red mark. A love bite. He presses it with a finger and hisses at the tenderness of the skin. Unbidden, the wave of his dream crashes over him, rolling him under, and he can almost feel her lips again…

The hair on the back of his neck and arms is standing straight up, his body gone cold all over. He thinks, maybe, he should go back to bed after all. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he hears his own name. What if...what if she’s waiting for me? He almost turns around, almost looks at the rumpled bed, almost expects her to be in it, rolling over in that tangled mess and smiling past the curve of her shoulder…

He yanks on a hoodie and running pants, toeing into his sneakers without socks, and leaves the apartment unlocked. Hardly knowing it, he clocks 50 miles, the sun high overhead before he can force his legs to stop, even his enhanced muscles starting to twitch. His sweat is still cold.

**********

There’s a memorial. Lots of them, actually.

All the major cities have at least one, and New York has built theirs, unsurprisingly, in Memorial Park. It’s huge, a sprawling garden of sculpture installations covered overhead by a soft white canopy. A retaining wall, approximately 3 feet high, lines the garden beds and holds in the dark rubber mulch, its outer white brick etched with the names of the lost. Even Steve could admit that it was beautiful, and so different from the solemn obelisks and walls of names he had expected when the memorial was announced.

The city had commissioned a team of artists, led by the famous Chihuly, to create blown glass sculptures using...well, as much of the collected ashes of decimated people as they could. “Cremation glass” it was called. The concept was morbid; though symbolically beautiful, most hadn’t imagined a stunning art gallery, more suited to the Met than this mass grave of the unknown.

Steve was there when it was dedicated, as was Tony. He was asked to say a few words, and he did; he has no idea, now, what he read from those cards handed to him by the administrative team. A black suit stretched around his shoulders, no shield in sight, his tie more like a noose as he watched the somber faces of the attendees. Loved ones and friends of people he had failed. A living memorial. Tony stood next to him, year-old wedding band still shining as he crossed his hands in front of him and declined to speak.

There are a few locations he has memorized around the park, the Lost Garden, as it has been named. A blooming blue hydrangea bush, sculpted white flowers and leaves pressed between the green, with the name “James B. Barnes” carved a few inches below. Across from it, red and yellow globes hang from a white tree, the round shadows falling over “Samuel Wilson”. Two rows over, an exploding tower of tangled green and blue spirals, surrounded by bushes, guards the name “Wanda Maximoff”.

Hers is carved neatly - block letters, plain font - into the white brick near the entrance of the memorial. Above it, a cherry blossom tree blooms sweetly, the pink flowers joined by purple and pink glass stems sprouting up from the ground around the trunk of the tree. Soft green bushes hem in the sculpture, as though keeping the glass from growing too far. It’s whimsical, charming. Elegant.

He fucking hates it.

He hates how this is meant to honor her - the vibrancy of her memory, the slyness of her smile, the passion of her love, the ferocity of her anger. She was more solid and real and hard than the delicate stems of glass that stood for her now. It wasn’t even her ashes in there anyway - he knows that for certain. He knows because he felt her drift through his hands under a hot Wakandan sun. He had watched the dust float and settle and knew that all the parts of her he kissed and held were under his feet and in his mouth and Jesus God it made him want to scream.

He doesn’t know whose ashes are here, in the glass above her name. But he wants to smash it. Put a fist through it. Hear that tinkling glass shatter on the ground the way she did. It would only be right.

As he stands there, staring at the falling cherry blossoms scattered around the sculpture, he feels the air go cold around him. His whole body breaks out in goosebumps and the little hairs on the back of his neck start prickling. He shudders, looking around, but no one else is nearby. It’s a late spring day, warm and getting warmer, with the sun beaming through scattered clouds. He shouldn’t be shivering.

The wind picks up, light breeze growing stronger, and the long stalks of glass begin to vibrate. A low hum builds as the wind carves its way between the sculptures, a plaintive, lonely noise that he feels low in his belly.

Steve…

He whips his head around, looking up and down the row, but he’s alone - no one else is here. That whisper, his name, it was so close…

Steeeeve

He’s turning a full circle, looking for a microphone or a drone or something tiny like Scott’s suit.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Stevie …

A cloud of cherry blossoms billows into his face, making him jump back. The chill sinks through his skin, slips down his spine bone by bone with each breath. His heart is hammering hard and fast. That name, that voice - it’s been three years. They’re gone. It’s not possible. He closes his eyes as he feels a presence close beside him, right at his shoulder, and he knows, he knows if he turns his head she’ll be-

“Captain Rogers? You alright?”

He jumps again, startled, and looks over to see a policeman watching him, eyes wary and concerned. The officer was young, like all of them now - mass recruiting in public services has been going on for a couple of years, with things nearly falling into chaos after...everything. The military, the police, trying to swell their numbers enough with what was left of the population to keep the world in check. Not like the Avengers were doing a very good job.

“Captain?” The young officer asks again, inching a half-step towards Steve. His hand, unconsciously, twitches towards his radio.

“I’m fine - really,” Steve shakes his head and offers a smile. “Everything’s fine. Just...remembering someone.”

The kid nods; Steve wonders if he himself ever looked so young in a uniform.

“I understand.” He’s tugging at his uniform jacket. “My, uh, parents - they’re over there.” He points at a patch of lilies, not far from Wanda. “And my brother.”

“I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he ever says these days. I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Everyone pretends that it’s enough.

He walks the kid - the officer - back to his patrol car, shakes his hand; the boy has to crane his head back to look up at him, and he stares up at Steve like there’s still hope in this world. Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

**********

The chill follows him into the summer. Even with the sun high and New York sweltering with heat, Steve shivers in his apartment, cold biting at him until he aches with it. He cranks the heat on his thermostat, yet still finds a harsh breeze blowing through his apartment somehow. He allows the shower faucet to continue turning hot - blistering hot, the way she liked it - now that this chill won’t let him go.

Despite that, he finds himself staying in more than ever. He was never exactly a social butterfly - Bucky could testify to that. It tumbles him into memory: Bucky, slicked-back hair and spit-shined shoes, a rose tucked into the lapel of his jacket; Bucky, chin thrown back and ready to laugh at the world, an arm around Steve’s shoulders as he drags them on yet another double date. “Ya gotta get out more, Rogers,” he’d say, cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I’m a piss-poor excuse for real company.”

The only people he sees now are Dr. Rajan and the members of his support groups. Occasionally Nat, but she’s been traveling more lately, following the crumbs of Clint’s trail. Their emails are few and far between, containing only the bare bones.

It’s a Friday night - or maybe it’s Saturday, Sunday. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning the little thing over in his hands. The compass stays in his pocket most days. He flips it open, stares at the portrait inside, the one he’s had memorized since ‘43. He could draw it with his eyes closed, probably.

Suddenly, the compass snaps shut, unbidden, in his hand. It shakes, the mechanisms inside rattling violently, and grows hot to the touch. He yelps and it falls from his palm, dropping to the floor between his feet. The skin of his hands is red, scalded, and he flexes his fingers, watching the trinket warily. It lies on the floor, perfectly still.

Behind him, he hears the second drawer of his dresser roll open.

**********

More dreams come to him, sweet ones, and he sinks into them without protest. He falls into his bed at night happily, searching for the smell of her somewhere behind his eyes. She’s always there, always smiling for him, reaching and pulling him further down into their own special hiding place. She’s there in her uniform, in her sweatpants, in his t-shirt, in nothing at all.

“C’mere, Stevie baby,” she nuzzles his nose, and he’s close to tears but he doesn’t know why. Then she’s tugging at his own clothes and he’s not thinking about it at all.

The ache in his throat returns when he wakes empty-handed and alone. Beneath his jaw, a line of hickeys leads down his neck and across his shoulder. His breath puffs in small clouds as he pants and tries not to cry.

**********

“You don’t look so good, Steve.” Nat’s tone is worried, her voice tight. She watches him stare at the wall with a cup of coffee in his massive hands. “Have you been sleeping?”

He nearly chuckles at that.

“A little too much, I think.” He goes quiet then, mouth turning back down, carved sadness in that larger-than-life face.

“I think...God, Nat,” Steve slumps forward, elbows on his knees. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Join the club.” She sits down next to him, sliding a soft hand across his back. Her voice is just above a whisper. “We’re all still struggling. You know that. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it feels...it feels like...you’re just holding on by a thread.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes.

“Have you - do you dream about them? Ever?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean…” Steve rubs his eyes. “I mean...do the dreams feel...when you wake up, does it feel like it really happened.”

Nat frowns.

“I’m not following you, Steve.”

He sighs, heavy and resigned.

“No, I know. I’m not making any sense.” He leans into her embrace a little. He likes the contact of it. Hasn’t had that in a long time.

“Listen, Nat. I know S.H.I.E.L.D. used to keep a lot of records of...enhanced individuals…”

“Sure. Everyone that pinged on their radar,” she nods. “So, pretty much anyone with abilities.”

“I need to have a look at them.”

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Yes. But if I told you, you’d have me committed.”

“Yeah, that really makes me want to help you.” She leans her head against his shoulder, fingers squeezing his bicep. Her voice still soft and low. “Tell me what you need.”

**********

They meet in a public place. It’s not hard now, with the world half-dead, to go about their business as though they are two men with nothing to hide. A bright, hot July sun beats on their heads, and Steve adjusts his sunglasses as a bead of sweat slides down his neck. On the street, traffic grumbles along, bikers and street vendors and tourists darting between. The hard metal chair of the café presses into the soft underside of his knees, leaving little dents in his skin.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Captain,” the man across from him smiles. The white symbol on his forehead stands out starkly against his dark skin. “I understand we move in different circles.”

They’re sitting outside a small restaurant in Port-au-Prince, only coffee on the table in front of them. The heat is sweltering, oppressive, different from the New York heat that Steve knows. Part of him wishes they were near the beach, with the wind coming off the ocean. She would have begged him to go to the beach.

“That we do,” Steve raises his eyebrows. “Even with everything that’s happened, aliens, Thanos...things like magic are still...hard to believe.”

“Hm.” Jericho Drumm leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “I think you are here because...it’s not so hard anymore, yes?”

He grits his teeth. There are fingernail scratches on his back and they chafe against the sweaty cotton of his shirt.

“You’re a smart man, Jericho,” he sighs. “And I think you might be the only person who can help me.”

Jericho Drumm nods.

“Yes, I think so, too.”

According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files Steve spent all his free time digging through, there were only a few enhanced individuals with supernatural abilities. And now half of them were gone. Some, like the sorcerer Tony told him about, had managed to stay under the radar for thousands of years. With precious little to go on besides an alias, Steve commandeered a quinjet and packed a bag for Haiti.

“What you are asking me...communication with the spirits…” Jericho shakes his head. “It’s not what you think. Or what it looks like in the movies.”

“Then tell me,” Steve presses, leaning his elbows on the table. His coffee is half full. He can see his reflection in the oily surface of it.

“I’ve served as a houngan for many years; I’ve served as Sorcerer Supreme. In fact, with Stephen Strange gone, they may ask me to serve again. But inviting spirits into this world is a dangerous practice - not white magic.”

“But it can be done?”

Jericho narrows his eyes. The white streak in his hair is bright in the noonday sun.

“When Thanos tore a rift in this world, in this universe,” he speaks slowly, choosing his words with careful consideration. “He tore through the other side as well. The things he’s done affect us all, the living and the dead. It is possible, the things you describe, are caused by this. A ripple effect, if you will. A door not closed.”

“A ripple.”

“Yes. However,” Drumm raises a finger, leaning forward to speak in a low voice. “I will say something else. I may have years of experience with the supernatural, but I studied psychology as well. My time in America was mostly in a university, studying the human mind, how it works…” He pauses for a moment, giving Steve a look that is on the suspicious side of apologetic. “Our minds are powerful. When a person wishes for things, even terrible things, the mind can give them what they seek.”

Steve closes his eyes, jaw tightening.

“Believe me, I know how I sound,” he sighs. “I know. My therapist says the same thing. But if anyone’s going to believe me, it’s you. This is not in my mind.” His fingers are shaking and he curls them into fists. “This is real. She’s...it’s real. It’s her.” Haunting me.

Dr. Drumm nods, sympathetic and quiet. He watches this captain, this legend, the age showing in his young man’s body. With the sunglasses propped up on his head, the dark circles beneath Steve’s puffy eyes are on full display. His shoulders curl in, posture defensive, small. His knee bounces under the table, and his jaw ticks every so often, teeth clicking in his mouth. There is a bruise visible at the base of his neck where the collar of his shirt has shifted to one side.

“Very well, Captain. I will do my best to help you.”

**********

He sits cross-legged on the tile floor of the bathroom, surveying the items in front of him. According to Dr. Drumm, he would need only a few candles, items that belonged to her, a circle of salt to protect himself. Incense, too, burning in the corner, the smell of sage and smoke floating around him. The lights are off, only the flickering candles illuminating the room.

He feels a little silly, setting all of this up. When he was a boy, vampires and werewolves and ghosts were all just stories - hiding under the covers with Bucky and scaring themselves silly. No real monsters hid under his bed. All of that came later.

Under his shirt, the amulet rests against his chest, growing warm with his own body heat.

“If you must do this alone as you insist,” Jericho had said, shaking his head. “Then wear this. Bene gris-gris. It is the best I can do to protect you from dark magic.” His steel grip closed around Steve’s arm. “And this may be a dark thing, Captain. Her coming back to you. It doesn’t feel like white magic.”

Steve had only nodded, his hand closing around the amulet. He was beyond light and dark now, beyond counting costs. He had chased ghosts for so long after he woke up. It’s only right for him to chase her, too.

Here, in the bathroom, toes pressed to cold tile, he digs two more items out of his pockets. Dr. Drumm said to bring something that would ground him to himself, something special. He turns the compass over in his hand, flicks it open, and sets it on the edge of the circle. From the other pocket, he fishes a black velvet box. His fingers twitch, feeling the soft fabric; he doesn’t want to open it. He hasn’t opened it, since he took the ring off their nightstand in Wakanda and put it back in the box. She hadn’t worn it - didn’t like wearing it on missions or in fights. Afraid of scratching it. She had wiggled it off her finger, smiling at him, leaving a kiss on his bearded jaw-

He leaves the box closed for now, and places it in the center next to the other tokens - a photo of her, a necklace with a small silver pendant she used to wear whenever they went on dinner dates, a little jar of seashells from a beach vacation she took in college. All the little things he had packed away in that nightstand drawer. Memories he had put into storage.

Safe inside his little circle, he reaches in his shirt and grabs the amulet tight in his fist. He closes his eyes. Breathes deep the incense and soft curling smoke from his candles.

He says her name softly in the dark.

In his mind, he shifts his awareness down the plane of his body, piece by piece. He learned meditation techniques during his therapy sessions; now he has another use for them. He says her name again.

“I want to speak to you.” He says, voice low, a lover’s intimacy. “I call on your spirit.”

Her name. Her name. Her name.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, curled on the floor, but the chant of her name lulls him into a trance. His eyes are half-open, the candles wavering in front of him, casting long shadows on the walls. He licks his lips, calls her name again.

One by one, the candles snuff out.

He goes quiet. Smoke curls up to his nose, but he can’t see - the only light is coming from underneath the bathroom door. That familiar chill trickles down the back of his neck, raising the hairs. His flesh is covered in goosebumps; his muscles tense up, coiled tight, ready to spring. His tongue lies dry and thick against his teeth.

“Hello?”

Steve?

He sighs her name. “Sweetheart, is that you?”

A cold breeze passes over his face, rumpling his shirt.

“Are you there?”

The compass flies up and smashes against the wall.

Steve…

Her voice is harsher. Sadder.

“Baby, please,” he’s begging now. He can feel how close she is, she’s in the room, he knows it like he knows his own body. Like he knew hers.

For the first 25 years of his life, he lived with asthma - any little trigger could set him aching for air, his lungs betraying their purpose and seizing up on him, his whole body trembling in relief when he managed to pull in oxygen. He feels that ache for her now - acute and sharp as it was the day he first lost her, a physical pain and its cure so close, so close, if she would only let him - let him breathe-

Oh, Steve.

“Honey, I’m here, I’m right here.” He stands in his little circle, spinning around, though he still sees nothing in the darkened bathroom. He feels the tip of his nose go numb in the frigid air, his body shivering slightly.

I’m here, too, Stevie.

“Where, baby? Where are you?” He’s desperate, so desperate. He’s going to cry if she doesn’t-

I’m here. Look.

He feels, thinks he feels, cold fingers brush down his cheek, and he turns. The mirror above the sink is frosted over, he can see it now that his eyes are adjusting to the pale dark, and he stumbles towards it. Pulls a sleeve down over his hand and wipes at the fog, the remains of his body heat melting it away in streaks.

“Oh...oh god.” He grips the edges of the sink.

Hi, baby.

There she is. There she is. Standing right behind him, over his shoulder. His eyes sweep over her face in the mirror, scanning the details he never forgot, not for a moment. Her lips quirk a sad little smile, tilting her head.

You don’t look so good, Rogers.

His laugh comes out as a sob, and he nods. Fingers curl tighter over the edge of the sink because it’s all that’s holding him up right now. In the reflection, he sees her take a step closer to him - feels her presence, her smell is right behind him and if he can just turn and take her in his arms then everything will be alright again…

NO DON’T!

The force of it is loud in his mind, sends him reeling forward against the sink. Her lips are trembling in a soft frown.

Don’t look behind you.

It sounds so soft. So sad. And he knows, knows in the marrow of his bones, that this is it, this is all they can have. This halfway, this inbetween, this ships in the night barely seen as they pass - it’s all he gets. All he has left.

He presses his hand to the cold glass of the mirror, tips of his fingers stroking the image of her face. His chin feels weak, jaw slack, his hip leaning against the sink. She’s crying, too, tears shining against her soft cheeks.

“Where are you? Do you know what’s happening?” He manages to ask. It’s the question, the question everyone would ask of their ghosts. She shakes her head a little.

I...I don’t really know. But I know I’m not with you.

He nods, tries to swallow around the thick lump in his throat.

Wherever I am, I’m not with you. And I miss you, Steve.

“I miss you - God, honey, I miss you so bad-” his breath hitches, and he wonders in the back of his mind if he’s going to have another asthma attack, his first in 70 years. “I-I need you, sweetheart. Jesus Christ, I miss you. I don’t know what I’m doing without you and-and-”

He’s hyperventilating, breaths stuttering in his chest. The hand that’s pressed to the mirror has gone numb with cold but he won’t move it, not if it’s the closest he comes to touching her face. He watches her come closer to him, behind him - her smell fills the room, no smoke, no incense, only her. His teeth are clattering in his mouth even as he tries to grit them together, lungs stuttering and he’s so so cold but he only half feels it; the muscles in his back jump and twitch as he feels her, really feels her, right behind him. And then-

I know, baby. I know.

Her forehead presses between his shaking shoulder blades. Icy hands creep up beneath his shirt, pressing right over his heart. Her arms lock around his ribs and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze - as if she could brand herself there. In the glass, Steve’s lips are blue and his sobbing breaths come out as little frozen clouds. The mirror is starting to frost over again; the goosebumps on his body won’t lie down. His eyes slip closed, tears chilling in their tracks on his cheeks, and he presses his hand over hers at his heart.

I’m right here.

The ache in his chest sharpens, then dulls, slow and familiar. Something he always carries. His breaths are slowing now, the trembling in his muscles calms a little. She traces a frozen circle over his heart.

I’m right here.

He sighs her name before he blacks out.

**********

Natasha watches Steve in his kitchen, her green eyes sharp and narrow. She hasn’t been to his apartment in a long time, but three days of no answered phone calls, texts, or emails and the Black Widow will investigate. He seems...fine. As fine as Steve has been since it all happened, when he went clean-shaven and cropped his hair, like girls do after a break-up. He smiles over his shoulder while stirring the pot in front of him.

“It’s the one thing my ma made sure I knew how to make for myself,” he says. “She knew I’d need this soup every time I got sick.”

“That’s sweet,” she says. And it is, though she’s never heard him mention it before.

They eat on barstools at the island, sharing little bits of conversation, small talk, mission updates. Sound bites of friendship. Still no explanation for his radio silence.

“Can I use your bathroom?” She sighs as he scoots back his stool, scooping up their bowls to take to the sink.

“Of course - you don’t have to ask, Nat.”

She slips down the hall. Doesn’t go to the bathroom - turns right instead.

On the floor of his bedroom, she sees the candles. The circle. The pictures. A little jar of seashells on his nightstand. While they were eating, she had seen something new - a little chain around his neck, the shape of something underneath, suspiciously like a ring.

Natasha leaves without saying a word, maybe hugs him a little tighter at the door.

She won’t begrudge him this.